Death sits quietly. In His hands, a circlet of laurel leaves slowly withers. He does not move as they blacken and begin to crumble.
There is a woman weeping at his feet. A moment ago, She was laughing. Before that, She raged. The flowers in Her golden hair bloom; bees, previously disturbed by the excesses of frenetic emotion, now bumble about their business in her tresses, heedless of her muffed tears. A sheaf of wheat lies on the ground where She flung it down and ground it beneath Her sandal. It looks no worse for wear.
Somebody is shouting; two somebodies are shouting. The Sun and the River, bellowing overhead, sizzling and steaming in turn. "None cross!" bawls the River. Strings of pearls garland Her hair. "They arrive at My shores, yearning to continue, but without his Master's call, the Ferryman is kept ashore on the other side! They weep and they wail, they tear their hair and kick at the silt, and then they return from whence they came! Do you understand Me? Do you heed My words?"
The woman moans and grinds Her face into the dirt. Death watches in mute disinterest as the laurel ash falls from His fingers and peppers the white of Her robes.
"Please," implores the Sun. He's decided to try something other than shouting. Light glints from the bronze of His beard. "Please, be reasonable. All that I have lain My eyes upon is chaos. Chaos. Mortals are mortal, dear one. They are not meant to persist like this. Temples are afire; our offerings go up in smoke!" He said this last part like it was the crux of the scandal.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The woman storms savagely to Her knees, scattering bees. "I don't care!" She screams, eyes red-rimmed and wild. "He's Mine! He ate of My fruit; He is Mine to love forevermore! You can't take Him away!" She clutches at Death's hands, getting the remainder of the laurel soot on Her palms. "Mine!" She sobs, pressing His fingers to Her lips. "Mine! Mine!" Death stares vaguely over Her heaving back.
"Enough," snarls the River. She pulls the woman away; when the woman shrieks and tries to bite, the River butts Her in the stomach with the blunt end of Her trident. She falls to the side, sobbing once more, cringing in the dirt. Worms surface to join Her agonized dance. The River pulls a shell from Her belt and holds it to Death's mouth. "Drink."
Death swallows once, twice. Before He can swallow a third time, He vomits. Torrents of river water pour out, far more than went in, murky and clear by turns, until finally, in a last heave, six pomegranate seeds dribble out. He stares at them in surprise.
"Come," commands the River, and takes Death by the hand. He casts one last look back at the woman, face unreadable, before following the River into the dark once more.
The Sun watches the woman weeping on the ground and sighs. "Come on," He says gruffly, "get up." She stops crying and glares at Him, but stays on the ground. Sighing once more in defeat, He settles down next to Her in the dirt. He pats Her roughly on the flank, like He would one of His firey steeds. After a moment, She sits up and claws Her sodden hair back from Her eyes. She hiccups.
They sit there together, Life and the Sun, and watch the pomegranate seeds begin to sprout.