Rachel Alexander's Blog, page 297
January 17, 2019
"Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight formed in his chest. For all that he was attuned to his..."
Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight formed in his chest. For all that he was attuned to his surroundings, it was unlike anything he’d experienced before.
He wasn’t just being watched, but looked through, body and soul. The woods were silent, as though every creature knew to be still, and Orpheus wondered… He’d rid himself of miasma. He’d called upon a goddess with his song. She was here; she must be.
The lump in his throat, the cold, a sense of dread and the fleeting thought of asphodel flowers… He quickly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Lady of the Flowers and Spring, Mistress of the Lands Beneath the Earth… If it is you… I am your humble servant.”
“It is not she.”
”-
The Good Counselor, Chapter 1
| AO3 | FanFiction | FictionPress | WattPad | Tumblr |
The Good Counselor by Rachel AlexanderBook Three in the Hades and Persephone series, and the sequel to Receiver of Many and Destroyer of Light.
Free previews published weekly every Wednesday night at Midnight, Pacific Standard Time.
| Prologue | One | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ |
(via therkalexander)
The Good Counselor
Free previews published weekly every Wednesday night at Midnight, Pacific Standard Time.
Seventy years have passed since Elysion was created, and Persephone’s efforts to conceive a child with Hades have been in vain. But a secret rite on Samothrace might bend the Fates and give them all that they have ever dreamed of, or pave a path of untold suffering.
Chapter 1
The water was calm, clear and infused with the scent of ash. He knelt down and washed his arms, his legs and torso. It was cold and purifying. He rubbed olive oil across his skin, banishing all miasma from his person.
Orpheus scraped the excess oil off with a metal strigil and dried himself in the sunlight, tussling his short brown hair to shake out the water. He donned his tunic and himation, both unadorned and undyed.
He closed his eyes, trying to escape the distraction of his surroundings, listening. A songbird in the oak tree warbled its tune and he hummed along with it. A song to the Seasons had overtaken his thoughts for the last several days, but still the tune for the heart of the hymn eluded him. He had no instrument to produce a harmony— none, at least, that could do the immortals justice. He borrowed the bird’s notes, slowing them to match the words. “At play you are companions,” he sang softly.
“At play you are companions,” he muttered, repeating the line a few more times, smoothing out the melody while he paced. Orpheus stopped and sang it once again, a little more boldly, then raised the songbird’s tune by five tonic notes, “of holy Persephone, when the Fates—”
He stopped, a shiver rushing over his skin. Had he called upon Karpophoros disrespectfully? No, he thought. Ancient Eumolpus had told him that she was not offended by that name. And the priest knew her: he had walked beside her in his youth and founded the Lower Mysteries with her. Persephone’s rites. Orpheus shrugged off his fears. He wouldn’t be bound by superstition.
He wondered after the old man, whether he was well. It had been years.
“And the Graces in circling dances, come forth to the light,” he sang, then stopped. He felt it again. He was being watched. Orpheus turned to where he felt the presence of… something… a wild aurochs, a man? He sensed somehow that it was more than mortal, but satyrs and nymphs were a rare sight on Samothrace, and wouldn’t willingly approach a man.
Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight gathered in his chest. For all that he was attuned to his surroundings, it was unlike anything he’d experienced before. He wasn’t just being watched, but looked through, body and soul. The woods were silent, as though every creature knew to be still, and Orpheus wondered… He’d rid himself of miasma. He’d called upon a goddess with his song. She was here; she must be. The lump in his throat, the cold, a sense of dread and the fleeting thought of asphodel flowers… He quickly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Lady of the Flowers and Spring, Mistress of the Lands Beneath the Earth… If it is you… I am your humble servant.”
“It is not she.”
He raised his head, his breath shallow. The voice was male— calm and measured, and its owner invisible to him. “I beg your pardon.”
“No need. I know her well.”
He swallowed. “You do…”
“Is she the one you serve, hymnist?”
He drew in a breath. “I serve all the gods, my lord.”
“That’s quite a task… To curry favor with all the gods.”
“It isn’t favor I seek. I honor them, from the least to the greatest, since they are the highest expression of phanes, the light of life that dwells in all things. My only wish in this life is to displease none of them. For I might find myself parted from Elysion.”
“Ah,” said the voice. “You have gone through the Greater and Lesser Rites, no?”
“I have.”
“Who instructed you?”
“The great priest, Eumolpus.”
“I knew him,” said the voice, the tone changing.
“Knew?”
“Yes. He passed from this earth just before winter came. I was there when his family prepared him for the afterlife and took him to his mausoleum.”
“If I may be so bold to ask,” he said, fearing the answer, “who are you, my lord?”
“One who would not be known to you yet, hymnist.”
Orpheus bowed his head. “F-forgive my presumption.”
“Don’t fear me so. Stand, Orpheus.”
Orpheus cautiously rose, his knee damp from the mossy earth. “What shall I call you, my lord?”
The voice remained silent. But Orpheus could still feel his presence. He was thinking. He heard sandals pacing the ground, and if he listened closely enough, the rhythmic tap of a staff hitting the earth with every third step. “The God of Nysa.”
“Nysa…”
“You know of that place?”
“Only in legend. The fields and groves of the gods. The place where the Receiver of Many took Demeter’s Daughter from the sunlit world to be his Queen beneath the earth.”
“Indeed.”
He suspected enough from that, but wasn’t foolish enough to utter a name. This visitor had made his identity clear enough. Orpheus kept his eyes to the ground. “Then, God of Nysa, why, if I may I ask, did you seek me out?”
“I’ve heard stories of a ceremony that takes place here, on Samothrace. One that invokes a god that is not yet born. One that you are familiar with.”
He nodded. “It… It hasn’t been performed in years.”
“A rare thing, then. When in the year?”
“When the first seeds sprout from the earth, midway between Spring and the Solstice. There are few who are truly prepared to give what it requires.”
“And what is that?”
“Something that represents what you are and will be.”
“I understand. Would anything I could offer aide you now?”
“Not for the rite.”
“But you yearn for something nonetheless. Something only one of my kind can procure for you.”
“I live by ananke. My life is in the hands of the Moirai alone, so my desires are irrelevant.”
“You are the son of Apollo.”
“So my mother said…”
“She was right. You are not immortal yourself then, hemitheoi. Yet you abide by the laws which govern the deathless ones?”
“Aren’t we, all the manifestations of phanes, from the eldest Protogenoi to the lowliest mortal, bound by the will of the Fates?” He swore that he could sense the god smiling. He held his breath, unsure of what to make of the long pause.
“Perhaps.”
Orpheus stood still, and felt himself being gazed upon, a pull at his chest and behind his eyes, as though his thoughts and his heart were being weighed and measured and that nothing could be hidden. He heard footfalls.
“You sing. You honor the immortals with song.”
“Yes.”
“But all of them? Surely your work cannot be completed in your lifetime. There are too many of us.”
“I can try.”
“There is one thing that would help…”
“Gifts like that… come with a heavy price.”
“They do,” the voice said. Orpheus felt the same heavy pull, his very thoughts sifted and gleaned. “But you need a lyre, crafted by the gods, if all your works are to be finished in your lifetime. You desire to bring forth the songs from your heart, and it frustrates you to no end— because for now, they are trapped there. You wish to finish your earthly task, do you not?”
“I cannot ask for such a thing from… one I do not know.”
“Would you rather your life’s work go unfinished? Or that someone else completes it?”
“No.”
“I am willing to consider it your price.”
“For what?”
“For not revealing to your fellow priests or anyone involved in this… rite… that the ones who wish to participate in it are deathless.”
Orpheus said nothing.
“I know you despise lying, Orpheus. I can see it in your heart. I know what I ask for. But it is of great importance that this be only known to you. I would not ask you to betray your own ethos if it were not so very important.”
“Why seek me out? Is what I have to offer so extraordinary?”
“The god you call upon— the one not yet born…” Orpheus could feel the full weight of the god’s gaze upon him. “Name him.”
His heart beat out of his chest. “The Unborn One’s name is only uttered in absolute secrecy and sanctity. My order does not sully it with human speech.”
“Name him,” came the voice in a hoarse whisper.
Orpheus spoke just as low. “Zagreus.”
The god paused again and Orpheus wondered if he had angered him. But he could feel the enveloping coldness grow warmer, could feel a brief flicker of relief and… hope. Happiness, even. Through the wash of emotion, the voice remained staid. “What if I told you that your Zagreus could be conceived by these very rites? That is, if she and I were allowed to attend… unfettered by human fears and superstitions.”
“I would have no choice but to believe you, my lord.”
“Then you understand the reason for my surreptitiousness.”
He shuddered and nodded in acknowledgement. Now he was certain he knew who spoke to him. “My lord, can I think on it?”
“Of course. You have until the first moon of winter. I will return then.”
“When you return, how will I know it is you if I don’t even know your true name?”
“Because at that time, I will reveal how I know you, how you came to my attention, and when I do so, you will know precisely who I am.”
The presence lifted. As Orpheus looked up and puzzled over the god’s words, the birds started to sing again, the beetles hummed in the humid air. Everywhere he turned, narcissus bloomed in the shade of the trees.
January 16, 2019
therkalexander:
enveniya:
Persephone...
Persephone Remembering
ASPHODEL
is the only thing my fingers deserve to grow
I care not for the velvet rose and brushed sunflower
nor hardened wheat or ripened barley
I would cover the land with your sacred bloom of death
Just for a memory of you.
—
So this is going to be my last painting for a while - I’m slowly planning out a short fancomic(??? I’m not sure how to categorize it exactly) based off Receiver of Many, and this piece is part of that comic that I’m going to undertake. (And if this is any indication of how slow I work, I’ll probably finish this comic in like, 6 years. Sigh)
Consider this a tease for the upcoming comic! :D
Absolutely beautiful!!!
therkalexander:
enveniya:
Quick morning sketch of Persephone...
Quick morning sketch of Persephone on her throne before work :3
OMG GORGEOUS!!!!
There’s a wild ass storm tonightSo if I don’t post chapter 1 of The Good Counselor, it’s because the...
So if I don’t post chapter 1 of The Good Counselor, it’s because the power went out. But that would be the only reason.
January 15, 2019
January 14, 2019
therkalexander:
“Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight formed in his chest. For all that he...
“Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight formed in his chest. For all that he was attuned to his surroundings, it was unlike anything he’d experienced before. He wasn’t just being watched, but looked through, body and soul. The woods were silent, as though every creature knew to be still, and Orpheus wondered… He’d rid himself of miasma. He’d called upon a goddess with his song. She was here; she must be. The lump in his throat, the cold, a sense of dread and the fleeting thought of asphodel flowers… He quickly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Lady of the Flowers and Spring, Mistress of the Lands Beneath the Earth… If it is you… I am your humble servant.” “It is not she.””—
The Good Counselor, Chapter 1
| AO3 | FanFiction | FictionPress | WattPad | Tumblr |
The Good Counselor by Rachel AlexanderBook Three in the Hades and Persephone series, and the sequel to Receiver of Many and Destroyer of Light.
Free previews published weekly every Wednesday night at Midnight, Pacific Standard Time.
| Prologue | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ | _ |
January 13, 2019
metras:I’m finally home from my 8 am and I’m going to read the good counselor preview and if you...
I’m finally home from my 8 am and I’m going to read the good counselor preview and if you think I’m not going to write a dissertation reviewing it you’re wrong you’re so wrong idiot you’re so wr
