Into the dark

Heavy steps echoed on the cave walls, a warning that traveled swiftly through dark tunnels where no light could ever reach.

Thud, thud, thud the God of the dead went, further and further down meandering paths where no mortal would ever dare follow.

Heavy beads of water trickled down sharp chunks of limestone that hung from the ceiling like fangs reaching for a victim. The falling drops pattered into puddles of stagnant water that absorbed them more than let them splash, as if afraid the passing god would punish the insolence of a spray on his shadow cape—a mass of black tendrils weaving around him, making shapes where they touched the cold air, darker than Night herself.

The souls of the deceased retreated deeper in the alcoves they called home and covered their ears with their hands like they did when they were alive, trying to shut out the heavy steps and the raspy death rattle that breathed human-sounding breaths and followed their god everywhere he went. It was in vain. From its gates to its depths, Tartarus was shaking.

Further and further in Hades walked, ignoring the cries of the dead and the earth-tapping custom of their living relatives coming in waves from the surface. Tap, tap, tap. Three calls to the King of the gone, in prayer and in fear, lest he sent for them too. Bloodied knuckles a lot of them wore, sun-kissed skin scrapped from the persistent knocking on the earth to make sure he could hear them.

He recognised all the knocks and he knew most of them to be from mothers trying to plead with him to let their children rest in the Asphodel fields instead of casting them to Tartarus to be tortured and forgotten. Some were from lovers, desperate for their soulmates to know they remembered them and that they still loved them.

It was the lighter sounds children made, though, that seeped into the earth the louder as he walked, from the ones that would soon crossed to his domain, abandoned and alone. One of them sounded fainter than the others, getting weaker and weaker with every knock. Hades focused on that one. His thoughts raced through time defying the limitations unknown to the Chthonic gods and cast them to the life that was coming to an end. In the blink of an eye, Hades knew all that had been.

And then it was no more. Hades stopped and drew a long breath.

“Thanatos.”

Out of the darkness emerged a young man. He was tall and strong and beautiful, save for his eyes, shewn shut by long blood-red threads running from his eyebrows to his cheeks. The wings that convulsed under his hooded cape dragged heavy on the cave floor, leaving a trail of dust and ashes behind him. Black armbands, forged by Hephaestus himself from the metals growing into the depths of Tartarus covered his arms. Detailed engravings ran down to the length of the metalwork, marking the bearer to be a servant of the Underworld.

“Master,” the blind god said.

“Go. Get me the latest one.”

Thanatos opened his mouth, but didn’t say a word. Instead, he bowed and retreated into the dark. Hades remained where he stood.

The sound of wings signaled Thanatos’s arrival. The bundle the God of death brought to his master looked too fragile in his arms. The child was asleep, nestled carefully in Thanatos’s cold embrace. She could not have been more than seven years old—or ten—it was difficult to tell under all the blood and ashes covering her small body. Streams of dried tears ran down her blackened face from the ashes of the burning temple she had died in. Hades could almost taste the snow freezing the ground above him. For a temple of Demeter to be desecrated, nothing less than an avalanche could be expected.

He let his sister to her machinations and turned his attention back to the little girl. Thanatos stiffened when the god approached him, but his expression remained unreadable. Hades placed a massive hand on the little girl’s shoulder and called her name.

For a minute, she didn’t respond. She shifted her weight in Thanatos’s hold and a faint smile appeared on his face. It went as quickly as it appeared when the child finally awoke among the dead. Her eyes darted wildly from the imposing man in front of her, to her surroundings, and finally, to the one holding her, who had the good sense of looking away, lest she noticed his sewn visage.

Hades motioned Thanatos to follow him and made tracks once more.

The girl was taking rapid breaths not realising they were not needed where she was. It would be a while before she would be able to shake off any mortal habit—breathing, for one.

“Calm, child,” Thanatos said to her.

“Where am I?,” she whispered. She wasn’t addressing him or the man walking in front of them, obscuring any hint of the path forwards with this broad shoulders and living cape.

Thanatos stayed silent. That was never a question he has answered. That was a task of Hermes, whenever he was in the mood to indulge, or Charon, but the ferryman never bothered with anything other than his tithe and his oar.

“Tartarus,” a booming voice answered from the front of the procession. He expected the child to cry, but she didn’t. Hades dared a look over his shoulder and the little girl met his gaze and tapped her chest thrice in response.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“We sacrifice many black sheep with my grandpa for you,” the little one replied. “He says we should not speak your name and we should turn our heads away from the sacrifice when we make it. He said it would upset you.”

A chuckle escaped Thanatos, but he quickly reclaimed his impassive expression as his god halted, humphed, and turned to stare him down before walking again.

“I don’t get upset, child,” he said as much to her as to Thanatos, who was now pushing his lips together.

“Then why do we do all that?”

“Nobody knows why you mortals do anything,” he shot back.

Suddenly the caverns seemed to be of great interest to the little girl and she positioned herself more upright in Thanatos’s arms to look around. She didn’t speak again.

Hades walked and Thanatos followed with his little charge until they reached a sole brazier illuminating a fork in the road. The three legs supporting its weight were carved to resemble the legs of a dog and three dog heads circled is body, metal fangs jutting out of gigantic mouths. Two more passages spread out from the brazier; one leading to the left where broken steps stood leading upwards, ancient and ash-laden; and one to the right where a tall stone archway stood, its heavy iron doors forming a three-pointed symbol in their middle.

Hades stopped again and motioned Thanatos to put the little girl down. She shook for a moment before finding her footing and seemed to really notice Thanatos for the first time—his eyes, his wings, how silent his movements were. She took a step back and he took another and straightened his back, standing in full attention before his master.

“This is where we leave you,” Hades said to the girl. “You are to go up the steps. You are forbidden from going back to where we came or crossing over that arch,” he pointed. “I take it you also recognise him,” he motioned to the canine head that stood tall over her. “If you take one wrong step, it is him who will come looking for you. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” Thanatos repeated softly. They both made for the steps.

“Please, wait,” the little girl’s voice called to them. “Please. My grandpa. He was with me. Where is he?”

Hades clinched a fist. A second passed before he replied. “He is in Acheron’s shores, child. No golden coin in his mouth to pay for the boatman.”

“But, but I had no coin either,” she recalled. “We were in the temple. My grandpa is a priest of Demeter. The bad men came and we hid in the offerings room. There are so many coins in the offerings room, all the way up the roof, just take one for him. Please,” she pleaded, voice broken, but no tears were streaming down her face.

Thanatos looked away from her, head down. “He cannot cross the river, child,” he muttered.

“But you came for me,” she insisted. “I didn’t have a coin, but you brought me h-here. Why can’t he come? He is a very good grandpa. And a very good priest!” Behind her the brazier made her shadow dance wildly as she was turning from one god to another. “He loves Demeter, we pray to her every day. She wouldn’t mind, she wouldn’t!,” her voice carried, bouncing on walls that seemed to be closing in on her. “I want to be with him. Please,” she cried. “They say you are fair. Fairer than any other god.” Silence. “It is not fair. It is not fair. Please, Hades!”

With a loud hiss, the fire went out. Darkness, deeper than any darkness the moon could break spread in the cavern. Hades’s eyes shone in the dark. Thanatos’s wings stilled. “Apologise, child,” he blurted. “Apologise for using the name.”

But she was not listening. “You let them live, the bad men who took my grandpa. Why don’t you kill them?”

Hades turned to her slowly. She could not see him, but she could feel the edges of his cloak crawling on her skin. And when he spoke, his voice came from all around her, deep and rumbling and grave.

“It was not their time yet, child.”

The little girl let out a small scream that drowned in the shadows. She fell to the ground and placed her head on her knees and covered it with her arms. “Then, why was it my time?,” she said among phantom tears. “Why was it my grandpa’s?”

“There is always a war waging in your land. And every day thousands die. You are just two in an unending sea of dead that flows here.”

“So, I am alone now,” the little voice said to herself, subdued and defeated. “No one should be alone.”

From where he stood behind Hades, Thanatos let his shoulders drop. The God of the dead needed no reminder of how it feels to be alone. A second passed before his heavy steps echoed once again through Tartarus and the iron doors screeched as they parted open at his command.

Thanatos walked hastily to the little child curled up into a ball on the hard ground and rested a gentle hand on the top of her head. “Welcome home,” Death said and followed his master into the dark.