A/N: Inspiration strikes so curiously. I've always loved mythology, then I ate a pomegranate, and one thing led to another.

She has always been loved, and lonely.

She is a goddess, but the name means little to one who walks ever in another world, for one whose mother is so much of earth. Her mother, harvest, bright and whole, wide of heart and hand, begging her to stay.

To stay, before she ever dreamed of leaving.

(But she dreams.)

He has followed her always, a shadow of watchfulness. She knows the cloak of his coming and the weight of his desire. She runs and she runs, but he is never far away. She can see him in the twilight, hear him in the empty call of the wind.

When she turns to see him, he is beautiful and cold, and she wonders if she should be afraid.

At last, he comes in splendor, dark and terrible. She is not frightened until his hand reaches for hers.

But there is longing behind the fire in his eyes, and so she leaves behind the birds and the meadows, the calls of her mother, and the dreams she does not remember when she wakes.

He does not ask her to stay. Not in words.

(She knows.)

Return, return, her mother's plea reaches her like a heartbeat.

She is lonely, and loved, and perhaps this is all she can ever be.

He offers her fruit like jewels, his hand round hers like a promise.

It is beautiful; red and glowing. So living, in this quiet world.

She tastes, and death is sweet on her tongue.