Chapter Fifty-One
I’ve always wondered where Charon comes from. Was he a god originally that was placed into Hades’ service? Or is he simply a soul trapped in the Underworld, working through his sentence?
I asked him once, but as always, he did not reply.
Tabitha Wysteria
Mal did not wish to admit that, the moment she descended into the Underworld, it felt disturbingly like returning home.
She materialised at the river’s edge, where the air hung heavy with shadow and silence. A narrow black boat waited upon the dark waters, and upon it stood Charon, still as stone, hands resting upon the oar as though he had known precisely when she would arrive.
Thanatos stepped closer, his fingers grazing the air near her hand. He did that often, Mal realised. Hovering, almost touching, never quite daring. A presence at her side, constant as death itself.
She approached the boat, her attention settling upon Charon—ferryman of souls, guide of the dead into the depths below. Mal had long since learnt there were other ways into the Underworld, paths carved through shadow and old power. She wondered, briefly, why they had chosen this one.
‘Persephone,’ Thanatos said quietly. ‘It will be easier if she does not see us.’
Mal inclined her head and stepped towards the boat without hesitation. The wood was dark as pitch beneath her boots, the river whispering against its sides.
Thanatos extended his hand to help her aboard.
Ordinarily, she would have brushed him aside, but this time, she placed her hand in his.
She did not miss the way his dark eyes widened, surprise flickering there like a dying star. And for the briefest of moments, despite everything, she almost smiled.
Charon appeared as he always did; an immense, shrouded figure cloaked entirely in black, his features swallowed by shadow. Only the vast sweep of wyverian horns rising from beneath his hood betrayed any sense of shape at all.
The boat drifted down the river in solemn silence. Mal watched the Underworld unfold around them, while Thanatos—she felt rather than saw—watched her.
In the distance, colossal shapes loomed upon the hills that flanked the river; enormous stone faces of fallen gods, half-buried in dead grass and ash. They lay broken and scattered, as though the earth itself had rejected them.
Then Mal saw it.
A new monument stood among them.
She gasped softly.
Carved into cold stone was the unmistakable face of Hades.
‘It would seem,’ Thanatos said quietly, gesturing towards the towering effigy, ‘that when a god dies, truly dies, that appears.’
The statue bore the sharp severity of Hades’ features, his crown etched into stone, his expression caught somewhere between wrath and surrender.
Mal remembered the moment her blade had pierced him.
The strange peace that had settled across his face at the end.
She had not allowed herself to grieve him, a father she had never truly known. She was far too weary of mourning.
‘So all the other fallen gods we see,’ she said, indicating the dozens of shattered colossi littering the hillsides, ‘must have been killed by a God-Killer. So there have been others?’
Thanatos gave a small shrug. ‘We do not know that to be true, Melinoe.’
‘We do not know it to be untrue either.’
He looked as though he wished to argue, but instead his jaw tightened and he turned away.
Mal allowed herself the smallest of smiles, quietly satisfied by his silence as the river carried them deeper into shadow.
They passed beneath the enormous black gates, their iron teeth yawning wide enough to swallow kingdoms whole, and soon halted at the outskirts of the small settlement of Asphodel Meadows. Pale light clung to the crooked cottages, and the air was thick with the hush of wandering souls.
Mal followed Thanatos through the winding lanes, their steps measured and careful.
More than once they slipped into narrow alleyways, pressing themselves into shadow when silent processions of the dead drifted past. The last thing they needed was word reaching Persephone that Mal had returned to the Underworld.
At last they emerged from the warped little town and crossed fields of black roses, their petals dark as dried blood, their scent faintly sweet and wrong. Beyond them loomed the iron gates of Tartarus. Vast and ancient. Unyielding even.
A flash of white broke the gloom.
Wren burst forward, bounding across the ground and throwing herself at Mal, licking her face with unabashed delight. Mal let out a breathless laugh despite herself, burying her fingers into the wolf’s thick fur.
Moments later Zagreus appeared, head tilted with quiet curiosity.
At a soft command from him, Wren trotted obediently back to his side.
Mal watched, faintly astonished, as Zagreus scratched behind the wolf’s ear, his sharp features softening, his mismatched eyes warming in a way she had rarely seen.
Perhaps Thanatos had been right.
Perhaps all Zagreus had ever truly wanted was something simple.
Love.
And the comfort of not being alone.
‘I need to get into Hell,’ Mal said.
Zagreus did not look at her at first. He kept his hand buried in Wren’s fur, his fingers moving in slow, absent strokes. Yet she heard the quiet sigh he released, the sound of someone who had known this moment would come and had been bracing for it all along.
‘So you’ve come to repay my mother for what she did to you all those years ago?’ he asked at last, lifting his head. The warmth that had softened his mismatched eyes vanished, replaced by something colder. Guarded.
‘Something like that,’ Mal replied evenly.
‘You could simply learn to forgive.’
Mal let out a short, humourless snort. ‘I think we’re long past that.’
Zagreus studied her for a long moment. His gaze flicked to Thanatos, then to Wren, then back again, as though measuring loyalties, weighing consequences. The air between them tightened.
‘I have conditions,’ he said at last.
‘Of course you do.’
A faint curl touched his lips. ‘You must not bring our sister Makaria back.’
Mal’s eyes widened despite herself. ‘Why not?’
Zagreus’ jaw tightened. ‘It’s a long story. But if you truly want to ensure Persephone remains in Hell… then Makaria must remain there as well. She always had a soft spot for our mother.’
There was something unreadable in his expression. Not quite cruelty, not quite pain.
Mal hesitated only a heartbeat before shrugging. She had not come here for Makaria. She had not come to mend old bonds.
She needed Allegra.
And that need burnt brighter than any lingering sisterly loyalty.
‘What else?’ she asked, impatience threading through her voice. The longer they lingered beneath the open sky, the greater the chance Persephone would learn that Mal had returned to the Underworld with mischief burning in her veins.
‘I want you to kill Eris.’
The request struck her harder than she expected. Surprise flashed across her face before she could conceal it. Beside her, Thanatos did not so much as flinch. He did not look shocked, nor troubled. It was sometimes difficult to reconcile that he and Eris shared the same mother.
‘And if I refuse?’ Mal asked. ‘Will you betray me?’
She had every intention of erasing Eris from the world, but she needed to know precisely how far Zagreus’ loyalty stretched and where it snapped.
Zagreus tilted his head, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. ‘You need this more than I do.’
Mal gave a short, sharp snort. ‘You’re so certain?’
His mismatched eyes darkened, something dangerous glinting within them. Yet he did not answer her challenge. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode back into Tartarus, beckoning them to follow with a careless flick of his hand.
The enormous corridor swallowed them whole, lined with cells from which souls wailed and clawed at through bars.
‘Tell me, brother,’ Mal drawled as she walked beside him, ‘why is it you never wear a shirt?’
‘It’s hot in here,’ Zagreus replied without missing a step.
Behind them, Thanatos gave a quiet snort, and Mal found herself smiling despite everything.
They reached the very end of the corridor, where the path simply ceased to exist. Heat rolled upwards in suffocating waves. Mal stepped closer to the edge and looked down at the river of molten lava below, its surface shifting and churning like the breath of some ancient beast.
She remembered the last time she had leapt into it. She remembered the way it had swallowed her whole.
‘You shouldn’t go alone,’ Zagreus said, his tone sharper than before.
Thanatos stepped closer at once, ready to follow her into the abyss, but Mal shook her head. ‘I do this alone. I need you to keep Persephone distracted.’
Zagreus gave a careless shrug, as though he had already done more than enough by allowing her passage. He had warned her. He had set his condition. What followed was no longer his concern.
A sudden warmth brushed against Mal’s side. Wren padded forward and sat firmly beside her, tail sweeping the black stone in slow, determined strokes.
‘I don’t think that’s wise, Wren,’ Mal warned gently. ‘I’m not certain wolves are meant to walk into Hell.’
Wren ignored her entirely.
Mal bit her lip and glanced back at Zagreus and Thanatos, who were now exchanging wary, uncertain looks.
‘Can she come?’ Mal asked tentatively.
Thanatos hesitated. ‘I don’t know what would happen.’
‘She ought to stay here,’ Zagreus insisted, motioning for Wren to return to him. Worry darkened his mismatched eyes. But Wren merely squared her broad shoulders and remained planted at Mal’s side, resolute as a sentinel carved from bone and snow.
‘I think she’s decided,’ Mal said softly, a small flicker of relief warming her chest at the thought of not descending alone.
Zagreus’ jaw tightened. ‘If something happens to her—’
Thanatos stepped forward and shoved him aside with little ceremony. ‘It is time you left. Go back to your duties.’
Rage flared in Zagreus’ eyes. He opened his mouth to protest, but Thanatos pushed him back once more, unyielding.
‘I’ll take care of her. I promise,’ Mal said, threading her fingers into Wren’s thick white fur. The wolf leaned into her touch.
Zagreus did not look convinced. But after a long moment, he gave a reluctant nod and turned away, vanishing into the depths of Tartarus.
Mal looked up at the great wolf beside her, a faint smile touching her lips despite the fire roaring below.
‘You make even the hardest of demons feel something, don’t you, girl?’ she said.
Wren huffed softly, as if she knew it to be true.
Thanatos stepped to Mal’s side, and before she could form a protest, he cupped her face in his hand and drew her nearer.
Her breath faltered at the intensity in his stare, at the way his mouth hovered just shy of hers, close enough that she could almost taste the promise of it.
Her palm pressed instinctively against his chest and she froze at the stillness there.
No rhythm. No beat.
‘Your heart…’ she said, and even though she knew it no longer worked, it still surprised her to feel nothing beneath the tips of her fingers. A void. Silence.
‘My heart is yours, Melinoe,’ he whispered, his voice low as dusk. ‘Whether it beats or not, it belongs to you. In every life. In every world. In life and in death.’
‘Thanatos…’
But whatever she had meant to say dissolved the moment his lips claimed hers.
The world fell away.
It felt as though something ancient within her stirred awake, something buried beneath grief and fury and vengeance.
When his tongue met hers, it was as if the jagged pieces of her soul slid back into place, fitting together with terrible, beautiful inevitability.
Warmth unfurled through her like a cloak drawn around cold shoulders.
She had not realised how hollow she had felt until that moment.
She never wanted it to end.
When they finally tore apart, breathless and trembling, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
‘Remember,’ he said softly, ‘no matter what happens down there… it was all done for love.’
Her brow furrowed. The words unsettled her.
‘What do you mean?’
His eyes darkened with something perilously close to fear.
‘You are my one and only,’ he said. ‘I have done everything for you, Melinoe.’
A chill crept beneath her skin.
‘What did you do?’
She saw it then. The ache in his stare, the dread of truth unravelling between them. The fear of losing her once more.
Instead of answering, he brushed a kiss to the tip of her nose and stepped back, as though distance might protect them both.
‘Come back,’ he said quietly.
Mal frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
Thanatos did not answer. Instead, he reached for her once more.
For a fleeting heartbeat, Mal thought he meant to kiss her again and, to her own surprise, she wanted him to. She wanted the world to fall silent once more, to drown in that impossible warmth and forget the abyss yawning at her back. But his hand struck her chest.
A sudden, brutal shove.
The ground vanished beneath her feet.
Mal gasped as she toppled backwards into the chasm, her dark hair whipping around her face, her fingers clawing at nothing. Her eyes locked onto his as she fell.
Thanatos stood at the edge of Tartarus, motionless, watching her fall. And for the first time since she had known him, fear fractured his composure. Real, unguarded fear.
Not fear that Hell would imprison her.
Not fear that Persephone would defeat her.
But fear that she would choose not to return because of the truths learnt below. That she would find something in those depths that would make her stay.
The abyss swallowed her.
Heat rose to meet her, thick and suffocating. The darkness shifted into red-gold flame as she fell deeper, the roar of Hell rising like a welcome.
Mal did not scream.
She did not flail.
She straightened her body mid-fall, eyes hardening, resolve settling over her like armour.
She fell into the flames, ready for whatever awaited her.