Chapter Text
“Take your bow with you, Kallias.” Phano’s voice still lingered in his ears. Phano, his resolute wife, fixed him with her hazel eyes, her hands still in the washbasin, the soaked cloth next to be laid upon their Agathon’s forehead. The hot water would soon cool in the winter air, but the feverish heat of Agathon’s brow would not. Oh, Agathon. Their little boy, not yet a year old. Their beautiful, golden-haired boy. Kallias, the skilled hunter, met Phano’s gaze one last time before leaving, nodded, and took his wooden bow from the wall.
All for this moment. It was a silent, moonless night. Kallias had already placed their finest eggs, garlic, and honeyed wine at the nearest crossroads outside the city, and had knelt to speak the prayers. Hecate Kourotrophos, Nurturer of Children… Have mercy on my child. Kallias did not blame Phoebus Apollo for not hearing their earlier prayers;[1] people said this was a blight from the world below… The hospitable God of the Dead’s temple was no longer peaceful, shades no longer slept but sought to trouble the world of the living. The frail elderly, young children… A strange sickness had lately gripped the households around Ephyra, a deep darkness even the Far-Shooter Apollo’s silver arrows could not pierce.
Now, Kallias waited, leaning against the tall holm oak beside the crossroads. Phano had said, Take your bow. Fear and fire burned in her eyes. She said, If… if some wanderer dares steal the offerings meant for our child before the Goddess of the Crossroads arrives with her black hounds, you shall drive them off with your bow. You shall do this, dear Kallias, father of Agathon. And he said, I shall, dear Phano. Though they both avoided the part about fear—perhaps the hapless, foolish hunter Kallias would anger Lady Hecate with this bold plan before he could even drive off any potential wanderer, and never return home. Yet, it was their only recourse.
Kallias waited devoutly for the earth to tremble, for distant barking and the rumble of bronze bells,[2] but in the darkness there was only the rustle of the old oak’s leaves—until suddenly he heard it. Something was approaching the crossroads. But it was not the sound he hoped for. A god’s arrival always carried the pressure of distant thunder, but footsteps, human footsteps, would sink quietly into the soft earth; the faint sound of cloth brushing against undergrowth was cautious, stoking his anger. It could not be Hecate and her retinue. Phano had said, Take your bow. Kallias turned decisively from behind the tree.
“Away from the goddess’s offerings, you wretched thief!” So cried brave Kallias, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow toward the shadows. For a moment, he believed his judgement correct—the figure moving not far off was unmistakably a mortal shape, one step away from their honeyed wine.
He watched with satisfaction as his shout made the other halt abruptly—then turn. The flickering light of a roadside torch fell upon a face, startled and wary.
Kallias felt his breath freeze in the winter air.
He looked quite young, probably not yet twenty, with the appearance of a winsome youth who might pass the morning market, stop at Phano’s stall of fresh scallions and garlands, and greet her with cheerful politeness. But there was something about him that terrified Kallias. It was wrong, it was… not of the living. His chiton, too thin for deep winter, his skin pale as silver poplar, his bare feet—all seemed indistinct, shrouded in some uncanny mist. But what most confirmed Kallias’s suspicion were his eyes—one shadowed, much like any ordinary person’s, but the other crimson as blood, like flowing, molten iron. They were eyes belonging to the realm of the dead.
It was a moonless night. Perhaps the light illuminating the youth’s face was not from the torch, after all. Everything around them suddenly seemed unnaturally dark. Kallias dared not check if the old oak was still beside him… He was surprised he still had the presence of mind to think that he had likely, certainly, strayed into the space where light and shadow meet at the crossroads.
But he could not show his fear. At the crossroads, fear is boundless darkness. Kallias’s hand tightened on the bowstring. At this distance and angle, the skilled hunter Kallias could make the shot true.
But then he heard a voice, unmistakably from the direction of his arrow’s aim. “Please don’t, sir.” The youth took a step back and said only that. “I… I must not die.”
What a strange thing to say, Kallias thought. It sounded like a plea for mercy, yet he—by the gods, he was clearly a hunter too—Kallias only now noticed the sword in his right hand, its point now lowered to the ground. It was unclear if there was blood on the blade… or on him.
Why, then, hadn’t this shade killed Kallias yet?
Perhaps seeing no reaction from Kallias—meaning, the latter had neither replied nor drawn his bow tighter—he continued urgently, “Your offerings are safe. I mean no offense to the goddess you honor.” He seemed to try for a conciliatory smile, but it came out strained. “To be honest, I thought this was Lord Hermes’s altar.”
That… made a certain sense. Travelers passing by always left a harmless offering to that good-hearted Messenger for luck on the road. Conveniently enough for wanderers.[3]
“It does not change the nature of your act, young man.” Kallias was almost startled by his own bold words. Had he lost his mind? Speaking to an unfamiliar person like this… But his bow had lowered, he didn’t know when.
“True,” the youth replied, shrugging without taking offense. “But that good fellow and his lot are rather… casual about such things, aren’t they?”
It was absurd: he spoke of the glorious son of Zeus as if they were friends.
“Still… I’m sorry for startling you, sir. You… why are you praying here? For mort—I mean, everyone knows keeping vigil at the Crossroads is dangerous.”
Dangerous, of course. More like foolish. Yet this situation was unlike any Kallias had imagined—was this dangerous? He was still breathing… Though perhaps this was all just a vision, his senses drifting from his body. What point was there in being terrified now?
“For my Agathon… my boy.” Kallias did not hesitate long before answering. “A strange illness has taken hold in the city. The priests say the god revered by us… the Host of Many, the Dread Lord of the Underworld, no longer answers prayers. Apollo the Healer seems powerless too. I suppose this illness must be tied to the realm of the dead after all… The Goddess of the Crossroads is the last refuge we can try. Though keeping watch here probably isn’t much different from seeking out death.” Like running into you, he did not say.
“…I’m sorry.” The youth’s face seemed to dim momentarily; Kallias could not read his expression.
“But you know, sir? I think I understand.” When he spoke again, his voice was much lighter, as if a long-concealed vulnerability had finally been unbound. Maybe it truly was a vulnerability—Kallias watched as he turned and drew forward a… oh, a small bundle from his back. “Hey, you sleeping all right, Mel?” he said, looking up with an almost overly eager smile. “This is my little sister.”
Kallias had rarely seen siblings with such an age gap. And yet, he watched the stretched, sharp line of the youth’s shoulders and thought, the older brother is still just a child himself. Where are your parents? Kallias wanted to ask. But then he remembered the inherent illogic of it all; he hadn’t believed the youth was flesh and blood from the start. Even so…
The air fell into silence. Still no barking, no bronze bells. Only the unnamed youth’s hesitant quiet. Kallias began to consider whether he should genuinely express some concern about their circumstances. After all, the youth did look rather pale.
Only… the small bundle seemed determined to announce her presence with utmost force right then. His little sister was about to cry.
“Oh, Mel,” he whispered, sounding utterly helpless.
Kallias inevitably felt he ought to offer some advice, like the many tricks Phano or he himself used to soothe Agathon. But perhaps, well, perhaps it wasn’t necessary… Judging by the youth’s gentle rocking of the bundle, this was clearly not the first time. Anyone knew a baby’s cry didn’t always mean hunger or pain. So why did he still look so lost, so sorrowful?
Kallias wouldn’t ask. But the hunter, who had seen it all, still couldn’t help but think, that perhaps, perhaps when the youth said, I must not die, he hadn’t been afraid of death itself… but of its consequence. Kallias didn’t need to ask further.
“I should go, sir.” After the little girl’s faint whimpers subsided, he finally looked up again. “I… hope your Agathon recovers soon,” he said earnestly.
Kallias swallowed, an ache rising in his throat. A strange warmth welled in his chest. For a moment, Kallias almost began to imagine the youth and his sister truly passing through the city market one day. Perhaps he would pick up a violet garland from Phano’s stall to look more carefully, and then Phano would say, she would say, It’s you… isn’t it? Kallias told me… Please, take these. Two garlands, for you both.
But it was only imagination. What remained clear in Kallias’s mind was that blood-red eye. Once seen, you knew—they did not belong to the mortal world.
“Thank you, kind stranger,” Kallias heard himself reply with equal sincerity. “I apologize for my earlier rudeness. May you travel safely.”
They left, as if they had never been there. And the hunter’s instinct finally returned. Standing at the silent, dark crossroads, which led who-knew-where—to the Underworld or the mortal realm—fear washed over Kallias. He stumbled a few steps sideways, groping blindly, and collided with the solid trunk of the holm oak. Thank the gods, he thought, eyes closed as he pressed tightly against the tree once more. Thank the gods. Now, he only needed to return to his vigil. He had endured enough tonight. Hecate would surely notice his plea before long…
The skilled hunter Kallias opened his eyes to broad daylight. Several sparrows perched on the oak’s lowest branch, singing cheerfully—it sounded almost like mockery. But let them mock. The offerings he had brought still sat intact at the crossroads, not a single item missing. If Lady Hecate had descended to this place later in the night, she must have accepted their plea. Yet Kallias’s dreamless sleep had held no barking, no bronze bells, no distant thunder or shaking earth. Had the goddess truly shown them mercy? Kallias decided to set the thought aside for now. He just wanted to run home, to see Phano and Agathon.
Phano was waiting for him at the door. She was smiling, turning a freshly picked cabbage in her hands, sunlight catching on its thick, green leaves. She said Agathon’s fever had broken around midnight.
“So, did you witness a miracle, Kallias?” She would ask later, eagerly, as Kallias hung his wooden bow back on the wall.
And Kallias would sit on the edge of the bed and draw her close. Their little boy slept peacefully in his mother’s arms.
And he would say, “I believe so.”
Notes:
[1] Apollo’s divine functions include healing. While Asclepius, Apollo’s son, is the primary god of medicine in Greek mythology, I’ve left him out here to keep things simple and stay closer to game canon. Back
[2] Black hounds are a well-known symbol of Hecate. Her arrival at a crossroads is often signaled by the sound of barking and the clanging of bronze. Traditionally, mortals are expected to leave their offerings and walk away without looking back, as making eye contact with the goddess is a major taboo. Here, Kallias avoids looking at the crossroads and instead relies on sound to identify the visitor, meaning he’s trying his best to respect these rules. Back
[3] Both Hecate and Hermes are worshiped at crossroads, but for very different reasons. Offerings to Hecate are solemn rituals meant to ward off evil spirits. For Hermes, it is about praying for a safe journey; people will leave simple foods like dried fruit or honeyed milk, which are often meant to be shared by passing travelers. Back