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“It appears that Achilles has taught you reasonably well, if you are standing here before me. Though perhaps Elysium’s champions have lost their luster.”
Father’s timbre is reflected in the ripples of the placid pool of water in front of him; he looks onto Lord Uncle Poseidon’s realm, rather than confronting me as I emerge from the Temple of Styx. A chill races down my spine, though for anticipation or of the gusts overhead, I cannot say. “Asterius is a fine opponent. Theseus, however, I could do without.”
He finally turns to face me, draped in a thick, regal cloak. “I see you have roused Varatha from its slumber,” he scoffs. “I do not know what you have done to it, that... glamour, to make it appear that way.”
“Oh, this? It’s just the spear of Achilles. The one that vanquished thousands before he fell?” I explain. “I anticipate it can vanquish one self-important god.”
“Hmph.”
And with that, the pleasantries end. Even though we’re on the surface, Father’s dominion still reigns— the breeze dies out and the air goes stagnant. Even the abundant, looming pine trees, as the Codex calls them, seem to collapse inwards like an imploding temple. He tosses his cloak aside, but it flares into ashes before landing on the ground. Gigaros, Varatha’s much larger cousin, materializes in his hand.
He lunges to close the distance between us, three barbed tines reaching out like gnarled and vicious hands. I shed the blow, the tip of the furthest prong shredding my tunic, and counter with a flurry of jabs, pole flickering in my hand in a figure-8. The air hums and glows pink around us; Father’s attacks slide off of me, hardly blemishing my skin.
“Damned Aphrodite,” he growls, before cutting his onslaught short and disappearing.
His presence still reverberates in my head, a low, mocking chuckle. It swirls around me and becomes clearer as one of his skullstones burrows in the space between my shoulder blades and embeds itself there. In my distraction, I back up into a crumbling column and serve myself up to Father; he takes advantage, pinning me to the stone through my ribs and erasing the skullstone from existence in the process.
I duck through the gap he creates when pulling his weapon back, and struggle to create distance. For every three steps I take, he only requires one to fall upon me like a pack of vermin. Rather than continue my fruitless struggle, I run towards the water and call upon Lord Uncle Poseidon. He imbues my every step with the power of the seas, sending a forceful tide with each bound. Father struggles against it, but instead retreats again.
“Wretches of the Underworld, rise and fulfill your contract!”
Four summoning circles appear around him—suddenly, he’s flanked by a quartet of pompous Brightswords, who brandish their blades and flash toothless grins in my direction. Their smiles stretch unnaturally, the consequence of far too much time battling for glory in Elysium.
A shiver travels up my arm and I feel a light frost creeping up my fingers. I can’t say I’ve known Lady Demeter to be patient. Ice swallows the spear as I send it hurling through the air; it lands with a burst that traps the Brightswords where they stand. It makes for a simpler disposal, each swipe of Varatha shattering them into translucent shards.
They make their desperate attempts to return to the land of the not-so-living, Disarmed Souls channeling the spirit of ethereal weapons. I send the souls back to Elysium in between haphazard parries and counters as I dance around Father.
I charge towards him, hands wrapped tightly around Varatha’s golden pole, knuckles the color of the powder melting beneath my feet, ready to bury it deep in Father’s gut and send him back to the House. Gigaros sails overhead, breezing through my hair as I attempt to deflect its flight with Achilles’ spear. He must see the amalgamation of excitement and fear in my eyes, and yet he refuses to move.
Instead, he crosses his arms across his chest and grunts, “Foolish boy.”
My momentum is cut short by something clutching my ankle. I turn to see Gigaros shattering a Soul Vase, releasing a cacophony of tortured screams, all reaching to clamber from the depths of Tartarus up to the surface. One of them holds me down, a lead sinker in the River Styx, as a sharp breeze cuts past my face. More than just a breeze, I fear, as warmth pours over my cheekbones and collarbone.
When I look back up, Gigaros is firmly situated in Father’s hand. I heave Varatha, a last-ditch effort to escape, to fend off death when I’m so close to my goal. It hardly touches him, glancing off the glittering rings on his fingers, as if he had brushed it off with a mere gesture. A sudden burst of searing heat sends me staggering into the clutches of more shades.
I call Varatha back and—my chest erupts in pain, and Achilles’ spear clatters to the ground as it slips from my grip. The spirits from Father’s Soul Vase finally take their leave, as I’m dragging my fingers through the snow, vision blurred from the brunt of Brimstone.
Father stands over me, Gigaros lofted high above his head. “Nobody escapes the Underworld, boy. Whether alive…” He drives the spear through my clavicle and into the earth below. A carpet of crimson bleeds out onto the stones, sullying the stark white coating of the surface. “Or dead.”