Minthe Picture

Minthe was a naiad; a nymph of the water. She was born in the river Cocytus, naked and glorious as a fat pink tadpole, emerging from the hydrogen and oxygen molecules just like magic always emerges from physics.

She lived in the river, permeated it. She could shrug her shoulders and be swept from the northern hills to the deep woods of the south. So she lived, spreading slow as a ripple, until eventually she was the river. Centuries passed, but she never really aged beyond the lively innocence of youth. How can rushing waters grow old?

There is no time when you're a river, since you're always ending and always beginning. But one day something happened. A vast black fog with a man in its center settled over her surface. He knelt on her little waves, gently cupped his hands, and lowered them into her. He drank from the girl who was a river and as he did, she felt all the immensity of Earth and dirt and underworld. Not bad things, beautiful. She knew his name: Hades. And as he cupped his hands to drink again, her lithe white hand leapt up like a flying fish and fell firmly into his. She looked beyond his soft black eyes of fog and saw the golden chariot that hovered in the pure dark air.

Both smiled and she emerged from the river she had been, for a moment was half girl and half mist, taking shape, moving towards some Earthen solid embrace, some warmth. The gold of the chariot shone so much brighter than the bits of sun that used to sparkle over her. Partially transformed, she felt as though she was waking into a lovely dream, she lifted her head to his and closed her eyes expectantly.

Then glaring out from the chariot, Hades's wife Persephone turned her into an herb. In a sudden jealous rage. And now Mint lives in tea bags and toothpaste, flavoring meals and cigarettes, growing out from the earth in millions of shoots, drunk and eaten, digested, absorbed, a crisp clean fragrance loved in a small way by nearly everyone. And her love for that great god of soft black earth continues, keeps her growing ever-new in pretty lime green saplings, feeding on the good rich dirt and drinking the water she once was and becoming, again and again, something solid, totally real, and lovely in a small way.
Nico di Angelo
Death and Circumstance 9 - Pg. 7