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The Myth Weaver
Homer’s story ends the way all do—in death.
The Underworld is a place without color; a black realm that cocoons the dead in suffocating darkness. Jagged shale crunches beneath Homer’s bare feet.Which shore is this?He turns his gaze left, then right, squinting through the gloom for the ferryman. Charon, the daemon tasked with bringing souls to their final judgment.
One more hurdle, then I will stand before the god of this realm.Homer daren’t thinkhisname; lestheappear and declare Homer insolent.
In death, Homer fears Tartarus more than he had in life.
Silence deafens Homer. His heartbeat pounds out an intense rhythm while he glances across the vast and empty realm. Nothing catches his eye beyond a dense fog rolling over the top of the water. Homer keeps his distance from the river’s edge, knowing better than to brave waters infested with souls.
A creaking sound breaks the silence. The groan of wood—age and neglect in the reverberation—catches Homer’s attention. He doesn’t have to strain to hear the rhythmic thump of an oar knocking against the side of a small vessel. Though Homer knows what to expect—having educated thousands by weaving stories of the gods—he shivers as the robed figure comes into view.
Charon’s boat, a blackened, rotted wood, bumps the shore. Shale clatters beneath the vessel’s hull as the boat banks on the river’s edge.
“Homer.” Charon’s voice is kind; the opposite of his fierce demeanor. “Do you have the toll?” Charon holds out a hand—paler than bone—from beneath the long black arm of his linen robe. Palm up, in expectation.
Homer, well-prepared by the pupils who served him, retrieves two golden coins from his pocket. They say that gold is Hades' favorite coin; a return of wealth to the dominion from which it sprang. Homer, like many before him, hopes to spend his eternity in the Elysian Fields with the heroes of old. Hades does not grant entry to those who cannot pay their toll.
Charon accepts Homer’s payment without a word, pocketing the gold while waiting for him to climb aboard.
The journey seems long—hours pass, or so Homer assumes as they travel past miles of gloomy shore.
In the distance, Homer can hear the rumbling growls of Cerberus. The legendary three-headed guardian stands sentinel before the entrance, and exit, of the Underworld.
Fear courses through Homer when they arrive at the foot of an obsidian palace. The belfries are massive; spiky and violent spires dotted with the dull gleam of strange materials, reminiscent of watchful eyes.
“This is as far as I go.” Charon says, breaking the stillness surrounding them. “You must make the rest of your journey alone.”
Homer climbs over the boat’s side. He stumbles on slippery shale as his feet touch the ground. While steadying his legs, Homer hears Charon depart.
The ferryman leaves him alone at the entrance of Hades' glassy palace. There is no resistance, not a single being to stop Homer as he makes his way inside. His feet create sound, but those sounds do not return. Echoes lost in the oblivion that fills Hades' realm. Darkness clouds Homer’s vision—he cannot see beyond a few meters—as he approaches an obsidian stairwell.
One thousand steps lead him into Hades' throne room. The place where mortals find their final judgment. Fires cast deep red light over the room. Flames dance across glossy black walls, moving like strange sirens. The shadows don’t capture Homer’s attention. His gaze fastens on the throne—a massive seat crafted from pewter skulls.
The skulls aren’t as intimidating as the woman perched atop them. A beautiful goddess, but something about her presence fills Homer with terror. She is a tall woman with hair as dark as the obsidian that surrounds her. The crown of a queen adorns her head; a spiky, platinum monstrosity that’s encrusted with thousands of glittering rubies. Stones that remind Homer of blood. Her eyes—the color of thick fog at dawn—watch Homer with interest. In her bone-white hand, she holds a bident—the weapon of Hades—and Homer falls before her with reverence.
“Queen Persephone,” Homer begins, a faint note of pleading in his tone. “I am your humble servant, and I beg your mercy as you cast judgment upon me.”
She smiles with lips red as the garnet meat of a pomegranate. Her gaze moves beyond where Homer stands, settling on something he doesn’t dare turn to find.
Homer once conquered his fear of death, as a staunch believer and an active participant of the Eleusinian Mysteries. In this moment, years of Eleusinian rites flee Homer’s mind, and he quivers before the Queen of the Dead. Sitting above him is a maiden torn between life and death—the goddess that conquered both.
“My darling,” she says, breaking Homer’s thoughts. Her voice is as cold as the first freeze of winter. “Did you hear what this mortal called me?”
“I did.” A masculine voice sounds from behind Homer. The warmth of the voice startles Homer, as does the amusement lacing the god’s reply. “How foolish.”
“Are you Homer?” The goddess on the throne asks. Her gray eyes narrow when she continues, “The poet who teaches mortals stories of the gods?”
“I am,” Homer admits while dipping his head low to the black floor, a show of respect.
The god behind Homer moves, stepping around his kneeling form. Homer watches the large, bare feet of a god as they stop before him. Everything about the gods defies mortal beauty; no stone rendering comes close to the artistic form of this god’s toes.
“Hmm.” The god’s deep, soothing voice sounds close to Homer’s head. “Did you write Hades as a man, Homer?”
“I did,” Homer nods. “A terrifying, powerful man. A god unmatched,” he hurries to assure the god standing before him.
Laughter bounces around the glassy walls, chasing away the cold that lingers in this realm. “Did you hear that, my love?Youare a god unmatched.”
