Destroyer of Light (48 page)

“They need Us,” She said to Him. “And We need them. We must take them into Our care.”

“They are tired and need rest,” He said. “Their lives are short.”

“You asked me once,” She whispered, “what I would change.”

“Yes,” He said. He felt Her thoughts within His and wanted to stay forever, perfectly connected and enlightened, but knew that They couldn’t. Their responsibilities to all the souls, living and dead, were too great. “And so it shall be. Let Us give them that comfort. Against all the cruelties of the world.”

“How will we do that, Aidoneus?”

“Together.” She felt his arms around her again and his breath against her ear. “Let go, Persephone.”

They surrendered. Her body crashed against his and their consciousness fell through sky and water and land, down through cracks of molten earth, through darkness and light until they stopped, silent. Aidoneus and Persephone stilled and shuddered, utterly spent, and collapsed into sleep and dreams in each other’s arms.

***

The trees, their fruits, the seeds of the earth watered the ground. A great mist hung above their sleeping forms and as they dreamed, earth and sky birthed themselves and turned to gold.

The sun rose high, the moon followed, walls crumbled and turned to dust and the grasses beneath them covered the ground, spreading out from the roots of each tree. They grew, against and over each other, teeming with life.

The sun rose, the moon followed. A new shoreline lapped with tides cycling in and out and endless islands rose from the waters. The moon set, the sun rose. They lay underneath the expanse of light and dark, the growing trees and shrubs, the flowers, the creatures they nurtured.

Under the wheeling heavens, trees and grasses, forests and meadows grew up. The sun, the moon, the sky, the earth, cycling, reeling, turning over the length of a thousand millennia set against mere moments. An endless flash of dark and light, setting sun, rising moon, aeons of time dissolving into hours.

It was done. All went dark. The dream of creation was ended.

A meadowlark twittered on the branch above her, and a breeze, warm and fragrant, drifted across her face. She felt the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, his arm wrapped around her. She cracked her eyes open and her vision was filled with wavering yellow and white. When she blinked they came into focus. A thousand narcissus flowers bobbed in the breeze. Persephone stirred, and was immediately pulled back into the arms that had encircled her all night.

“Too early, wife,” Aidoneus mumbled. The lark called out for its mate again and he opened his eyes, confused, then squinted. The sky above them was as blue as sapphires. He froze and tilted his head up. Their dreams… He leaned forward on one elbow, his heart racing. “We…”

“Are we in the world above?” Persephone sat up. Had the
hieros gamos
transported them? She rubbed her eyes. Above them, pomegranate leaves shook in the breeze, and dappled the grove with sunlight. Beside them, under the thick growth of narcissus flowers, a gouge scored the earth. “Aidon! We’re still in the grove! How…”

“Stay here,” he said, his brows knit with concern. Aidon squeezed her hand, and walked to the edge of the grove, peering out through the branches toward the palace. There sat their home and gardens, the stone wall, all just as they should be. He stepped outside and circumnavigated the trees. The grove itself glowed brightly, brimming with sunlight. “Persephone?”

“I’m here!”

Aidoneus pushed the pomegranate branches aside and entered the grove again, squinting in the sunlight. His eyes were wide, and he surveyed their surroundings, astonished. “Wife… we’re still in the garden, in our grove, but…”

They stood, holding each other close. The markings he had made in the earth were still there, as were their clothes. Persephone grasped Aidon’s hand, his jaw hanging open as he contemplated the ritual. Their connection, the expanse of the cosmos. Their desire to take their place as caretakers for the mortals, to offer a reward for a life well lived. Aidon walked beside his wife, hand in hand to the green edges of the grove. The stone wall at its side had been replaced by thick shrubs. She pulled back a branch to reveal what lay beyond. Hades and Persephone stood awestruck.

Before them was a great meadow teeming with grasses and wildflowers, butterflies and bees humming from one bloom to the next. The sky was blue, interrupted by small puffs of white clouds. A deer bounded across the field, followed by a few more, and doves flew from branch to branch between oak and ash trees. Trees bearing pomegranates and olives, figs and apples, and exotic trees with peaches, walnuts, and oranges dotted the landscape. Persephone took a cautious step outside the grove, Aidon following close behind, her hand intertwined with his. They soaked in the sunlight.

Beyond the great field, waves crashed against tall cliffs, much as they had on Thera so long ago. Lush islands dotted an aquamarine sea, stretching out to the horizon. He closed his eyes and felt the sea air on his face, heard the waves pounding the rocks, and the distant cries of pelicans and cormorants.

Persephone poked her finger into the warm earth. Roots took hold and dark green leaves spread out from her fingertips. She lifted her fingers and wound her wrist upward, the stalk creeping toward her hand. A bright purple bloom sprang from the top.

She remembered her first day in the Underworld and all her ill-fated attempts to make asphodel bloom in the great fields. But this was not the Fields of Asphodel. It was somewhere else. A fiery copper butterfly drifted in from the grasses and settled atop the flower. Persephone grinned.

This place was within the Underworld, and yet a world apart from it. It was rebirth: an everlasting realm of life encompassed by death: a new, third portion of Chthonia. Through the
hieros gamos
, Hades and Persephone hadn’t created a child.

They’d created Paradise.

Persephone observed their surroundings, understanding the weight of what they’d ushered into being. “This is meant to be the mortals’ place of rest and reward, Aidon. What should we call it?”

“Elysion,” he replied without hesitation. Her eyes widened in surprise and he kissed her on the forehead. “After Eleusis. Where I fell in love with you.”

Her eyes filled with fresh tears and she wrapped her arms around him. Aidoneus stroked her hair, then cupped her cheek and kissed her, holding her close as another breeze rippled across the grass and their sun-warmed skin. She laid her head against his shoulder, watching the little butterfly fan its wings and suckle at the thistle. “The Elysian Fields…”

He rested his arm across her shoulder. “Not what I’d imagined we’d awaken to, either. The Fates laugh at our plans, sweet one. Or so you told me once.”

Persephone sighed. “It will take time to gather all the worthy souls who belong here. Surely those already sent to Asphodel deserve a second chance?”

“You and I will find them together, my love. Though… I don’t
quite
mind having Paradise to ourselves. At least for today.”

She giggled, and he herded her toward their grove.

“And perhaps
my
plans, my certainty that we can’t have a family, are also laughable,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“If you and I can create an entire realm of life in the Underworld, sweet one,” he said, turning again to survey the Elysian Fields, “then making a baby should be easy, no?”

She guided his face down to hers, his lips upon her lips, tasting their shared joy. Aidoneus wrapped his arms around Persephone, lifting her up onto her toes. She took his hands within hers, tugging him back to the shelter of the grove. “There’s no harm in trying.”

This tale continues in
The Good Counselor
.

This novel, and the one before it,
Receiver of Many
, is the culmination of one of my lifelong goals: to publish a book that people liked. I started posting the first draft of
Receiver of Many
online for free, every Wednesday at midnight in serial format and the reaction I got from my readers blew me away. They, dare I say,
loved it
… And supported me through the entire process from its initial debut in Fall of 2012 to the last posted chapter in Fall of 2014. For those who read this for free and bought it anyway, this book is for you.

I want to thank the folks who patiently took the time to review and provide feedback on each chapter of the first draft, namely, C. Thome and L. Wilder. Next, I want to thank Sophia Kolyva, who was my greatest resource for most of the Greek translations, and helped fix my atrocious Greek grammar. Efharistó polí! And much thanks to fellow authors M. M. Kin, Eris Adderly, Titania Oliver, and several others who provided encouragement and insight.

In January 2015, I launched a successful Kickstarter to publish
Receiver of Many
and
Destroyer of Light
, and it is by the backing and contribution of many, many wonderful people that you are reading this today. A very special thanks to Kathryn B., Astrid Broady, Kenzie Capri, Shannon Cooper, Claire Starrs Daly, Stephanie Gilman, Lizbeth Hevia, Elaine Ho, Rostine J.M., Ivy K., Melanie Beth Keffer, Katherine A. Morgan, Bea Payumo, Sarah Rice, Ben Rico, Victoria Rybnick, Kate S., Alyss Scollard, Jessica Smith, Tran T., Kit Ilanya Turner, Tylar Voss, and Abby Woodworth for their generous support.

I also owe a huge thank you to my dear Kim F. (who you especially have to thank if you’re a fan of Thanatos as he appears in my book). A special thanks to the wonderful Asphodelon, who provided artwork for the Kickstarter and for collaborating with me on
Bringer of Spring
and just being an all around amazing artist and friend. And to my darling Elizabeth Crowley, who graciously went through the book, line by line, twice, hunting down type-os before both
Recevier of Many
and
Destroyer of Light
went to press. My eternal gratitude goes to the fantastic Morgan Bondelid who designed the beautiful covers for my books. And last but certainly not least, my dear husband Robert, who started content-editing the book while we were dating, and faithfully carried the editing through the busy times of our engagement and into our marriage. His dedication is written into every chapter, and he has been my greatest source of support and inspiration.

So thank you, everyone, for making
Receiver of Many
and
Destroyer of Light
possible. This book and its predecessor,
Receiver of Many,
would not exist without you.

Rachel Alexander has been a resident of California all her life and finished her first novel at age 16. She co-wrote a play that won awards from Bill Moyers of PBS and the University of Southern California. She received her Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature and Literary Criticism from Principia College with an emphasis on creative writing.

When not writing, Rachel can often be found sewing corsets, overstocking her spice cabinet, and petting chickens. She is married and lives in San Carlos, CA with her wonderful husband/editor.

The following is the prologue for the forthcoming novel
The Good Counselor
, sequel to
Destroyer of Light
.

“He won’t be long,” she said, pausing at the door.

Persephone grasped the handle and the aged hinges creaked when she opened it.  Warmth and incense, the scent of mint and parsley, flooded out from the other side. She stood in the doorframe, and many pairs of tear-streaked eyes met hers.

“My lady,” a frail voice said from the bed that dominated the center of the room.

“Hello, old friend,” she smiled.

“Gods, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you as well.”

“To think… I am only a child compared to you… a mote of dust, Soteira, yet I grow old while you stay evergreen, no?” He chuckled around the rattle in his throat and managed a smile for her.

“You’re mean more to me than you give yourself credit.”

The venerable priest squinted at her, then his forehead wrinkled with worry. “My lady, it is two days past. Shouldn’t you be with your honored husband by now?”

“He understands, Eumolpus,” she said, shutting the door and walking over to the bed. His students and family cleared a path for her and Persephone sat down next to him, stroking thin wisps of white hair away from his liver spotted forehead. “This time you’re coming home with us.”

“I will only be another shade in Asphodel…”

“No,” she soothed. “You’re going to Elysion.”

“I do not deserve it, my lady.”

“Of course you do. With how good you are, with all you’ve done…”

“I served you for almost seventy three years. But my youth was not so piously spent.” He frowned, every breath harder to take in. “When I was seventeen I plied an unwilling girl with drink until she lay with me. I whipped my servants with little provocation, I forgot sacrifices to the gods and—”

“We are, all of us, the sum of our parts, good and bad,” a baritone voice said from the back corner of the room. He removed his helm, becoming visible to all within. Hades watched twenty pairs of eyes widen, then avert. The dark robed mortals knelt and bowed to him, some trembling in fear. Eumolpus’s eyes widened and he stretched a knobby hand out to his lord.

“Eubouleus,” he whispered, using one of Hades’s many epithets.

“It’s alright everyone,” Persephone called out to the frightened Eleusinians. “Plouton is here as a friend.”

They knew Persephone well, many since birth, but even members of her priesthood were wary of the Unseen One. They crowded to the other side of the bed when he advanced the room to join his wife. Aidoneus managed a thin smile. “My queen speaks the truth. Do you think anyone who goes to the Elysian Fields is pure as snow?”

He smiled and coughed again. “Of course not, my lord.”

“Then how do you suppose I would welcome a mortal who has done more for my wife, more for all of Chthonia, in his short life than anyone who has lived before or since?”

A smile spread across the old priest’s face and his breathing gentled.

“We had a question for you, Eumolpus,” Persephone said, blotting sweat from his forehead with the corner of her shawl.

“I might have an answer,” he smiled. Though his eyes were dulled by cataracts, Persephone saw the same sparkle in them from long ago.

She looked up at Aidon who carefully removed a gold foil scroll from his robes. Persephone took it from him, unrolled it and held it out for Eumolpus. “Charon has been finding these in the mouths of the dead. We wondered if you knew who would give these out. I’ve never seen their like in Eleusis.”

He nodded and squinted at the text. Eumolpus turned to his youngest son. “Keryx, will you read this for me?”

The gray haired man took the scroll and unrolled it. “It’s in Thracian.”

Eumolpus closed his eyes and shook his head, already guessing at its author.

“…But on the other side, from the lake of Mnemosyne, you will find water flowing fresh. Say: ‘I am the son of Earth and starry Heaven, but my parentage is heavenly: know this you too. I am dry with thirst and dying. Give me quickly then water from that which flows fresh from the lake of Mnemosyne’.” When Keryx finished, he looked at his father, confused.

The old priest merely nodded. “I know who writes these. He was my student several years back, practically a boy. The son of a Muse no less, and it’s rumored that Apollon is his father. Came to Eleusis intrigued by the idea of rebirth before he left for the island of Samothrace and the temple there. He had his own ideas about what greets those who journey across the Styx.”

“Should we be concerned?” Aidon asked. “Is he doing this for material gain?”

Eumolpus shook his head and coughed violently. “No… no. His heart is in the right place. But I believe you should seek him out, regardless.”

“Why?” Persephone asked.

Eumolpus breathed in again with the rattle in his throat growing louder. He waved toward the door. “All of you out,” he commanded, then raised his palm before anyone could protest. “Every soul in this room knows as well as I that death is not the end. I will see each of you again in Elysion. Keryx, you stay.”

They left, filing out quickly, his eldest granddaughter weeping as others ushered her from the chamber. The door shut behind them.

“My lady,” he said with a smile. “I know you have long desired a child.”

Persephone leaned in. “Yes…”

“The one who wrote that… he is gifted. Given his lineage, his intelligence, it doesn’t surprise me. There are rites that his order oversees—”

“Eumolpus,” Aidoneus stopped him quietly. “My wife and I have tried… many methods already. Spells, rituals, traveling throughout the known world…”

“Aidon…”

“Persephone, no. Sweet one, we go through this once a decade, to no avail. I’m not going to stand by and watch you be crushed by false hopes yet again.”

“This is different, my lord,” Eumolpus strained. “It is a fertility rite like many others, but in it the Samothracians invokes one who is not yet born. An heir to the earth and heavens— a god of life, death and rebirth.”

Hades and Persephone exchanged a long glance and leaned in to listen to Eumolpus.

“It requires sacrifice. There have been successes. A king and his barren queen have already—”

He was cut off by another round of coughing, so violent it bowed his back. His breathing became labored. Persephone looked up at her husband, her eyes pleading with him.

Aidoneus sighed. “What sort of sacrifice?”

“I know not. But it must encompass…” He took one gasping breath, feeling lighter, euphoric. “…what you are… your most heartfelt desire…”

“What is the man’s name?”

Eumolpus saw the lamps around him glow more brightly, the incense thicker, like fog, obscuring his last vision. He could feel warmth, like sunlight, and heard the laughter of childhood friends, long gone. He closed his eyes, exhaling a last word. “…Orpheus.”