Destroyer of Light

by Rachel Alexander

  Eumolpus and Diocles stood below on the first step of the dais, one holding a bundle of wheat, the other a sickle. They watched over the men, women and children filing silently forward, each placing a sheaf of millet or barley on the steps, muttering their blessings with eyes averted. Cups of kykeon were passed to the congregants as they took their seats.

  Triptolemus stepped forward from his place next to the Queen of the Earth, glancing back at veiled Demeter, who smiled at him from beneath the linen. The hall was silent as he picked up a single sheaf of wheat and raised a short iron knife. He split a single grain from the end and held it up.

  “A single corn, reaped in silence, for the Maiden’s return from the halls of the Unseen One.”

  The room stayed silent, watching. He placed the grain into a kylix of olive oil. Taking a red-hot coal with iron tongs from a brazier, he set it aflame, holding the offering above his head.

  “For the Maiden’s return!” he said louder as it blazed brightly and produced a plume of dark smoke.

  “For the Maiden’s return,” the room echoed as one, raising their cups.

  “To the end of winter!” he said as the flames calmed.

  “To the end of winter,” they repeated and drank the barley mead.

  On their last word, Demeter sat up straight. A distant rumble rolled across the hills outside and echoed through the temple. No one else had heard it through the din.

  Once the offering dwindled into a thin wisp of dark smoke, Triptolemus handed the empty kylix to Diocles and spoke to the assembly. “Our holy Mother revealed to me that I am to teach her Mysteries and wisdom to the world, to spread her worship and knowledge far and wide once her daughter is safely returned so that no man—” Thunder rolled again, stronger this time. He paused, feeling the Telesterion vibrate. “…So that no man or woman, slave or freeborn, will ever go hungry again.”

  Demeter’s breath quickened. He wouldn’t come here… He wouldn’t dare…

  A bolt struck the frozen oak tree outside, splitting the solid wood with a deafening crack. The congregants startled, their cries and shrieks multiplying when they heard the groan and crash of an ancient branch falling to the ground. Another blinding flash of light framed the doors at the back of the hall. The hanging censers shook and rattled on their chains. Demophon started to cry. Metaneira gathered him in her arms and took him from the room with Celeus close behind her, their shoes clacking against the stone floor.

  A nervous murmur spread through the chamber. In the second row, a rust-haired boy pressed his hands over his ears. A gaunt woman huddled closer to her husband. Demeter watched the Eleusinians shift about, turning and whispering to each other. Everyone could feel the electric prickle in the air, arcing across wool and skin and separating hair.

  Triptolemus swallowed and started again, trying to stand as tall as he could to reassure and quiet them. “Sh-she has given to me her char—”

  The doors flew open, each side slamming against the wall. The little veiled girl with the koudounia ran behind a column and dropped her copper bells. Wind whistled through the rafters, sending a drift of snow into the hall. The fires in the braziers stuttered and nearly extinguished. The posted guards ran inside, taking refuge from the sudden storm. At the back, several congregants strained to push the doors shut, leaning hard against the great entry to close it, then hoisted a heavy wood beam to bar it against the gale. No one paid any attention to the figure that had strolled in amidst the cacophony.

  No one but Demeter.

  The wind outside ceased and the room fell utterly silent. She stood and pulled her veil back from her face. Those in the audience averted their eyes from the face of the Mother and instead turned their cloaked heads to follow her gaze. A broad shouldered man stood in front of the sealed doors dressed in the same indigo as Demeter’s other petitioners. But his feet were sandaled, in stark contrast with everyone else, who wore leather wrapped in linen and wool up to their knees to keep their toes from falling off in the snow. His face was stern, and all in the Telesterion stared at him in curious wonder.

  “I come to speak with your Queen of the Earth.”

  He brushed the hood from his head and took a step forward. The man produced a bundle of wheat in one hand and a bundle of barley in the other. Offerings. He slowly dropped to one knee and knelt with arms extended, as her petitioners often did.

  Demeter slitted her eyes and tilted her chin up before she spoke. “You are not welcome here, Loud-Thunderer.”

  Gasps went up in the crowd. A single name was on every tongue. Zeus.

  He arose and took another step forward. The crowd flinched back as a single mass, eyes darting from the Sky Father to the Earth Mother, unsure what to do. No one was foolish enough to place themselves in the middle of a confrontation between the two immortals. A few began to slowly move toward the exits, and then others followed carefully, all the while murmuring to one another. Then they hurried their steps, quietly opening the heavy doors and filing out into the cold, giving the King of the Gods a wide berth.

  Zeus turned to watch them go, pausing on the rounded flare of a brunette maiden’s hips and imagining all the things he could do to her once this winter was over and she got a little more meat on her bones. His fingers itched, clutching at the bundles of grain. The two priests were the last to go, their himations drawn over their heads. Zeus casually watched them leave, then willed the doors to slam shut behind them.

  “Come to chastise me? Plead with me as your wife’s handmaiden Iris did?”

  “Neither, my lady.”

  Demeter stood cold as stone, except for a finger brushing against Triptolemus’s hand.

  That single touch made Zeus boil on the inside. He could hear the boy’s heart thundering in his chest the closer he got to the dais. With a slow cast of each hand, he spread the offerings of grain at Demeter’s feet, as though he were a mortal supplicant. Zeus spoke low. “Your pet may go.”

  Triptolemus puffed his chest up, then reflected on who stood before them, swallowed, and dipped his head. “Your grace, I am here only by my lady’s leave.”

  He smirked at this young hero’s bravery, then looked him up and down. “I can see that you are deathless now.”

  Triptolemus nodded.

  “Congratulations to you, boy!” he said loudly, smiling with white teeth, his eyes speaking a different story. Triptolemus imagined this was how a wolf must look at a cornered hind before it lunged. “It’s been a little while since we elevated one of your kind to our ranks. I believe the last one was my cupbearer… about five hundred years ago, or so. I brought him to Olympus, even. Deme, what was his name, again?”

  “Ganymede,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Nice boy, Ganymede… served me well. Isn’t that right, Deme? Still does, sometimes. Much like how your catamite serves you.”

  Triptolemus clenched his fists and ground his teeth at the insult. His fingertips danced along the hilt of the knife he’d used to cut into the blade of wheat. If this were any man other than the King of the Gods, he would have used its point to open his throat.

  “Typhoeus was deathless too, and about the size of a mountain. They sing songs about what I did to him.” He watched Triptolemus— how he hated the very sound of that name— take a step up the dais, retreating toward his mistress. Zeus tried to banish the creeping images of him putting his filthy, calloused, mortal-born hands on Demeter— his Demeter. He quelled them, at least enough to resist the temptation to strike down her young lover where he stood. That wouldn’t help his cause at all. “Ask your lady what happened to the last deathless one that defied me. Or perhaps I can show you myself. Prometheus has been lonely too long— has only an eagle tearing at his liver each day for companionship. He may need some company…”

  The Eleusinian prince shuddered and looked to Demeter. She nodded to him and squeezed his hand. “I’ll be alright,” she whispered, then leaned up to kiss him. “Go.”

  Triptolemus cautiously crept down the dais.
Zeus could still hear his heart drumming in his chest; see the cold sweat beaded on his brow. He feigned a lunge toward the youth, eyes wide and intense. Triptolemus flinched back, then quickened his retreat. The King of the Gods chuckled after the greenhouse door slammed shut.

  Demeter sat back down on her throne. “How dare you threaten him?”

  He shook his head and guffawed. “I suppose we all need our amusements. Don’t we, my heart?”

  Her nostrils flared and she stared at him, shocked. “How— You have no right whatsoever to call me that!”

  “And why not, Deme? I remember when you loved that name.”

  “That was aeons ago. You lost that right,” she said, stiffening. “You will address me formally, or not at all!”

  “As you wish. Demeter Anesidora, the Bringer of Many Gifts, the Cerulean Queen, Holy Daughter of Great Mother Rhea and Goddess of the Harvest, then?” he said, sky blue eyes sparkling. Zeus drew in a long breath. “Will that suffice?”

  “The Eleusinians call me Queen of the Earth,” she said, quietly.

  “The Moirai might have something to say about that… but if you insist.”

  “When have you ever cared for what they say?”

  “Oh, I care a great deal. If not for the Fates, I wouldn’t have claimed Olympus.”

  If not for my choosing you, she thought. “What did you come here to say, Zeus?”

  “What would you have me say?” he crooned.

  She flushed. “Stop that.”

  “What?” he said softly.

  “Stop it! Just stop it!” she said slamming a fist on the arm of her throne. “I’m not the blushing, naïve girl you knew me to be! And I refuse to get drawn into this… this nonsense with you! Say what you came here to say, then leave the way you came.”

  He smiled at her and seated himself in the first row, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his widely parted knees. “Do you know why I fell in love with you, Demeter?”

  “The same reason you’ve fallen in love with every other woman. For the heat between her thighs.”

  “Hardly,” he said folding his hands. He smiled lightly and she swallowed, remembering that look. “It was your passionate stubbornness that won me over. You were a fighter. You refused to give in to anything. Most of all me.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “Scoff at me all you want, Deme. I had eyes for no other in the early days. You know that.”

  “You’ve had eyes for everyone else since… and you were chasing Metis almost as soon as you rose from my bed.”

  His smile disappeared. “But I loved you. You know I did, my heart.”

  “I said don’t call me—”

  “If you had shown half the resolve during the war as you have over this,” he interrupted, looking around, “I would call you that still.”

  Her face fell.

  “It’s hurting my neck looking up at you, Deme.” He ran his hand through the hair at the base of his skull for effect. “Fates, woman, your throne is set high! Why don’t you come down here so I can speak with you?”

  Demeter drew back and gripped the armrests.

  “I’m not going to try anything with you,” he said with a reverent smile. “I respect you too much for that.”

  Respect? Her daughter was passed off to the God of the Dead like chattel and he dared talk about respect? She roiled with anger and looked away so he couldn’t see it. “You must be joking.”

  “I only wish to talk with you… see if we can come to some sort of accord.”

  “You mean you want me to give in and submit to—”

  “I never said that, Deme. I want us to discuss— to come to an agreement that leaves all of us satisfied,” he said. Zeus reached across the aisle and patted the seat across from him. “Come speak with me, my lady.”

  Demeter didn’t move, her mouth a line, looking down at him. His playful eyes belied his serious intent, his relaxed demeanor that of a prowling lion. His essence was wrapped in the same contradictions that had left her guessing in the early days when he had loved her— ones that made him so delectably unpredictable and made her feel alive. Looking up at her now, his expression was set with the loving reverence that had captured her heart the moment she first blinked in the sunlight and saw Zeus as he gently carried her away from Othrys.

  He was dangerous, she remembered. How many had he seduced, ravaged, buggered, and raped with those crystal blue eyes and handsome smile? His mouth twisted up, then his face fell, his expression pleading with her. It was a ploy, she knew, but he was still her only chance at getting her Kore back. Only Zeus could sway unbending Aidoneus. She stood and stepped toward him, her veil catching on the arm of the throne and falling away from her head. She glanced back at it.

  “Leave it,” he whispered, his voice rasping as he said it.

  Demeter shivered at his tone and descended the steps of the dais at a careful, measured pace, as though she were ready to bolt from the room at the first move he made. She knew that if his intentions toward her were in any way sinister she wouldn’t have time to run, but couldn’t help approaching him with trepidation. Demeter examined him carefully as she drew closer. More lines than usual traversed his cheeks and forehead, and his normally blond hair was streaked with brittle strands of white and gray.

  The corner of her mouth ticked up. This is why he wasn’t coming to her with threats or edicts. This is why she wasn’t chained in the sky or cast into the Pit for ruining the earth and bringing the mortals to the brink of annihilation. Zeus couldn’t do anything to her. He hadn’t come here to talk; he’d come to beg. He was weakened.

  And she was strong.

  Demeter gracefully sat down across the aisle from him, folding her robes behind her and plaiting her hands in her lap. “Well?”

  “I want to apologize first,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes off her.

  “Ha!” She sneered at him. “For what, Zeus? Where would you even start? When you started dallying with Metis? When you sold our unborn daughter to Hades? When you broke your promises to me? Left me helpless and pregnant? When you took Hera as your bride the very day I was screaming with labor pains to deliver your child?!”

  His brow furrowed, not from age or diminishment, but from what looked like genuine regret. She knew better. Zeus didn’t have a remorseful bone in his body. He cast his gaze to the ground. “That and more, Deme.”

  “More?”

  “Yes,” he bit his cheek and looked up at her. “I should have taken better care of you, Demeter. And when you fell into the arms of that… mortal…”

  “Iasion,” she whispered.

  “When you turned to Iasion for comfort, I should have let you be happy with him until he passed or you tired of him. I should have insisted that you stay at Olympus with the rest of us, to Tartarus with whatever Hera said. I should have seen through her. I should have seen through her when she brought that… crippled thing, Hephaestus… into being without me. I should have banished her permanently and taken you back when she tried to usurp my power. And you stayed loyal despite everything. Fates; I shouldn’t have left you in the first place, or doubted you. I should have made you my queen like I promised. I was an idiot.”

  “You are an idiot, Zeus.” Her eyes stung. “There’s no past tense about that.”

  He clenched his jaw. “When it comes to matters of the heart, yes. I am. I’ll admit that. I’ve come to you with no pride, Demeter.”

  “Words,” she whispered. “I think I’ve heard enough of your meaningless words to last me a thousand lifetimes.” Tears filled Demeter’s eye and she turned her face from Zeus. How long had she wanted to hear him say all these things? To show a hint of remorse for all the aeons she’d spent alone and abandoned? She seethed. He’d waited until he wanted something.

  “Deme…” he said brushing a hand down her back.

  She spun around. “Don’t you touch me,” she spat out. “You think I will just relent because you came and… apologized for aeons and
aeons of ill treatment that I’ll be appeased?”

  “No, I didn’t—”

  “Next thing you’ll be expecting me to spread my legs for you as a thank you for lowering yourself enough to—”

  “I’m not worthy of you, Demeter,” he said, jaw clenched.

  She straightened in surprise and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her mantle. “I’ll have you know, my lord, that true apologies come with reparations.”

  “They do,” he said. “And I’m prepared to give you those reparations in full.”

  Demeter held her breath.

  “Except for one condition.”

  She scowled at him. “Then it’s not a true apology at all if it’s conditional. Unless you are willing to make amends for everything, you will get nothing from me.”

  “Damn it, woman! Will you just—” He drew in a breath and swallowed his frustration. “Please let me speak, Demeter. If, by the end of what I have to say, you still won’t accept my sincere apology and recompense for all the ills you’ve suffered at my hands, then I promise I will do everything I can, within reason.”

  “That comes with an oath, Zeus, or you can leave. If you mean what you say, you’ll swear it,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  He pursed his lips. “So be it. I, Zeus Aegiduchos Cronides Olympios, solemnly swear on the great River Styx that if what I have to say— to offer to you— does not meet with your approval, that I will do everything in my power to bring Persephone—”

  “Kore.”

  Zeus had to bite his cheek. This denial was laughable. The whole cosmos knew that Hades had divested Kore of anything that would still make her… a kore. He’d even heard a rumor that the Lord of the Underworld hadn’t waited to consummate their union until he got to his palace— that he’d had her on the way there. When Zeus had first heard that bit of gossip he’d stared at Hermes in open-mouthed disbelief then laughed long and loud, smacking his thigh so hard that the sound of thunder rolled through the valleys of Thessaly. To think that cold, taciturn, law-abiding Aidoneus had done something rash and passionate for once in his long life! When Hermes had returned earlier this very week, his face pale and wincing, Apollo had grilled him until he gave up the news that he’d barged in on Hades and Persephone enthusiastically twisted into a position that only lovers who had happily known each other fully and many times over would have attempted. Kore she most certainly was not. He wouldn’t allow Demeter to labor under that delusion, no matter how much he needed to tread lightly with her. “I will do everything in my power to bring Persephone back to you.”