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One day -or night- he would reach the surface. He knew it. There would be a successful escaping of Elysium, a time when he would step out of the underworld and would see the sun for the first time. Thanatos had said it’s garish, but he had heard shades speak about Helios’ beauty. Then he would find his mother. One attempt, he would make it. It just wasn’t this one.
Although he had the help of Patroclus from when he met him a few chambers back, the situation worsened as he didn’t manage to evade the nemean chariot, getting nearly run over, his blurred visions filled by the pink butterflies of those vile soul catchers. Maybe he could have stood up again. Maybe he could have rolled to the side. Maybe it was just not meant to be. An arrow of an exalted strongbow hit him right in the neck. The noise that escaped his throat was an ugly wet gurgle.
It didn’t matter how often he died, it wasn’t a matter of his immortality, he felt the pain all the same, every single time. His knees hit the soft grass of Elysium as he choked on his own blood, feeling it fill his lungs, his mouth, spilling over his lower lip, down to his chin and onto his chest. He knew this was the end of this try, but he would have preferred a faster way to go. Couldn’t the damn dead aim for his heart? Where was that chariot? Maybe it could run him over quickly.
And so, the prince of the underworld choked on the crimson blood that run through his veins, it poured over his body and washed over his consciousness. Soon enough, a pool of equally red liquid bubbled around him, as he sank into the Styx.
Back to that damn House then, huh? So be it. He could tell Achilles more about Patroclus. Or hear what Meg had to say about the way he beat her this time. Greet Hypnos and Mother Nyx. Cuddle Cerberus and roll his eyes at his father. If he was lucky, Thanatos would be there too.
But when Zagreus took a breath again, it wasn’t as refreshing as usual. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t name it, but there was something wrong with his whole body. He willed his eyes open and blinked until he could take in his surroundings. It was dark, nearly too dark to see anything. Everything was tinged in red and there was a constant rushing noise that seemed dulled, like it happened behind a barrier. He wasn’t exactly standing, more like floating, with nothing to hold on, no ground to stand or fall on, nothing to grasp. But there was a shackle around his ankle, some metal that didn’t seem to melt through the heat of his foot. He had faced Death (even kissed the very one), he had faced foes, he had experienced violence. But he never experienced this and it scared him.
Before the panic set in, unknown shapes shifted together before him until the swirls formed a woman. A goddess, he was sure, as they tended to emit a certain kind of energy. A goddess as red as the blood in his veins and the flow of the Styx.
Styx. This was Styx. He had known, that the river was more than that, that Styx was a goddess too. He had just never seen her, nor heard of her doings. He could hardly describe her, but her appearance made him shiver, uneasiness settling in his gut.
Her voice had an echo. It seemed old, but it had a rhythm to it like the ripple of the river. It was terrifyingly beautiful:
“Zagreus, once again. You’re always eager to join me, hm?”
He wanted to say something, a greeting, an apology, some praise, he didn’t know. Just, something. She didn’t seem exactly pleased and he got the feeling this wasn’t just a chat to get to know each other. But no sound left his lips as he tried to speak, just another choke, like there was still some blood left there. So he could only struggle for words and look at the cause of this predicament.
“Spare me your words, I’ve had enough. I know you’re familiar with Charon. You know how he charges to bring the souls to your father’s house? He stirs his boat over my river, my being, time and time again, ever and ever, as long as humans die. And they will always die. Did I ever get paid? Not once. But they do respect me. They even fear me. I always feel their sweet fear when they pass. A myriad of broken dreams, guilt and regret. Might I add, mortals and immortals alike all swear on my name and those vows are holy. It means something. I mean something to them all. Except for you, it seems. You, whose blood is similar to my being, you, who know just as much of blood as I do. You, who I should feel the closest to. Instead, I’m just a little part of your journey, hm? Your little way home. Where you immediately leave to throw yourself in my currents again, like this is just a game for you,” her voice changed, from a melancholic thinking into angry spits, “Dying means nothing to you. I mean nothing to you. That gift you’ve been blessed with, the holy ever flowing blood we share, you don’t even think about it. It’s just the way it is, right? Using me again and again. You cannot escape the underworld. But you carelessly and endlessly try nevertheless. Because I won’t mind, right?! I won’t mind bringing you back for the rest of eternity, Zagreus? That’s what you thought? But no. You didn’t. You don’t have thoughts about me. Only about leaving your home. Or coming home. You have thoughts about Charon and Thanatos and Furies. Gifts for the Night and for Chaos itself. But did you ever leave a gift for me? I’m sick of it. You might think blood is yours, but here it is mine. Here you are in my realm. I won’t bring you home ever again.”
With that, she vanished, like the constant swirls of blood that were her body just flowed back into the surrounding river, until it all rushed away. The kind of bubble he flowed in popped. His whole body was grabbed by the race of the river and pulled forward in a violent way, while he was engulfed in the red blood-water of the Styx. Suddenly he was jerked to an abrupt stop, as the chain around his ankle was pulled tight. And there he was. Flowing in the depths of the Styx. He couldn’t see anything, must be deep enough for nothing to reach that far.
What he felt was simultaneously a lot and nearly nothing. There was no air in the river, so he just swallowed gulps of the Styx, it filled his mouth and his nose, a constant burn from his throat to the rest of his body. He knew he was kind of dying. He couldn’t live, here. But he also couldn’t die in the Styx. It was the place that always fixed him up. Where his body healed. Where he was reborn. So now, he was stuck in a place that wouldn’t let him live but where he also couldn’t die. The rush of the river was so strong, it left a burning ache on his body, making it nearly impossible for him to move a limb, just floating. The certainly enchanted metal chain cut into the hot skin of his ankle, but the skin knitted itself together through the healing liquid nevertheless, a constant fight between hurting and healing.
It was such a weird state, a situation of utter helplessness. With no possibility to move, to free himself, no one to call, Zagreus would have certainly panicked. But he didn’t manage a true outburst of emotion. In fact, his whole consciousness seemed quite affected by this unnatural state. He wasn’t alive enough to form a thought, but he wasn’t dead or injured enough to loose consciousness.
It was impossible to measure time, but he gave up on trying to reach the chain with his hands, the current was to strong to move even a finger against it. Maybe he should be glad it wasn’t strong enough to pull off his limbs, but seeing the healing qualities, it might not be possible regardless of the flow. Maybe it would have been a relief to be torn to shreds. He gave up on trying to press his free foot to the metal to see if the added heat could melt it down. He gave up on trying to stretch his arms above, maybe breaching the surface. It was obvious he was way too deep down into the river.
There was nothing to do. And soon, there were no thoughts to think. No plans to make. Sometimes a memory flashed by, of Meg grinning at him or Hypnos’ mean comments. Sometimes he choked even more, when he tried to call the name of his white-haired companion. His mind came up with a picture of Achilles reaching into the Styx and pulling him out, and he didn’t know if it was a wish or a dream. They would surely search for him, right? He didn’t spent a long time home, but his absence would be noticed. Would they think he reached the surface and just decided not to come back? No, they wouldn’t just give up. But they wouldn’t find him here. Styx had never shown herself as Goddess, at least he couldn’t recall. They had neither reason nor indication to look upon the river with suspicion. So they wouldn’t.
He tried to think of his mother. Of the sun he never got to see. Of Nyx’ soothing voice. Of his Father’s hall.
There had been hope the constant pain would dull with time, but it was just that: constant pain. It tugged at his will to fight, but there was no way to fight anyway and no opponent to face. Styx herself seemingly didn’t plan to come back, didn’t plan to visit. Why would she, anyway? She was constantly around him, the ever flowing Styx.
Here you are in my realm.
Sisyphus was punished to eternally roll that stone, but he seemed content with Bouldy. Zagreus was punished to eternally float between death and life in the lonely depths of Styx, certainly not content with anything.
He tried to focus on praying, trying to call every God and Goddess he heard of, even dared and pleaded for Styx to come back, but no one answered.
The slip of sanity is something to go unnoticed, except when you have sane comparisons to make. Zagreus got no such thing. He couldn’t remember if his eyes were open or closed, couldn’t remember how to open or close them, tried but didn’t recognize any difference, as they always burned and as darkness always surrounded him.
Being a child of the underworld, he would have thought to know darkness, but as he tried to picture it, it was full of stars, no, that was not darkness, that was Night. And Chaos was not darkness. It was everything, yet nothing.
Maybe barely ten minutes had passed since Styx talked to him. Maybe it was more like ten years. It could have been a hundred, and there would just be another hundred added to that.
I won’t bring you home ever again.
Where was home? He recalled a blue-haired woman, but couldn’t grasp her name, like she was slipping from his mind. Gods, what he would give to see something blue again. He missed the soft fur of his dog, the one with the heads. With the- heads. How many where there again? Well, more than one. Maybe two. Or more. Or maybe he mixed that up with that… worm? No, that snake. There had been a snake somewhere.
The prince did realize losing it. Losing everything. He seemed to become less himself and more like… just a part of the river. Maybe he was just a little underwater maelstrom.
He tried to hold on to the imagine of Death, stern yet gentle. He tried to remember Achilles’ kindness. He knew there had been tunes, little songs in the hall, but he couldn’t recall a single other sound than the constant rushing. Everything drowned in it, his memories, his identity, his body, except the letter fixed himself to make sure there would never be an escape.
Where was home?
Why did he ever leave it?
Who was his family?
Friendship, love, laughter... all just words now.
He couldn't connect either with a memory, no picture, no sound.
Just red-tinged darkness.
And sounds of the river.
And pain.
The blessing of his blood had become his curse.