RCG-I Seasonal Salon
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When Destiny Walked the LabrynthChapter 7: In Phoebe's BedchambersPhoebe’s private bedchamber was sumptuous; as Elder Escort, she required it. Elegant pottery embellished with painted spirals and olive leaves graced tables of glowing inlaid wood. The flames of marble oil lamps added subtlety and depth to the room. Covering the floor was a thick woven wool rug dyed a deep and rare purple. Some of the marble walls were overlaid with woven wall hangings, warming the room from the chill of evening. She particularly favored sea motifs; an ornately stitched octopus eyed the room in surprise, while sea plants waved green fronds, and woven schools of fish circled the walls. With a graceful sweep of her arm, Phoebe invited Theseus to sit with her upon a richly cushioned bench. She sat close to him, lightly stroking his arm with her perfectly manicured fingers. He scrutinized the wall hangings, refusing to meet her eyes. She felt his shyness. “Do you like the tapestries?” she asked. “They come from a weaving village near Gournia, to the east of Knossos. I like them during the evening hours. The marble of the walls is beautiful, but so cool.” “They are very beautiful.” He paused, and Phoebe inched just a bit closer to him, almost, but not quite, brushing her thinly draped breast against his bare arm. Though he pretended to be unaware, his radiance told her differently. She directed her own radiance towards his, gently, very gently, encouraging him to feel safe and reflective. Finally, he sighed, relaxed a bit, and said, “She is a fickle Goddess, the sea, is She not?” “Ai, yes. She nourishes with life abundant, yet also can She take.” “She can rip from you all you hold dear, without hesitation, without mercy. When I was a little boy, I thought Her my special Goddess. But today, I love Her not.” Phoebe rested a hand upon Theseus’s forearm and softly pulsed his aura with her own, silently beckoning him to dive deeper into his tidal pool of memory. Slowly, as if in a light trance, he leaned against the wall warmed by deep sea tapestries and continued speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Once when I a very young boy, I demanded the Caster of Nets bow down to me. Of course, She did not.” He paused briefly to run a finger lightly over the veined surface of a marble lamp next to the couch. The flame from the olive oil flickered softly. “I did not know Her vengeful side then; I was punished for my arrogance. The woman who rescued me from the streets, Karolina -- she was of the fisherfolk on the island of Paros and the only Meter I remember…the morning after my foolishness, she and her brother paddled out far into the sea to catch fish before dawn. A tremendous wave, the likes of which was rarely seen before, crashed in. They never returned. “Had there been a shake?” “That is what the islanders say must have happened. A shake somewhere way out in the sea that we did not feel on land. But I always knew better. I knew it was because of me. Because I dared challenge the Caster.” Phoebe placed her soft hand upon his shoulder and enveloped him with a golden-honey comforting, compassionate radiance. “I am sorry you lost your foster meter, but it was likely not due to your impiety.” He shrugged. “You do not know the rest of the story. When we lost her and her brother, it left my many foster siblings and myself without close family. They went to live with other relatives. None would have me. They said Fate loved me not.” Again, Phoebe gently pulsed him. Deeper, she thought. Tell me more. “Karolina owned goats for their milk and cheese since she had so many children to feed. I was youngest and tended the goats. After her passing, they sold the goats and needed me not. They drove me back to the streets from which I came. I was young and defiant and told them all I did not need them, that someday they would hear of Theseus the Hero. But every night I spent on the streets, I dreamt of the home I once had and awoke in the morning with my eyes swollen from weeping.” Abruptly, Theseus stopped speaking, straightened and dashed the tears from his eyes. “I do not know why I tell you this. You think me weak.” “No,” Phoebe answered. “I think you young.” Theseus tossed his head and grunted as if slapped. His voice darkened, sounding insulted. “I hate the sea, yet also I do not leave Her. I am young in body, Mistress Phoebe, but my heart feels old indeed.” Phoebe caught his dark eyes and held them, risking opening her saria vision fully. The wall of stone was still there, but cracks showed in it. Deeply she searched, holding Theseus in a thrall she knew he would not recall. Carefully, gently, she probed into his spirit. Then, there it was, the thing she sought, the thing he hid; a wound, red and festered, laid upon his soul, penetrating his very spirit. She gasped in surprise. Its shape looked like the sacred knot of the Priesera, the mark of Her chosen ones. Yet within him, it appeared as a thing of violence; inflamed, angry, furious, vengeful. Unsettled, Phoebe withdrew and with a gentle ease born of long practice, broke the contact. She hid the disquiet she felt. He was right. Here was not the young innocent soul she had expected to find behind the eyes. I should have suspected, she thought, young souls cannot build nor maintain such defenses. His manner bespeaks depths, yet also something is terribly awry. Ah Goddess, this may be a thing more grievous than I had supposed. And yet, perhaps, too, more hopeful. Aloud she said, “Theseus, there are such wounds as only Goddess herself may heal. Sometime, mayhaps you will seek and accept the grace of such a healing.” She resumed stroking his arm, this time adding a pulse of orange-red sexual passion. She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. If Theseus understood her comment, he did not respond. Instead, he surrendered to Phoebe’s touch, returning her kiss with fire of his own. Copyright by the Kassandra Sojourner ~ All rights reserved |
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