Welcome to Me Me Monday, a day to promote, strut, and celebrate your Me-ness!
My characters have decided to take advantage of this Me thing. 🙂 On Mondays, one of them will stop to talk. Or grumble. Or gloat. 🙂
Today it’s Hades’s turn. Here’s my own version of the God of the Underworld, from my mythical Work in Progress, Aissa and Polyxena…
I sit upon a throne of bones, listening to the anguished cries of the dead. During the colder months of the year, my queen sits at my side. Pale and wan, her beauty is wraithlike when she’s with me.
Persephone will bloom anew with the warming weather, eager to leave my side and dance upon the mother, laughing with her mother, making everything around them green and delicious.
Not even she wishes to stay in my gloomy kingdom of the dead, although everyone comes to me in the end. No matter fast they run, no mortal can escape me.
Achille is the only one who didn’t try to escape.
His mother, Thetis, brought him to the borders of my land when he was just an infant. She bathed him in the River Styx, attempting to keep him from me forever.
Achille giggled and kicked, keeping one heel free, receptive to my touch, to death.
He was only a baby, but it touched me deeply. No boy has ever shown any willingly to keep my company. Not unless he wanted something; a priceless treasure of the underworld, a lost love, or to simply boast he’d visited the lands of the dead and returned.
No one comes simply to visit.
No matter. I can seize any mortal I wish, carrying him off, for I am Death. No one escapes me who is not immortal save for one Trojan prince.
Ganymede was mortal born, but his beauty caught my brother’s eye. Zeus seized the young prince and carried him away. Ganymede drank from Zeus’s own cup, along with the divinity swirling in its contents.
It was enough to change Ganymede, transforming him into one of the gods. I can never touch him, not as he is. I can only gaze upon his youthful beauty, perfected by immortality, taunted by the fact that he is forever out of reach.
There are other Trojan princes who are not. I console myself with that knowledge as Troy’s doom looms over its lords. The city’s destruction promises a harvest of pretty youths cut down in their bloom.
No dount Achille will be doing much of the cutting. He’ll send me bloody gift after gift, flirting with his own doom, seeking the one who’ll bring him down.
The one who’ll send him to me.
Which will it be, Troile or Patrocles? The future is unclear except a fatal blow will find its mark in the coming conflict.
I’ll finally be able to kiss Achille’s ankle, that tantalizing bit of mortal flesh, seize it, and drag my prize down my kingdom below.
Will he scream and fight, trying to escape me like every other I’ve pursued? Or will he surprise me, just as he did when he was an infant?
Soon I’ll have the answer to that question.
Soon Achille will be mine.