Pandora's box, part 12

Epimetheus crept out of the house, unwilling to wake anyone. He pulled on the stallion's reins, mounting him with an ease he wished he felt in his heart.

“Epimetheus! Are you leaving us? Without even saying goodbye?” Aurora stood at the gate, her hair ruffled by sleep, eyes large, looking for all the world like a young doe rabbit.

“I must go back to the palace,” he said. “I must stop her from coming…” He stopped and gazed on Aurora’s shining, innocent face for what he knew, deep in the pit of his sorrowful chest, would be the last time. “You will be safe here, Aurora.”

“Yes,” she replied, simply. “I believe I will. My mother will keep me safe from any harm.”

An enormous cloud, black and heavy, rolled above them, blotting out the morning sunshine. Aurora and Epimetheus gazed up at it and shuddered with fear.

“What does it mean?” Aurora asked.

“It means danger,” Epimetheus answered shortly. “I am afraid… Aurora, you must not trust anyone who comes this way. Don’t let any strangers come inside the cottage.”

“I won’t,” she vowed.

He turned away, unable to look at her for a moment longer, and urged the horse into a canter.

Aurora stood watching them disappear and felt as if her girlhood was finally over.

She turned to find Sylph waiting for her in the cottage doorway, and hurried towards her waiting arms.

***

Dark shadows and whispers whipped around the room, filling Pandora’s ears with bitter messages of hate and destruction. The tiny creature, Hope, lay in her hands, quivering and displaying a dim, yellow light.

Collapsing onto the stool by the broken mirror, Pandora squinted, the reflected light scorching her eyes, as Aurora’s image shone out of ten, fifty, one hundred, one thousand shards of glass.

Hope plummeted to the floor as Pandora balled her fists and pounded on the glass surface, each frenzied hammering splintering the mirror even further. Now a million Aurora’s laughed out of the mirror’s surface, mocking Pandora.

“Oh Queen, your plan has failed, it’s true,

Epimetheus, the liar, plots to trick you,

He’ll bring no heart or liver back here,

All this time, Aurora lives on, it’s clear.

Her beauty outshines yours, plain to see

Whilst you wither away in misery.

The only cure, is to end her life,

Recover your status, an end to all strife”

“She will die!” Pandora screamed. “And Epimetheus will suffer for this.”

Hatred, jealousy, bitterness and revenge careered around the room, screeching with malice. Pandora pulled them all to her withered heart, embracing their evil intent. She raced from the room, her mind blackened and determined on a path of destruction.

Hope crept across the cold floor, barely alive.

***

Epimetheus cursed as the horse stumbled over tree roots erupting from the uneven ground. He had been travelling for hours and yet it appeared he had got nowhere. Rain pelted down, drenching him, and fog obscured his view.

He dismounted, and led the reluctant horse along a pathway, only slightly less gloomy than the others. “Come on,” he urged. “There’s no time to lose.”

“No, indeed. I have waited long enough already, Epimetheus.”

The high voice pierced his ears, sending terror rushing through his innards.

Pandora stepped out from behind a withered bush, her face a mask of fury, long nails like poisoned arrows shooting out to grip his jacket collar. Her eyes bored into his very soul, freezing him and draining him of energy.

“Do you have what I desire, Epimetheus?” she said. “Her heart and liver, where are they?”

Epimetheus tried to raise his own arms, to push her away. His youth against her ageing, failing body should not have caused him a moment’s trouble, yet his arms remained at his sides, limp and empty, his throat as dried as a drought-ridden field.

He gurgled as the nails dug into his throat, and then sank to the floor, empty as a corn husk in winter

Pandora stared down at her once-so-handsome husband, her pointed shoe placed over his heart. She pushed her foot downwards slowly, enjoying his terrified gasp for air.

“You thought to outwit me, peasant? Never!” she spat. Then raising her head, black hair flowing, she bellowed to the heavens. “You sent him to me. Now you will deal with him.”

The skies crackled and grumbled with discontent as the Gods heard and acknowledged her demand.

Lightening ripped the sky in two, and a violent wind hurtled down, grasped Epimetheus in its vicious grip, shook him, pummelled him and finally threw him far, far away into the rumbling sky.