They say that she loved him. They say that she fell in love in her mother’s garden when he stood in front of her and fell on bended knee at the sound of her voice. It was she that took his face in her hands, hands that smelled of poppies, and it was he that dreamed of her. They say that she followed him upon his blackened steed, twisting downwards under the earth, scooping gold and diamonds through her fingers. She grew flowers beneath the ground, eternal spring in the land of the dead and every soul shared in her gifts. Roses for those in Elysium and thorns for those in Tartarus. She grew them all to blanket the souls of the underworld. And for him she grew smoky black lillies and blood red carnations, hellebore and velvet petunias, succulents with leaves that reached for a sun that would never rise. They say that when he offered her a place at his table - a place as his queen - that the juice from the pomegranate dripped from her lips as an oath that was signed in her blood and sealed against his. She was his and he was hers. And in the end, they say that she loved him.
Why is it then, that they say that I do not love you?
They say that I am fickle and wild and terribly blind. How could I ever love one so different than me? One that is misshapen and broken, sweltering from the heat of a forge that will never darken. Why is it that they believe I do not understand love? I love you. I have loved you and I have held you and I will love you and I will hold you. When you come home to me, blackened by soot and spilling smoke from your coat, you bring me curls of copper and sprigs of silver tied with golden ribbons in a bouquet of flowers born from earth and fire. Machines of steel and wire that dance before us and sing music for our halls. You hold lightening bolts and thunder clouds in your hands and you have armed heroes and destroyed monsters. How can they not see it, as I do, so easily there in your heart? I can see millions of hearts and all that matters to me is yours.
They say that she loved him.
So how is it then, that they say I cannot love you?
Anybody seeing a pattern here?
Yes, I really do love Greek mythology that much. Here is another look at the oft told story of Hades and Persephone and a look at the not so oft told story of Aphrodite and Hephaestus.
:) Kathryn
Comments