6 Little Seeds: Start Here

Persephone, Bringer of Blossomtime, captures the eye of two powerful gods

💘 EROS DIPHUES (Love of Two Forms) 💘

This is the one. HER. Flawless.

Of course she is. She is divine.

So lithe. So fair, with rose-gold hair, her leaf-green eyes aglow. Ah, such temptation, if you have the stones to make a try for her. There she dangles from the highest branch. Irresistible. Succulent. Ripe for the swipe.

Clueless.

She weaves a symphony by which to dance. From boulder to boulder, she springs across the stream. Her tiny toes alight upon stone: a patch of moss appears. Behind her, a trail of fuzzy, green footprints wends its merry way from this wooded bank to that.

A distinctive mark.

Here pranced Persephone.

But no one calls her that. They call her Kore, “the maiden.”

And such a maid! They liken her to sunshine, for every living thing brightens at the merest glimpse of her. Her hand flings: branches bloom overhead. Her fingertips curl: hanging vines weave intricate patterns where the winged ones flutter and buzz. Every flowering, sprouting, seedy, weedy thing hums its distinctive song, conducted by the Bringer of Blossomtime.

Only a divine ear can hear this song, just as her dance can only be discerned by the gods, or we who are older and vaster. To a mortal eye, it is the gradual creep of a forest flourishing.

She leaps over thirteen boulders and races into the woods, arms open, fingers wide, hair streaming behind. Her laughter incites a verdant wave, but then she stops! Crouches. Peers down, tilts her head.

A baby starling has fallen out of the nest and lays dying. She strokes it, this time without summoning her powers of creation. She knows better after making that mistake—once. Her mother’s lessons landed hard and seeded deep. A spider that time. The rose-cheeked godling had accidentally squished a golden orb weaver in her exuberance to play with it, then granted it resurrection before anyone could stop her.

An absolute breach of divine law.

Her mother forced her to kill that spider again. Otherwise, he would have, for none may steal back a shade without his proper say-so, not even such a skittering speck of soul, a most wee denizen for his deep.

Today, the Princess of Earth only comforts this fragile, momentary hatchling. “It’s all right. Death is just a natural part of life,” she murmurs, the teachings so rooted they no longer echo, but pulse with her own resonance, her own knowing. “Your body will become one with Earth Her Very Self. Rejoice, for you shall nourish new growth, and your spirit will soar forever in all that is born and dies to be reborn again. When I dance, I’ll paint a whole field of violets just for you. I promise. You don’t have to be afraid, my love, my sweetest one. You can let go now. Lord Haides will keep you safe.”

The forest falls silent, on edge.

So do I.

I watch. I wait. Oh, audacious bait!

For who, either mortal or divine, possesses the courage to utter that name aloud? Haides, Lord of the Underworld, King of the Dead.

None but a handful.

Yet this petite young goddess, not even two centuries old, speaks it without fear. She must have watched the mortals pray to him, for her little palms strike the ground like theirs do. Awesome power explodes from her hands. It reverberates down through the earth and trembles the walls of the Great Below.

The dread king lifts his head.

Now him I truly adore.

What.

Oh, yes. I know. The Notorious One…oooooooh!

He’s just so broody. Ever so moody. Ruthless and unrelenting. Unscrupulous? Mayhap. When the situation calls for it. And trust me. It does.

(Hush, you. You just don’t know him like I do.)

When the vibration of his name rumbles down like an earthquake gone a-thunder, it stops him in his stalking. Busy today. Down in Tartaros, doing a few of those things for which he’s earned his reputation. He’s got an octet of them strung up for target practice. I assure you, they earned it, too. Every corrupted one of them.

Now-now, rest your sensitive heart. They’ll be nice and shiny when he’s through with them. All part of the recycling process, you see. Can’t have them tainted when he sends them back up.

Unfortunately for them, I suspect that’s going to be awhile. He leaves them in the care of a subordinate—one of his chop-licking Furies—and dons his Helmet of Invisibility, for this is no mortal benediction or curse that has snagged his attention. Some deity has just invoked him by name, so he follows the sound vibration back to its source, seeping up through the earth like eerie smoke on a cheery day.

Shrouded by the helmet, he disturbs not a single blade of grass and displaces not the slightest breeze. The echo of him stands behind the dainty goddess, interwoven with her shadow. Oh, if I were capable of drooling, I surely would! His eyes are even darker as he watches her cover the bird’s corpse with dirt and leaves. Satisfied, she arises and wipes her hands on her short tunic. At a girlish stomp of her foot, violets spring up around her. She giggles and admires her handiwork.

Then her head jerks up and she goes still. Her eyes slide sideways. Slowly, cautiously, her head swivels around.

When she looks behind her, she finds herself alone.

But she’s not alone. They’re never alone.

I am always here.

I yearn to be there! Exhilaration thrums and hums within me. I can’t stand it anymore. I simply must! They are all too delightful, these little gods and their tiny mortals. I wish to play amongst them. To inspire their desire, not merely with my own, but with my very touch, and ah, to know the joys of touch myself?

They call it heavenly, that experience of bodily bonding. I am the quintessence of bonding. I am EROS. I am LOVE. Older than any of them, I enticed all that formed out of Khaos to bond and tingle and mate and mingle. I inspired Creation, so I yearn to taste every facet of it.

But one must possess a mouth to do that. In my primordial splendor, alas, I do not.

Yet.

One must also possess a mouth to smirk, and I dearly desire for this impulse to take form as I, in my infallible knowing, watch the King of the Dead watch Kore.

She’s tattooed her bare arms and legs in earthy browns with tendrils of glowing green. Stone-shapes today, interwoven with ivy. Like an invitation to nudge inside cracks and shove until that which has been mortared breaks apart.

Could I do anything but oblige her silenced wish?

Hardly.

Yes. It is time, so I seek out the needful vessels. My favorite, the Queen of Beauty, my Goddess of Love. And her favorite, the God of War. What a sublime lineal concoction. At my undeniable sigh, they magnetize. Iron meets luscious lodestone. When their immortal essences clash, unite, and implode, a void forms. Into it I pour my immensity. Out through her thighs, she pours a new god.

Love Incarnate.

To my squealing glee, I have wings!

Naturally. Even the cage of corporeal form cannot constrain Love Primordial. As my parents behold me, their gazes confirm: I am perfection. My tiny hands alight upon their faces. I beam back at them. My adoration dwarfs their capacity, and that’s when realization strikes.

“Oh, thunderheads!” she cries. “Eros!”

“Oh, holy fuck!” he echoes.

I flash a wily grin of confirmation. I can only imagine what that looks like on my infant face. Inhaling my first breath of air, I thrill at the vibration in my throat—I have a throat! My first words coalesce from impulse into form. “Good morning, Mother. Father,” I say. My eyebrows wag twice. “Wanna play?”

They share an anxious glance with each other.

Through my glowing palms, I send currents of assurance through my touch. Enticement. Devotion. Hunger. Rapture.

They can only succumb.

My mother’s beauty and irresistible sway sings in my new immortal flesh. My father’s might hums in my bones—all of them, particularly the ravenous one imbued by Papa’s aim and his unquenchable lust. To reward me for being a chip off his unflagging rock, he gifts me with a miniature bow and arrows.

With my arsenal made manifest, I take to the air and lead them into the forest, sampling breeze, fragrance, sunlight, heat. My parents delight in my delight. But with every new experience that comes my way, another beckons. My speed intensifies. Before long, I out-distance them. They cannot keep up with my flitting form, zipping here, zapping there.

No matter.

For a—

Well, I’m not certain for how long. Time flows differently in a body.

For as long as I please, I devour every whit. It is all more scrumptious than I could have imagined, and you should be aware. My imagination is boundless. Yet the focus of my hunt never wavers.

When I come upon my quarry, flesh-before-flesh for the first time, she startles.

I grin. At last.

Drawing a gold-tipped arrow from the quiver that floats between my wings, I place a kiss upon it and shoot. It lodges in her breast. The Bringer of Blossomtime cries out, looks down, and reads what my lips have engraved upon the shaft between her ichor-soaked fingers.

Fated Love.

Her eyes lock with mine—I have eyes now! Outraged confusion reigns in hers. “Wh-who are you? What did you just—?”

When I snatch the barb from her breast, her anguished cry sets birds and bugs a-wing. The arrow dissipates, and with it, her memory of being shot. Her mouth falls slack. Her eyes go as rosy as her hair, as misty as coast, then flash gold. Her lungs draw in a ragged catch of breath as she blinks rapidly, glancing about the forest as though awakening in a strange place.

When our gazes lock again, I chuckle with that expression I have waited aeons to wear: a crawling, fat smirk.

Then I, too, vanish.

UP NEXT: 792 Years Later
FINGERTIP STROKING: Earth Mother suffers through yet another gorgeous, lusty god proposing marriage to her daughter.

EDIT: Extra-special thanks to my Sidney Reed & Dear Chuckles for dropping everything this morning to help me finally figure out what has been bugging me about this chapter for months! MUAH!!!!

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For your bookmarking ease:

Also. If you’ve gotten all excited about this series, you should probably know:

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1. KORE is pronounced like “ko-ray” or “cora” not like “core of the planet”
   

2. The entire playlist of songs that I listen to for inspiration while working on this series:
   —On YouTube
   —On Spotify
   

3. Are you as obsessed with Greek mythology as I am? Are you even more so? Are you a Greek scholar and you found something I got glaringly wrong? Are you a reader who knows nothing about mythology and found something you couldn’t make sense of?

   Help me make it better by leaving me a comment, because this is a work in progress.

© 2015 Hartebeast