The vines retreat, depositing the remnants of a sheep onto the desert sand. 

[i]Off you go.[/i]

Still. And quiet. Soft. And broken. Beside him, a shuddering mass of vines. His ears ring too loudly for him to hear her cries. Between them, a space of sand and flowers. He does not cross it. The distance does not shrink. Too small. Too soft. Before him, a goddess, terrible in wrath. In her hand are torments beyond counting or comprehension. Her gaze falls around him. Too small. Too inoffensive. Gone, for all purposes that mattered. 

He does not plea for mercy. He does not permit a sound. With every jerking, shaking twitch of his arm, his body ignites anew. He bites back every voice of pain, and they rip through his heart in their desperation to escape. Slowly. Carefully. He cannot disturb her. He cannot disturb his work. He is small. He is inoffensive. The only sign of his presence is that which he intentionally leaves. In the sand, traced in a trembling finger, a bloody thunderbolt.

A little zap. A tribute of lightning, just enough to send a wisp of smoke skyward.

“Zeus…” His voice is dry, rasping, desperate. It reaches Demeter’s ears only in passing. “The right of offense…is yours. Are you…upset? Has my wife…insulted you so?”