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The sway of the little boat was methodical, the familiar action soothing.
Charon hoped that his quarry might find some small comfort in it.
Half-man, half-bull. The minotaur, men above had called him. A monster to antagonise myth for eons.
His doeish eyes darted fitfully between the boatman and the cavernous, black walls surrounding the river styx. Open palms rose from the reddened ripples, reaching imploringly towards their meagre audience. Asterius eyed them with a childlike curiosity.
Millenia ago, Charon lost count of the number he had ferried down the same path - though he remembered every one. Most thought the close tunnels oppressive, the darkness unnerving.
Asterius regarded it as if it were an open sky.
He could not address the minotaur by name. His ancient tongue, long since abandoned by existence itself, did not allow it. His passenger would never know of how he had come to learn it.
The boatman dug his oar in with a practised grace as he recalled Pasiphae.
The mother’s eyes had been similar, Charon decided. Whether it was their appearance or something behind them… He could not tell. Hers had been afraid, as most shades were. They shed an ocean of tears, as many had both before and since, pleading with the old God with a fervour to which he was well acquainted.
The Queen of Crete had surprised him still. She never once uttered a word in her own defense, only broken pleas for her son. The remains of her dress, once rich ruffled tier of blue and white, hung limp and torn under her clenched fists, rows of pearls falling from her limp curls.
“Please- my son... I beg of you. He’ll be here soon. He’s just a baby-”
She had twisted the ruined fabric, winding herself into a furious panic.
“They won’t let him live. He can’t- he can’t survive like that, on his own. My sweet little Asterius.”
Hiccoughs and coughs broke her speech as snot and tears dripped from her swollen face; no one would suspect her a Queen. Though when she moved to look up at the ghoulish boatman, he realised she was much more.
Nobody looked the ferryman of the dead in the eye. It was a rule as old as time itself. Mortals had tried, whether out of hubris or morbid curiosity, but none had succeeded. His mangled visage repelled them; a stark reminder of what they were. Charon’s very essence carried the mark of death.
His purple eye had fixed on Pasiphae’s own. She was more than a Queen. Much more than a woman.
“He is half-bull.”
She was the mother of a monster.
Her tattered finery had fallen into a puddle on the floor as she threw herself at his feet, clutching at his robes. Charon might’ve easily cast her off. Instead, he let her paw at his hemline and weep.
The Queen of Crete; a woman with countless royal children and titles. She had known luxury like no other, and commanded more magic than most mortals could boast. Yet still, she wept for a beast.
At the feet of another, no less.
He had helped her onto his boat after a time, unable to offer a single word of comfort. Pasiphae had fallen silent then, much like her son. He wondered if it brought her comfort to not see him so soon, to know he must have outlived her predictions. Perhaps not. He had little idea of the machinations of parents.
Seldom had Charon heard a plea of mercy for a monster. What were they, but fodder for heroes?
Dull black rock gave way to shiny obsidian, far sharper and dark. It glinted evilly, like a cavern of blades waiting to swallow up the barge.
The twinkling caught Asterius’ eye. He raised his head, the very picture of a beast ready for slaughter.
A small puff of air flared his nostrils, ring bobbing. Charon saw the ceiling reflected back in the minotaur’s gaze; rather than the usual jagged cave, he saw his mother’s realm.
‘Star-like’. What a fitting moniker.
The bull was trusting, or perhaps accepting of his own fate. He did not fright as they continued ever downward. He took a few more intrepid glances at the boatman, though in the way a prisoner might appraise a gaoler. Charon found himself struck with the sudden realisation that of all his passengers, Asterius had done this before.
All of a sudden, as the air began to fill with the sooty darkness found only in the depths of hell, Charon found himself reminded of his younger brothers. Of their own journeys with him; bright golden eyes lit with the fascination of childhood, heedless of danger. He squashed the thought as quickly as it had arrived.
The ferryman’s arms moved in the same steady rhythm, oar guiding them down to Erebus. They felt like lead.
Who was he, to guide the boat to the other’s eternal confinement? Would Nyx have offered herself for the safety of her most gruesome child?
He would have to be content without an answer.
All too soon, they reached the dock. Here, even the light of Ixion could not touch. Where the air might have been filled with the bustle of afterlife, or wails of tortured souls, there was only silence. It weighed heavy.
The boat stopped and its passenger rose. Dark, knotted wood creaked beneath him as the barge tilted with his shifting weight. Asterius stumbled, unused to the sway of the boat. Without another thought, Charon reached out a bony hand to grab him. He held the minotaur’s arm gently, helping him from the river to the bank as a mother might help a child. Their eyes met; a small look of recognition passed between the two.
A long dead part of Charon’s heart broke as he let go, leaving the bull to the mercy of Hades’ deepest realm. Charon had a home there, amongst the other ghastly creations of the gods. He could only hope that Asterius found his own place easily enough.
Two monsters sailed into Erebus; only one emerged.