Chapter Two #2
Mal chose to hold her tongue, trailing after her sister through the shifting sea of black roses, trying and failing to ignore the mournful wails of the souls around them, cries that echoed even as their hands continued their work.
Eventually, they reached a river, its waters gleaming like molten glass under the dim light.
Along its banks, souls huddled and wept, whispering words too soft for Mal to catch.
Some glared into the crystalline surface with hollow eyes, as if hoping to glimpse lost loved ones staring back at them.
Others bent low, drinking from the water with desperate, trembling hands.
‘What are they doing?’ Mal asked, leaning closer to Thanatos so that only he would hear.
Ahead of them, Makaria had settled herself among a small cluster of souls. With gentle hands, she smoothed their hair, offering soft smiles, guiding them closer to the river to drink.
‘The river is meant to make them forget their heartbreak,’ Thanatos said, his voice low and steady. ‘If they are truly capable of letting go, they will be free to move on. Most...’ he glanced towards a wolverian boy, who clung to Makaria, sobbing so fiercely his small body shook, ‘most cannot.’
They watched as Makaria coaxed the boy to drink, whispering soft encouragements.
For a moment, hope flickered. Then, the boy straightened, his eyes still awash with a sorrow more ancient than time itself.
Without a word, he turned and walked away, his small figure swallowed by the fields.
Makaria sighed, her face crumpling with sadness.
‘He couldn’t forget,’ she whispered. ‘They rarely can. Their heartbreak roots too deep.’
Mal turned her focus to the river, wondering whether it would show her anything, some ghostly reflection, some hint of what her heart most longed for. But the surface remained stubbornly empty, revealing only water and nothing more.
Makaria took a strip of cloth and carefully wound it around her eyes, blinding herself to the world. Mal remembered, with a pang, the first time she had ever seen her like this, a ghostly figure with hair like spun moonlight cascading over her shoulders.
Makaria leaned forward, her movements graceful, and cupped the river’s shimmering waters in her delicate hands, lifting them to her lips to drink.
Quietly, Mal crossed the distance between them and lowered herself to sit at Makaria’s side by the water’s edge. She wasn’t sure if her sister needed comfort but she would offer it all the same, simply by being there.
Makaria remained silent, motionless save for the slow rise and fall of her breath.
Time itself seemed to slip away, if such a thing even held meaning in the Underworld, and Mal found her attention drifting towards the far-off horizon.
She sat in silence, praying not to gods, but to herself: praying for the safety of her brothers, for Kai to keep free of trouble, for Kage to stay safe in a world growing ever darker.
For Mal knew, with a certainty beyond question, that she would raze the world to ash and the gods along with it to protect her family.
She also prayed to her unborn child, and the unknown future that awaited them. Soon Mal would start showing, but until then she’d keep it a secret from the world.
At last, Makaria removed the cloth from her eyes and let out a soft sigh.
‘She’s not here,’ she said, her voice heavy with regret.
Mal nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. ‘Thank you for trying.’ She reached out and placed her hand over Makaria’s in quiet gratitude. ‘How does it work?’ she asked, nodding towards the discarded cloth.
‘The river is woven from the tears of this region’s souls,’ Makaria explained. ‘When I drink from it, I can see every soul who has crossed into these fields. The cloth... it helps me to see more clearly.’
‘Time to go,’ Thanatos called, his voice cutting through the stillness. ‘They’re starting to notice you.’
Mal turned her head and, sure enough, saw a cluster of souls drifting closer, their hollow eyes locked onto her with unsettling hunger.
Both goddesses rose swiftly and followed Thanatos back through the field, keeping close together. They walked in silence until they reached the river’s edge, where a small boat bobbed gently in the water. Thanatos gestured towards it with a casual tilt of his hand.
‘It’ll be faster than walking,’ he said.
Mal glanced at the offered hand, the temptation to slap it away surging within her.
But when he extended it instead towards Makaria, who accepted it gladly, she could only bite back her irritation.
The gleam of amusement in his dark eyes was enough to make her long to stab him, and yet she said nothing, stepping stiffly onto the small boat behind them.
Mal watched her two companions in silence as the boat glided across the river, seemingly guided by invisible hands.
Thanatos leaned against the side, surveying the passing scenery with a faint, smug smile playing across his arrogant features.
It was difficult not to look at him, difficult not to be drawn in by a face that so achingly resembled Ash’s.
That same sharply cut jaw, the long, elegant nose, the eyes that could have been carved from night itself.
But where Ash burnt with light and fire, Thanatos was the embodiment of shadow and death.
His white curls, cropped short, still tumbled messily over his forehead, and those black eyes—gods, those eyes—were deep, endless pits in which she feared she might fall and never find her way back.
At Mal’s side, Makaria began humming under her breath, the soft tune weaving into the misty silence.
Mal studied her sister, as she often did, with a strange sense of wonder.
It was impossible to place an exact age upon Makaria.
She appeared no more than sixteen, perhaps a little older, yet there was something ageless woven into the lines of her slight frame.
She was slender, her body not yet marked by the curves of full womanhood.
Her face, to Mal’s surprise, bore an uncanny resemblance to her own—those same sharp, striking features. Her hair was even whiter than Thanatos’, a pale crown that shimmered faintly in the Underworld’s dim light. And her eyes, her eyes never ceased to captivate Mal.
One as black as endless night, the other burning red like the heart of a dying star.
The boat drifted to a small dock, bumping gently against the worn wood.
Thanatos, with a casual flourish, offered his hand to Makaria, helping her ashore.
Mal followed behind, one brow arched in silent derision as the god chuckled to himself, clearly far too pleased.
Did he truly believe she cared whether he noticed her or not?
She was not a child in need of coddling.
They had returned to the mountain’s base, and Mal immediately recognised the village Hades had first brought her to upon her arrival in the Underworld. This time, however, a sign greeted them at the entrance, something she had not seen before.
‘Asphodel,’ it read, the letters carved with a delicate, mournful hand.
‘Who governs this region?’ Mal asked as they wandered slowly through the narrow, winding streets.
The buildings towered high, black stone structures clinging precariously to the mountain walls.
The streets were so slender it felt as though the buildings might at any moment lean forward and collapse upon those who dared walk between them.
Only the faint, eerie glow of blue lamplights kept the oppressive darkness at bay.
Here and there, the river had burst through the cracked black cobblestones, carving watery channels through the streets. Fragile bridges had been hastily erected, arching over the broken ground, allowing travellers to continue their path where the river had overtaken the way.
‘This was meant to be your region,’ Thanatos said, his voice oddly gentle.
Mal froze mid-step. Of all the answers he might have given, she had not been prepared for that.
‘Why?’ she breathed, barely trusting herself to speak.
‘You are his daughter, Melinoe,’ Thanatos replied, stopping beside her. He stood so near it seemed for a moment as though he might reach for her hand, offer her some unspoken comfort. ‘Believe it or not, you are Hecate’s child. And he...’ Thanatos’ voice softened, ‘he loves Hecate.’
‘Don’t,’ Mal said sharply, shaking her head. ‘Don’t make it sound as though he cares for me. I’m nothing more than a tool to him.’
Thanatos exhaled, a slow, weary sigh.
‘Just because he uses you,’ he said, meeting her gaze levelly, ‘does not mean he does not love you.’ He leaned in closer, his dark eyes searching hers. ‘Sometimes using and loving are one and the same.’
‘How so?’ she demanded.
‘Have you never wondered,’ Thanatos said, his voice low, almost coaxing, ‘whether the only reason we love is because we are selfish? Because of how it makes us feel? And when that love no longer serves us...’ He let the thought trail off into the shadows.
Mal brushed past him, unwilling to hear more.
‘I don't agree with you, Thanatos,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘A mother’s love is selfless. She expects nothing in return from her child.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said softly, offering a smile, one so sweet it almost masked the bitterness behind it.
They continued their slow passage through the dark, winding streets, never once encountering another soul. Mal wrapped her arms around herself, frustration simmering beneath her skin.
‘How are we supposed to find Allegra here?’ she sighed.
‘We head to the Library of the Dead,’ Makaria said brightly. ‘It’s not far now.’
‘Library of the Dead?’ Mal echoed, a note of disbelief colouring her voice.
‘Asphodel Meadows is meant to be a village,’ Thanatos explained. ‘The souls brought here must sign their names in the Book of Death.’
Mal followed them deeper into the shadows until they reached a towering structure of grey stone, standing solemnly against the mountainside.
Gargoyles loomed above the entrance, their mouths frozen in eternal snarls, razor-sharp teeth bared in warning.
Some, Mal noted with a chill, were shaped like wyverns; others took the form of serpents from the desert land, and a few wore the savage visages of wolves.
‘This is the land of the dead,’ Thanatos said, his voice hushed with something that sounded almost like reverence. ‘All come to rest here, no matter the land they once called home.’
Inside, the library was darker still. A vast, endless corridor stretched into the heart of the mountain itself. Mal lifted her gaze in awe: the ceiling was hewn from the mountain rock, rough and ancient, while beneath her boots, the floor unfolded in white and black mosaics.
The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of unseen footsteps. Black wooden shelves lined the hall in endless rows, cradling countless archives of the dead. At the very centre, a grand lectern awaited, a book spread open as though expecting their arrival.
Movement stirred at the edges of her vision, figures draped in grey robes, slipping soundlessly between the shelves.
‘Ignore them, Melinoe,’ Thanatos whispered close against her ear. ‘They are the guardians of this library.’
‘What are they?’ she asked.
‘Souls from this region, who chose to spend eternity in service rather than sleep,’ he said, his voice rich with mischief.
Mal narrowed her eyes as he reached out, brushing a strand of her hair from her shoulder with a touch that was far too intimate, too careful.
‘Don't do that,’ she said sharply.
‘Why?’ His teasing smile only grew wider. ‘Do I make you nervous?’
‘Yes, you do,’ she whispered back, their voices carrying in faint echoes across the cavernous dark. ‘And you know, Thanatos, what happens to those who make me nervous?’
‘Do tell,’ he purred.
‘I slit their eyes out and cut off their fingers. One by one.’
His laughter rumbled through the towering, shadowy space, vibrating against the cold stone walls.
Mal caught sight of Makaria, off to one side, studying the intricate murals that adorned the walls, stories that Mal half-remembered from childhood tales.
With a small shake of her head, Mal turned back towards the lectern and the waiting book, determined to ignore both Thanatos’ infuriating presence and the silent wonders Makaria examined.
She would have time enough to study the carvings later.
‘I don’t see Allegra’s name,’ Mal said, flicking through the heavy pages of the book, her fingers tracing the names inked in faded black.
Thanatos cursed under his breath. ‘It seems we will have to visit your brother Zagreus and his region.’
‘Tartarus?’ Mal asked, her voice low.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘The prison Hades fashioned within the Underworld, a holding place for souls awaiting judgement.’
Mal nodded, though her chest tightened painfully at the thought. ‘Very well. Let’s go.’
Thanatos and Makaria turned towards the exit, but as Mal moved to follow, her gaze caught on something, a name inked on the parchment that stopped her heart cold.
A name she knew too well.
A name that could not, should not, have been written in the Book of the Dead.
She froze, a soft, choked gasp escaping her lips.
‘What’s wrong?’ Thanatos asked, reaching instinctively towards her only to hesitate, letting his hand fall, as if some part of him understood that Mal’s pain was a thing he could not touch.
‘It can’t be...’ she whispered, stepping closer to the lectern, her hands trembling as she leaned over the page. ‘That name cannot be here.’
‘Which one?’ Thanatos asked, leaning in to see for himself.
Mal pointed with a shaking finger, her heart breaking apart with every breath.
‘It must be wrong,’ she said, the words barely forming.
But Thanatos shook his head solemnly. ‘No, Melinoe. The book is never wrong. If the name is here, it means the mortal has died.’
The world seemed to close in around her.
Mal turned blindly, stumbling from the library into the cold, narrow streets beyond. She collapsed onto the ground, clutching her hair in her fists as a raw scream tore from her throat, a sound full of anguish and disbelief. For in that cursed book, she had seen a name.
The name of a friend.
The name of a princess.
The name of someone who, it seemed, was lost to her forever.
Wren Wynter.