I like to experiment with writing. Possibly a little too much. I've written from every point of view (2nd person is fast becoming my favourite though-it makes me think more about who my characters are); I've written in past, present,... Continue Reading →
The earth is shaking. People are being tossed around like pebbles on a drum, but the screaming has stopped. The world is bathed in silence, as its people bear witness to the destruction forced upon it by the Sisters. They remain silent as volcanoes erupt in the far west, lighting up the world like a strange sunrise. The lava flows from it like liquid fire, but still no-one moves. You can’t even hear their breathing any-more, and in the midst of the destruction, there is a beautiful serenity to be felt. Peace has swept over the earth; the madly boiling rivers are the only things to move, as they start their journey upwards, and away from the frozen scene.
First Deino strikes. A wave of dread hits the earth, causing the stars to tremble in the sky and their light to fade, bathing the world in grey. Plants start to die, and the oceans suddenly become calm. The birds in the sky turn black and stop singing, each one turning into a raven, an omen of death, wheeling above the world with no wind to support them. It is deadly calm.
Pemphredo is the bell that sounds in your head when mischief is afoot. She is the one who whispers in your ear that all is not right. She is both good and bad; the poison and the antidote; the right and the wrong. She has no followers, for who follows the one who will alert both themselves and their victims to the danger. Who wants to wield a double edged sword like her, when they can worship Horror or Dread, who’s intents are clear. Who worships someone who can abandon you, at the critical moment, to an unseen danger. So she is alone, and she is therefore bitter. Bitter towards her sisters; bitter towards the human race; bitter towards the gods who create her. Pemphredo is unseen, unheard, unknown; not worshiped, yet depended on by all.
Clad in saffron robes, splattered with blood, it is not hard to guess Enyo’s meaning. She is the giver of Horror, the Waster of Cities, and she delights in it. She has not the longing for death of her sister Dread, for each sister is plagued by her own meaning, and Enyo has no dread of the future to hold her back, just a horror of the present and of what has already happened. The horror of innocents is the sweetest of tastes, and she savours it whenever it is available, for as with their eye, the sisters share but one tooth between them. It does not help her feed on food, but on what her power causes, and she delights in this small freedom each day.
She’s been grey for as long as she can remember, from the moment of her birth, and will be until the moment of her death. When death comes at last, a sweet release from the dark world she lives in, time will reverse itself, to an era that has never been before. When death comes at last, the darkness that surrounds her will fade, and light will blossom. When death comes at last, her crooked back will straighten, her hair will fade from grey to black, and her cheeks will bloom with the delicate pink of the youth that she was denied. But that will not happen yet.
When I wrote it this was my longest story, and even now it's up there in the top five. I have a long standing obsession with Greek mythology, and when the opportunity came up, I decided to write about some of the least known figures I could think of. The Grey Sisters are best known for being the women who Perseus stole from in order to find the location of Medusa, but they have been distorted hugely, so I feel the need to clear this up now: I am not writing about the Fates of Greek mythology, so please don't expect there to be scissors or looms or anything like that.