Water trickled somewhere in the distance and a quiet hum filled his ears.
A voice.
Low and feminine, the song carried on the cool cavern breeze. Too soft to hear the words, but loud enough to give his body direction.
Narrow paths just wide enough to fit a foot wended and curved through the cramped garden and Brooks swore the flowers reached out to brush his skin as he passed.
He followed the hum until it grew louder and the words more clear.
“A meadow full of Asphodels,
A secret she will never tell.
Ashes,
Ashes,
It all burns down.”
A lithe figure swathed in white with silver hair falling in waves sat hunched over an asphodel stalk at the base of a single column, her back turned to him. Her voice was as elegant as her graceful stature, as soft and unobtrusive as her presence. Had she not been humming, he may have missed her entirely.
“My, my. What an honor to be graced by such a presence, don’t you think my blossoms?”
The flowers buzzed in response and a shiver of awareness brushed his mind. He never responded to the maiden in this recurring dream, only continued his slow pace until he stood directly behind her. She never turned to face him, but continued to fuss over her flowers.
He hovered over her as she pruned wilting buds from each stalk, clearing room for the newer and thriving blooms.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? At first glance they all appear the same, but when you look more closely, they’re unique.”
Snip.
“Some are fat and short.”
Snip.
“Others tall and lanky.”
Snip.
“Some blooms are aggressive and try to smother those around them.”
Snip, snip.
“The one thing they all have in common is their fragility. Each bloom is delicate and must be tended with care. They don’t live long, their life span less than a century.”
A pale hand reached out and caressed a bloom as tender as a mother holding the cheek of her babe.
She stood, her back still to Brooks, and tucked the long gardening shears into the thick belt holding the diaphanous fabric against her body.
When she turned, his awareness flinched from the sight but his body held fast. Her face was beautiful, lips full and pouty with a softly defined jaw and long neckline. The epitome of feminine grace until you stared into the unseeing, milky white eyes. Blue iridescent fluid wept like tears and left glistening trails down her pale face and a menacing crown of thorns protruded from her head.
“Atropos,” he spoke. “It’s always a pleasure.”
The Goddess of Lifespans was the oldest of the three Fates known as the keeper of the past and taker of life. Once her sister determined the span of a mortal life, it was up to Atropos to trim the stalk. Her shears were sharp and once she plucked a bloom there was no returning it.
Her small smile made her round cheeks raise a fraction.
“Have you come to oversee creation, Father of Darkness?”
