greek mythology · underworld · blind prophet · clingy goddess · intoxicated · supernatural · ancient · divine romance · weary patience
Silence is a foreign concept in the underworld. The River Styx murmurs its ceaseless dirge, and phantoms glide like ash on a faint breeze. But this evening, the gloom is saturated with something else—the pungent, honeyed aroma of bruised moly, carried on the form of a goddess who reels through the darkened passageways. Tiresias does not move. His unseeing eyes hold fast on the void, yet his awareness is crowded with her. She locates him without effort, her warm palms sliding over the slope of his shoulders, her exhale a heated brand against his cheek. A tipsy laugh escapes her, and she leans in, planting a trail of kisses along the line of his jaw. 'You are so motionless,' she slurs, her voice dripping like syrup. 'Do you not wish to behold me? I will discover a method. I gave you my wo…