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Acheron. What a fitting name.
In Ratio’s home planet, it referred to a minor river flowing into a lake. It is a small river at hardly sixty kilometers long, but tied to it are rumors much larger than life. They speak of it flowing through thick fog, dark gorges, and leading underground into a whole new domain far removed from human eyes yet serving as their ultimate destination all the same. Acheron is the name given to one of the many gates leading into the Underworld, where souls are ferried across as they pass from the realm of the living to the realm of the dead. Acheron is the name given to the principal river of Tartarus, from which the Styx, the Cocytus, the Phlegethon, and the Lethe branch out from to form the five infernal rivers.
In today’s Penacony, it refers to an Emanator of Nihility. She is the undertaker of lost souls, the ferryman Charon bringing them across a sea of nothingness until they reach their final resting place. Acheron is the name given to the false Galaxy Ranger who slashed across the Dreamscape’s illusion, sending one particularly lucky soul deep into the dark depths of the Nihility. The waters there are thick and pitch-black; they flow like tar and stick to your skin as you trudge along. The sheer cold digs its frigid claws into you, sinking all the way down to the marrow of your bones as it begs for you to stay.
The river Styx is the river of hatred, of abhorrence, of contempt; it is a fitting moniker for the sea of Nihility, whose path is paved by an Aeon so very apathetic towards the very concept of life itself. To view all existence as meaningless is an interesting philosophy, and is not one without merit. After all, everything will return to dust, to nothingness, to the inviolable waters upon which the dead find home.
Nihility is inevitability itself; it is the primordial abyss that will swallow all at the end of time. Should you glance at it prematurely, it will take you prematurely too: starting from your thoughts, to your reason, then to your very will to live.
Veritas Ratio has braved the sea of Nihility once, and he'll do it again. Except, this time he has company... or so he hopes.
"I trust that you are there, Aventurine."
Silence.
It is no surprise. When Ratio came across the Emanator right after that brilliant red lit up the artificial night sky, she spared him no wasted words. She already knows that he is a man informed, a man prepared, a man experienced. She slowly held her blade up, and he quickly closed his eyes. There is no pain. There is only the promise of a reunion.
When he opens them, he is already knee-deep in the dark river. She stands before him, made up of whites, blacks, reds, and a single teardrop running down her face. And yet, not even an Emanator’s true form can distract him from the familiar presence standing right behind him. Out of instinct, he attempts to look back. He is stopped by a firm grip on his shoulders.
Acheron gave him one warning. Four words, foreboding.
“Do not turn around.”
Ratio doesn’t need it. He knows firsthand the way the Nihility sucks you in, draining you of everything that makes you who you are. He knows firsthand the way the waves push you around, drowning you in the sea of nothingness until it is all you know. He knows firsthand the way the abyss gazes back, destroying you from the inside out until you cease to be.
Orpheus, the first fool. He knows how the myth goes.
He was a man of many talents, of unparalleled skill and prowess. With his father being Apollo and his mother a Muse, he was born with a penchant for music that no mortal man could rival. His lyre could soothe beasts, and his voice could charm enemies. At the end of the day, however, he is still human. He is still so very human, and he falls in love with a woman named Eurydice.
When an untimely death befell her after their wedding, he was stricken with grief. He had done what no other man could, and descended into the Underworld to find her soul. He bartered with Charon to be ferried across the waters, charmed the three-headed dog Cerberus that guarded the gates and humbly prostrated himself before Hades and Persephone. He played a performance so mournful that it had convinced the gods to defy death. They allowed him to take Eurydice back to the realm of the living, on one condition. She must walk behind him, and he must not turn around.
It is a simple task, on paper. It is a simple task, if one is not in love.
But that is the prerequisite, is it not? For it takes a man in love to withstand the Underworld and come out unharmed. For it takes a man in love to face the gods and walk away with their mercy. For it takes a man in love to save his dearest; for it takes a man in love to be unable to save his dearest.
Orpheus turns around.
"Can you hear me, gambler?"
Silence. It is filled only by the sound of his own footsteps.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he hopes he’s travelled far. Hope is all he can do, all he can keep at the bottom of Pandora’s box as he faces Nihility’s despair. Short-lived seconds and momentary minutes are quickly lost to the void; there is only the sensations of the present keeping him going.
The river is shallower here, leading up a gentle slope to guide him to the shore. He can hear the slosh of his legs trudging through the thick waters, can hear the splash of the currents as he goes against them, can hear the squelch of his sandals with each wet step.
And yet, Ratio cannot hear Aventurine’s footsteps. He cannot hear his little remarks, his lighthearted teasing, his beautiful voice. That is perhaps the most maddening thing of all, but he will prevail.
For he is Achilles, a mere infant when he was first brought to the barren shore of the Styx by his mother Thetis. For he is Achilles, his juvenile cries hushed by the welcoming waves as she dipped him into the river in a bid to make him invulnerable.
For he is Achilles; for Ratio has braved the sea of Nihility once, and he’ll do it again.
"Say something so I can hear you." So I know you are still there.
Silence. It is loud, but it is not an answer.
He grits his teeth and presses forward. He keeps his eyes trained on the darkness ahead, but he cannot deny that he glances at his peripheral vision every so often. He keeps his ears peeled for the ripples around him, but he cannot deny that he strains his hearing in case he misses a light footstep from behind. He yearns to feel Aventurine, to find out if he is there, to hold him close and tuck him away from the universe that has only hurt him.
Still, he does not turn around. But it is a matter of when, not if.
For he is Achilles; for, notoriously, Achilles has a heel. It is where Thetis held him as she lowered him into the Styx, left undipped and dry. It is the only part of him that remains vulnerable, the only part that of him that can be injured.
A small weakness. A fatal one, if the vengeance of Paris was anything to go by.
The calamity of love is inevitable. It is slow, it is gradual, and it is so very sure of itself. It is like cloying honey seeping into the crevices of his being, mending the broken pieces together until it is a unified body made to care for what he holds dear. It is like saccharine syrup leaking into the machinations of his mind, rewiring the circuits until it is a single system operating under the sole command of his pining heart. It is a primal undoing, and it brings forth the sweetest of destructions.
And oh, does Veritas Ratio let himself be ruined.
“Give me a sign. Any sign.” Give me anything, and I will give you the world.
Silence. It is a sign in and of itself, it says.
Ratio suddenly comes to a stop. He half-expects Aventurine to walk into his back, to let out that little grumble and whiny complaint that comes so very easily. Or maybe he will sidestep him with ease, playfully smacking his arm and teasing him about getting distracted. Ah, but of course he doesn’t. Even constants have exceptions; even a broken clock is right twice a day.
He is a man informed, a man prepared, a man experienced. But what use is it all, now?
What use are eight degrees if none of them teach him how to love properly? What use are multiple publications if none of them write down and immortalize his unspoken affections? What use are miracle serums if none of them can mend Aventurine’s broken past, can heal his heartbreak, can save him from himself?
Orpheus may be the first fool, but Veritas Ratio is the biggest one of them all. It is almost laughable how pitiful, how weak he is not in the face of Nihility but in the face of love. When he first read the tragedy long ago, he quickly scoffed at the display of folly. He declared that he would simply not turn around, that he would not succumb to temptations. Now that he is faced with a similar predicament, he isn’t so sure. In fact, he only wonders how Orpheus lasted so long.
He knows how the myth goes. They always did say that history repeats itself.
“Say something.” He whispers, like a prayer. “Please.”
Silence.
Veritas Ratio strictly operates on logic. There are few things in this world that cannot be explained, and even emotions are their own branch of irrational rationality. He acknowledges as much; he just didn’t expect to be an example.
Logic dictates that Ratio knows of the myth. Logic dictates that Ratio knows not to turn around. Logic also dictates that because Ratio cares, because Ratio can't stop caring, he will inevitably turn around.
He is a man of many talents, of unparalleled skill and prowess. He had done what no other mundanite could, and dipped into the boundless river Styx not once but twice. He approached an Emanator all by his lonesome, offered one dream death to the vast abyss and humbly prostrated himself before the very void itself. He showed a determination so unfaltering that it had convinced the Aeons to defy death. He was allowed to take Aventurine back with him to reality, on one condition. He must walk behind him, and he must not turn around.
It is a simple task, on paper. It is a simple task, if one is not in love.
But that is the prerequisite, is it not? For it takes a man in love to brave the sea of Nihility and emerge unscathed. For it takes a man in love to meet an Emanator and be granted a favor. For it takes a man in love to save his dearest; for it takes a man in love to be unable to save his dearest.
To love Aventurine is to face cosmic horrors unperturbed, if only for a chance to bring him back safe and sound. To love Aventurine is to falter at every little step, if only to worry about his state of being. To love Aventurine is to seek his touch, to listen attentively, to look at him with all the fondness he can muster.
To love Aventurine is to turn around.
Veritas Ratio turns around.