She came as she always did, alone and barefoot to the edge of the chasm, so close that one would crave to shout look out! The year was on its way to death, as it always was when she came. Or was it that she came, so the year began to die?
          Her hair shimmered, her dress flowed, taunting the world with their beauty. Other living things reached to her: sprouts pushing their way through the dirt, tumbling birds, trees clinging to the edge of the sudden slope. Any darkness would have scurried away, ducking its evil head to please its lord and the bidding of the brightness behind it. The woman knew she was beautiful, she knew the pain she caused the world by leaving, and she lolled in the glory of it.
         The woman came forth to the chasm alone, but there was always the other who trailed behind, weeping and unable to stop the one in front. She dressed in dark colors, the colors of the months to come, the stone within the cracked earth, a mourning mother.
         The contrast of the two was significant: one pleading, one with head held high. One dripping with tears, one who let the other’s tears water the plants, with a smile on her face. One who must stay, and one who must go.
         The moment the sun forsook the land was the moment the plants forsook the woman in white. They would die again, or fall into a sleep so deep only the return of the woman would be enough to wake them. They drew the last living energy from her, through her feet, and one by one left her to the chasm.
         He came when the huntress of the gods was high in the sky, on time as always in his silent chariot. He pulled his horses up when he came to the stones where she stood. He’d wait until she fell, as he always had and always would.
         The young woman wavered, drained of color on the clifftop, her hair hanging, dead. Her dress as a shroud, still as skulls without its wind. The plants thriving around her had backed away, except for the last of the mosses, hidden beneath a heel. Her bare foot stood upon the green, resolute and unafraid. The moss, like a parasite, was unable to stop itself; it gorged upon her liveliness every year until it was full, or she was dead.
         Death always came first, riding his chariot up the slope to catch his lady as her last breath left. Placing his fingers over her breast, he felt the heart stop, the blood slow, her hand and smile fall.
         And always as he had and always as he would, he laid her down and walked to the nearest tree of bloodred fruits. He despised the life within the tree, but would touch it for his lady. He plucked a fruit from the tree, relishing its lifeforce cut. The skin peeled back with a fingernail, the crimson arils exposed on the inside. He’d only touch what he had to, and so he carefully drew out six seeds.
         The body behind him was lifeless, the thirsty plants sated after killing their mistress. He smiled. His lady knew how to train her pets.
         Carefully, carefully, the man from the chariot held the arils in his hand as he walked back to the corpse. He opened her jaw, admiring the perfectness of her mouth even in death. Her teeth were small pearls, her tongue a tulip’s petal. He tipped the seeds into her mouth as gently as he could. Closing her perfect mouth, he thought that there was no world that truly deserved her, not his of darkness nor hers of light.
         The man was still leaning over the corpse when she opened her eyes. The smile returned to her face, and she sat up and kissed her lord before he could step away. He smiled against her mouth, but both knew they couldn’t stay there.
         The man stood, and offered a cold hand to his lady. She took it and rose to her feet. The plants hung still about her, and nothing living moved beside that chasm. The couple walked to the chariot.
         The weeping mother had thrown herself down when the moon had ascended. She had lain there, uncomprehending, unable to come to terms with the ancient agreement among the three. Her daughter was to leave, to die, and not return until the six seeds wore out. Not until half a year was over and everything could live again.
         But now the mother stood, watching the two mount the chariot. As if asleep, she walked to the edge of the chasm, beside the horses and the man with her daughter. She wished to scream again for her daughter to stay, but that was not the agreement’s way.
         The two took their time before departing in the chariot, readying the horses, and, for the woman, adjusting a new pair of shoes. The mother stood beside them, still weeping, still in pain, but the pair ignored her. There wasn’t a place for mothers where they were going.
         Finally, the chariot tilted forward. The mother screamed behind them, but the couple had only eyes to see into night, into darkness and death. Over the edge of the chasm they went, disappearing into the blackness below.