Famously Hungry

A tingle begins at his fingertips, crawling its way down to his shoulder. An eons worth of ache holding him hostage.

The blossomed cherry tree flushes eternally of glistening rosy fruit, and infuriatingly two inches too high to reach with dried out leaves hovering close enough to brush but too far to be gripped.

When Zeus was unhappy, nobody was safe.

Especially not the guy who served them his own son for supper. He would never know his downfall would become legend. Everyone knows the tale of the man punished to never eat or drink again. His tantalising story cruelly keeps him in the depths of the underworld, shackled in chains to its never ending bed.

He had spent a long time stationary at this moment.

The first few years he managed to recall each scar placement or pocket of freckles on the faces of his wife and children. But time blurs memories, soon he could scarcely remember his own daughter's smile. Forgetful even with his wife’s wedding dress.

Sometimes he wondered if Zeus even recalled punishing him, or perhaps forgotten in the millennia that had passed.

A numbness crept down from his trachea, icy waves lapping against his Adam's apple. Thirst burned his throat with unquenchable need, the water calling to him with a cruel sense of humour, he would do anything for it to touch his lips. Even for a briefest of seconds.

Zeus would never be that kind.

He tried not to beg, even on his more desperate days. Forced to mourn when his head dipped to meet the water and it would recede to his waist.

Tantalus didn’t deserve this level of punishment.

Pelops’ death wasn’t inherently his fault. Though when Tantalus served his son’s head on a platter for the gods to tuck into, no one saw it that way. Eternal glory is what he was promised, by giving the gods the entertainment of the century. As soon as Hera’s mouth took a displeased turn he knew there was no going back, Zeus’ fingers snapping before he could blink. Or mutter an apology.

Tantalus used to be a king, now he’s a prisoner.

The water dips in its coolness, sharpening the freeze that wraps around and hits him straight in the middle of his back. It was almost foreign, something that he’d long forgotten existed, “A wave?” Tantalus mutters,

“Not quite.”

He flinches so abruptly he fears for his immortal heart, battered and bruised, that it may leap from his chest. Tantalus was long used to silence, too familiar with the sound of his own voice. This was new, fear was it? or excitement thrumming through his now again beating heart.

“Eager to hide your face King Tantalus?”

The receding water still holds him in place, a shiver to his limbs. “This is but a mere dirty trick from above.”

“He did not send me. I’m here because fate allows it.”

“Liar.”

Her voice is heavenly, angelic in soft dulcet whispers. Siren-esc with the tune it carries,

“I’m no liar.” The waves now lap and weave between his bare ankles. Moving with such quietness, “I could almost be a friend, if you allow it.”

He whips around with an unsteadiness to his speed, the cold air kissing the naked skin that was usually caged. Metres ahead, bashfully dipping her toes in the water, was the most beautiful woman Tantalus ever laid his eyes on. A ridiculous notion considering the length he had gone without seeing another. Longing for food and dying of thirst were nothing in comparison to this hunger.

“Are you real?” He asks, desperately wishing it to be true. Her eyes flash golden in a way even the wildest of his previous treasures couldn’t rival. “Of course my lord, I promise.”

His chain links clink together underwater, inhibiting him from taking his desired steps. It was mean, dangling human connection bitterly close. Especially one with a curved painted pink smile that warmed up every forgotten bone that had trapped itself over the years.

He cannot help it but look like a fish out of water, “You are here to help me? Truly?”

She nods, kneeling to the ground and wetting her flowered dress. The metal around his ankles loosens, her hands twisting to free the weight of his punishment.

“Oh.” Tantalus gulps, taking a small step. A king does not cry, but a prisoner? A prisoner may do so.

“Freeing?” The woman asks, a knowing squint to crease in the corner of her eyes.

“You would not be able to imagine.” He croaks, “The feeling of being trapped in such a way. For so long. Look, I can even twist them now.” His laugh is scratchy as he shows off the newfound ability to roll his ankle.

Tantalus reaches out for the woman's outstretched palm, the contact as electric as one of Zeus’ own lightning bolts. “Thank-you.” He says, sincerity coating his words, watching their point of contact half expecting to see the small shocks themselves.

“For rescuing you?”

“No, well yes, that too. It is just that even while I was alive not many were kind to me, but your touch is gentle and–” He pauses, “Nice.”

She leads them both to shallower grounds, “Fate wishes it King Tantalus. A terrible man would not expect it, though it is strange, you used to be thought of most fondly.”

His knees almost buckle when he leaves the water, weak muscle too used to the liquid’s feather weight effect, “Many liked King Tantalus. My true form, Atys, was less beloved, or known.”

A good ruler did not always make for a good man, there had been plenty of time for him to reflect on that down here.

“Through here.” She nods to the small oval hole cut out in the cave wall, “I will follow you to the other side. There is hope for your freedom."

It is strange, the want to turn around and bid goodbye to this torment, his home. Tantalus briefly closes his eyes, what foolishness it is to have an emotional farewell with a place designed to punish you, he curses in his native tongue.

She chuckles from beside him, “Now that is a good one.”

“I have had millennia to think about it.”

“Of course, still brave to curse him.” She gazes above,

“He deserves every word, every sentiment.” Tantalus spits, the caged side of his coin flipping affront. Anger was something he had lost weeks, perhaps months into his imprisonment. A loss he mourned as acceptance and submission took hold, it was good to feel his old friend again. “Not every god is a saint, and the pain I wish upon him would be a blessing on us all.”

The woman hums, “There are many who would agree, and disagree with you, but you are correct. Saintliness is reserved for a select few.” She leans forward, pushing his ample torso through the gap.

On the other side was something he had previously thought as intangible.

It was heaven. It was home.

Sipylus, his beloved city, in all its glory.

White washed marble stained the sand beneath it, four pillars wrapped in gold struck an imposing sight. Heavy in their presence, tucked away from birds eye view, just as he’d ordered. Millennia ago.

Here, in his city, it didn’t seem like it had moved in time at all. Subjects wandered around the marketplace, trading silk for spices. Leaning into whisper secrets they ought not to know, about gods and prophecies, in exchange for wheat or slices of expensive meat. He’d had a man strung up for less, but an eternity of nothing makes him itch to smile at the hustle and bustle of his home.

Naturally his mind jumps to his beautiful boy, who loved to weave through the low stands. Whose bronze curls peaked out beneath his oversized helmet he never quite got to grow into. He wills himself to move on, there is no use to dwell on Pelops. Tantalus forbade himself to remember him early into his imprisonment.

His mood sours, it was a long time since he had recalled his butchering. “Is this real?”

“Yes and no.” She whispers, inches from his ear. “The real Sipylus still carries on above. In the Manisa province of Turkey, this one you see here is frozen in time. Just for you.” She pauses, looking him up and down. “I do think you would benefit from the fresh fruits, filtered water and natural sun the real one provides. I mean no harm but you look a small bit ghastly.”

“You could just lie, your honesty is harsh.” He tries to ignore how much worse the hunger gnaws at him out of the water, “I would do anything to go back, to feel something other than this.”

“Hungry aren’t we.” She flashes her pearly whites, shaming his own which are fuzzy, and rotten to the gum, “That makes this easy, I only need one thing for you. A small matter really.”

If he wasn’t so worried about getting back up Tantalus may have dropped to his knees there and then. “Anything, truly.”

“Give him your forgiveness, pledge your loyalty.”

“No.” He shakes his head, “Anything but that.”

“Those are the terms.”

He wishes he had drowned in that water, “I thought you were here to help me. You said he had not sent you."

She tilts her head, as if she was confused. "No, the fates did. You wished to be free, I'm offering you the door."

His heart slows back to the deathly pace it had been set at for the last few centuries, “I do not want that door.” He will not cry, not with him there to catch the knowledge on the other side. “He does not get my loyalty. You were foolish to think I'd consider it even with the fates involved."

The woman hums. A familiar rhythm lodged deeply in the back of his mind that has his eyebrow twitching,

“Of course.” He balls his hands into fists, “Zeus would send one of his favourite muses.” Her eyebrows flicker upwards, but her surprise quickly disappears, the mask sliding over her young pensive face.

“Clever, you were King for a reason I suppose.” She glances over to his old temple, “It is a shame you cooked Pelops up for the gods before you could cement your legacy.”

He inches forward, only to be stopped by a weight on his ankle. Tantalus almost snarls at the metal shackling him to a new home. “Zeus knows precisely how that all actually went down.”

“Even after forever stuck down here you’re still unwilling to realise your own mistakes.”

“Your king is the reason.”

“Pelops tells differently.” She smiles wickedly. Calliope no longer looks angelic as Tantalus trips backwards over his weighted foot. She wears the curve of a cruel smirk, a devotion to deliver evil shining in those famously golden eyes. It’s bewitching how she looks so at home delivering such a cruel devastating blow.

“That can’t be. They ate him.” He grits through clenched teeth.

“Even Zeus takes pity when men like you serve their children up for a feast. Especially when you gloat about it mid-bite.”

“We remember the story differently.” He says bitterly.

“Still stubborn.” Calliope sighs so heavily as if she thinks he’s wasting her time, “I’d heard of a great man once, arrogant and foolish, but unwavering in his love and loyalty. I hoped to meet him down here, not the madman they described.”

She stares at him, perhaps expecting to see somewhere the man who had biceps thrice the size of most men in Sipylus. Who was bathed three times a day and held countless lovers. Her face twitches, disappointed, when all Tantalus can offer is this ragged dirty form of himself.

“We’ll return sometime, I wish you to find some courage to offer an apology. I know others that would like to see it.”

“Wait.” He stumbles upwards against his chains, “You’re leaving me here?”

She looks at him blankly, “Zeus does not offer second chances freely, the fates even less so.”

His mouth opens wide, gaping in a way that was uncouth of a former leader. “Calliope, I beg you not to leave me here.” He clasps his hands together, “It is not right and you know that. The lesson has been learnt.”

“His will is his own, only fools disobey Zeus.” She fishes a dagger from behind her back, dragging it down the cloth where the sky had previously been, cutting a jagged line into the material. “That is why you are still here King Tantalus, and I can leave. Goodbye.”

Any warmth injected into this place leaves as Calliope steps through the tarp.

Tantalus falls heavily onto his knees, and wails to the sky. None of his subjects notice him, walking past him as if he were a mere ghost. He screams, and claws at his own body. This place wasn’t a replica of his own city, it was a memory.

At first it's passable, pleasant to observe people interacting with one another. Pressing their bodies together, sharing secretive smiles. Much better than that hideous tree even as he wallows in the grief and relief of his son’s apparent life.

It only took a day or two for the anguish to kick in, for his heart to mourn the other hellscape. Physical punishment was numbing in ways his brain never truly had time to process. Here, all he is, is reminded of what he missed out on. A sacrifice that need not have been made, and the knowledge Pelops survived to know of his betrayal.

“Damn you Zeus, to eternity! You know what you have done.”

He was so hungry.

Olympus, millennia ago.

“Pardon my lord?” Tantalus breathes, head bowed and knees to the ground. Above Zeus lounges in his throne, engraved egotistically with victories of his children’s battles, most famously that of the weasel Hercules wrapped in a bloodied Nemean skinned fleece.

“Surely your reign as King has not diminished your hearing Tantalus.” The lord of the sky plucks another grape from the bunch, throwing it up into his mouth, “I only ask for your eldest child.”

“An awfully large request.” Tantalus says, “I am sure we can find something else to your taste.” The air collects with humidity, he almost coughs breathing in its density.

“No, my mind is made.” Zeus decides steadily, nonchalant as if he was picking a new play for Apollo to construct, not sentencing Tantalus' eldest to death.

“It has been too long since I last played a trick on the twelve. You would not believe their arrogance this last century. It will be so delightful to watch as they tuck into their feast.”

Tantalus' stomach turns as he tries his hardest not to expel anything onto the feet of the world’s mightiest deity. “My lord please, I never ask for much, but I beg you to spare my son’s life.”

Thunder claps in the distance.

“Do not defy my will now Tantalus. You are one of my more favoured sons, I would hate to have to kill your whole family and strip you of your title to remind you where your place is. The feast is in one week, do not make a mockery of me.”

With the flick of his wrist, and the emptiness of a blank face, Tantalus finds himself back in his palace bed chambers. Drowning in the finest silk. A week later he abides Zeus’ wish and delivers his boy to one his father’s keepers. Watching helplessly as the blame is passed to him to face the wrath of eleven angry Olympian gods.

“It is not fair.” He croaks, folding into himself, awaiting the latest cycle of his eternal starvation.