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Death had not been kind to Charon.
His death had felt like it lasted an eternity- the moment had stretched out before him- he lay on the bed choking on his own blood- half his mind wondering if this instant would ever end- fearing it would- hoping it would hurry up and happen-
The other half of his mind struggling to make sense of what had just happened. Rushing, almost as though his mind thought it was a race- as though he only had these last moments before his demise to figure it out-
Make sense of the fact the man he loved had killed him.
Knowingly.
Willingly.
With nothing but a few lines of cryptic nonsense as an explanation.
His mind had failed at the task.
And then he had died.
To say Charon had not immediately taken it well would be an understatement.
He had screamed, and cried, and cursed the gods, and Prometheus, and himself, for making that promise, for being enough of a fool to trust Prometheus, to love Prometheus- to still love Prometheus-
How dare the world be so cruel that even in death he still love Prometheus?
At least, he supposed, he had eternity to get over it.
eternity to let go.
Hell, he told himself, if he was dead, he supposed he might as well make the most of it and enjoy all that the afterlife had to offer.
Then, of course, he learnt that in death you where not partial to any of the joys and wonders of life, and he screamed and cried and cursed the gods all over again.
And Prometheus, for good measure.
It helped a bit.
But not that much.
Nothing in the afterlife, it seemed, would help that much.
So he cursed and grumbled, and he spent days sitting around and refusing the situation, and then trying to get… back? Out? Somewhere- anywhere- anywhere that wasn’t there, wasn’t grey, wasn’t empty and unchanging and always the same-
And all of it failed, because of course it did. Because no one gets out.
So, after more cursing, and grumbling and swearing, he accepted it, that this was his reality now, that this was his eternity.
He had been killed by the man he loved and cursed him to this existence now he had to contend with that for the rest of eternity.
So he sighed, and he got on with being dead.
Which was mostly aimless nothingness, until he got a job.
As apparently even death isn’t enough to get one out of working nowadays.
At least it gave him something to do all day rather than sit around and hate his (ex)boyfriend.
So, he became a ferryman, the ferryman some would say, trafficking departed souls across the river-
He became a cog in the greater operation- feeding the machine.
And his life was still dull, and mundane and the same brutal nothing- but at least it gave him something else to think about,
And it somehow made the days off, in which he sat around and did nothing but curse Prometheus so much more pleasant then the previous days in which he had sat around and done nothing but curse Prometheus.
He had been sour, at the start- angry and short tempered and cruel.
He had hated the gods, for what they had done to him, and then he saw what they did to everyone else.
He saw the endless sea of souls- saw the mothers, and brothers, and children- saw the young woman clutching a baby which never even had the chance to cry, the little boy, too small to truly understand what had happened to him.
The brothers, who had brought each other there,
The son, struggling to understand how his father could have done this to him.
And then he hated the gods even more.
And he hated Prometheus for sending him here,
And he hated how he still found himself checking, still looking at the incoming souls and trying to spot that promised mark.
He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself it didn’t matter.
He told himself he wouldn’t do anything if he did see it.
But all too often he found himself looking all the same.
Just in case.
Because that would prove it, wouldn’t it? If he saw it- if the story was real, if a man showed up with the mark and it meant something, and it changed something-
It would mean Prometheus had killed him for a reason.
It would mean the eternity he had spent here- doing his best not to remember the touch of Prometheus’s skin against his own, the press of his head against Prometheus’s chest- feeling it raise and fall with the man’s breath- watching the sun rise, basking in the warmth rising from his lovers body…
It would mean it had meant something.
The words ‘I swear it’ would have meant something.
The words ‘I love you’ would have meant something.
The trust would have meant something.
He tries not to think about it. And tries not to look for that damned mark.
Hope is not a curse he wanted to give himself.
So he did his best not to think about it.
He did his best to cling to his anger.
He curses Prometheus and he does not look for the mark.
He drank, although it did him no good.
And he smoked, although it did him no good.
And he just kept… being dead.
He ferried souls.
He became… lower middle management, and did his best to fight off any threats or suggestions that he should move higher,
He watched humanity.
He watched them tear each other apart. Watched brothers who had smashed each other’s faces in over money, or a title, or girl, or gods know what else, get through the afterlife still fighting.
He saw their sorrow, and their cruelty, and their anger.
And it made him feel something.
He took his days off on the river, which had no fish for him to catch but it gave him somewhere to be and something to do-
He ate food which tasted like nothing and drink which tasted like nothing, and he moved souls from A to B, and he found his joy where he could.
And he delt with souls- mostly dead, but sometimes living, and they where all the same- different but the same-
All desperate, and needy, and thinking they where special.
They where the one, who would get out, or who would get in and get someone else out, or find some way to change something, to make something matter, to be the one-
But none of them ever made any difference.
Because how could they?
No one ever did.
So when two more desperate and sorrowful and angry souls showed up he didn’t think anything in particular of it.
He got them on the boat, took them as far as it went, drank his grey, tasteless tea, and waited for them to kill each other.
If he was lucky, they would knock each other into the river in the scuffle, take them both down together and save him the rest of the trip.
And then he was confronted with it.
His first thought, noticing that slice on the boy’s hand, was quite simply, ‘dammit. That fucker was right.’ He had known the mark the moment he saw it- he hadn’t needed anything else- ‘Bloody bastard, how dare he be right.’
He lets himself consider it, for one slight, momentary half a second- what if he didn’t get involved? What if he didn’t do anything- What if he let life (well death) play out as it will, and said fuck it- and didn’t-
But he had promised.
He had sworn- on his life, although he hadn’t intended it-
So, with one last hissed out, angry curse, he does what he never does- and he intervenes, not to hinder but to help.
He saves the lovesick fools life. And he drives him to shore.
And later, as he listens to this man prattle on about his wife, - trying not to let himself realise how much of this man’s love seems to be more about himself than her, all he can think of are those simple words, carved into the sand-
Remembering how it had made him- feel. The way his body had welled up with warmth, and for a moment it was as though he was back, in their bed, - feeling the warmth in his chest, the kiss of the sun on his skin- the brush of Prometheus’s lips against his flesh-
He swears- in that one brief moment- he had just about felt it again.
And that- he knows, even though part of him doesn’t want to- wants to stay safe and settled in his anger, that this made it all worth it.
It hadn’t been for nothing.
It had been for love.
That fucker had been right.
The bastard.