5. Underworld: Creator of heroes, destroyer of dreams

Part 2: Chapter 5

This is Part 2: Chapter 5 of the serialised YA Fantasy Fiction novel ‘Underworld’, a reimagining (not a retelling) of the myth of Persefóni. Use the button below to access the Table of Contents and navigate back a chapter, or begin at the beginning. For SHORT STORY content click here instead.

CHAPTER 5: Creator of heroes, destroyer of dreams

The next morning, I dress alone and head to the stable yard to meet Poseidónas. I try not to let my mind linger on what happened between me and Ermís. It’s not the kisses that worry me, how I embarrassed myself in front of him, or how much I wanted him in that moment. I put all that down to what I drank from the little bottle and its effects. No, what bothers me is his game, and the last task he set me. Did he really expect me to complete it? And what would the consequences have been if I had?

As I walk, I push these questions out of my mind, refusing to spare them a thought. I try to fill my imagination instead with memories of the sea, and what it was like to swim in it. In one of the passageways, I almost run into Áris. I pull myself up short and take a step backwards. He laughs.

“What's the matter, Kóri?” he asks. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No!” I say, more loudly than I mean to. “I just don't want …” I pause.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” he supplies, his eyes mocking me. “Because of what I can make you feel?”

I nod. “How did you do it?” I ask. “How did you … make me feel like that, before?”

“I can do it to anyone,” he says nonchalantly. Then, his fiery eyes look keenly into mine. "But with you, it was easy. It is already there, so close to the surface. You've felt it, haven't you? You've been there?"

He isn’t really asking. I remember his expression when he touched my hand. Somehow, by intuition or magic, he has the measure of me.

When I don't answer, he steps closer.

"There is glory in chaos and carnage, isn't there?” he says. “In the reek of blood and sweat, and the screaming of horses and men - in the desperation to stay alive at any cost. Men do things in war that would never even cross their minds in peacetime; things they would never tell their wives and daughters back home. They talk about honour in war, but when it comes down to it, there are no rules, no moral code - just the need to survive. Fear brings out the worst in mortals, and there is so much fear on the battlefield. But if you can move beyond that, if you can let the madness consume you, it is glorious."

I remember the battle-madness, not just from the Evrótas valley, but from all the skirmishes I took part in with Ánitos. I remember how it thrummed through my body and took over my mind. It was glorious, when I was living inside it. But the picture Áris paints - the death and destruction I wrought - repulses me now. After the fight was over, I tried not to think of them, those mortals that fought against me - not only the dead, but the ones who survived. I tried not to think of what I had done, how many lives were ended or irreparably altered because of my flashing blade. It was easier not to think of them as men, but soldiers - faceless and nameless. It made them so much easier to kill.

Now, I’m haunted by the thought of the pyre we built on the battlefield near the Evrótas; so many lifeless bodies, and in my imagination their staring eyes are those of Antigóni, of the boy on the hillside. I shudder, and something of my horror must show on my face, because Áris says softly, “Yes. You have been there.”

I nod slowly, picturing my two swords flashing in the sunlight, remembering the smell of battle and the knowledge that I was an invincible goddess. But this time I don’t think of the dance. I’m watching from the outside, and all I can see is my euphoria against their terror; my immortality against their humanness. It was never fair, it was never right.

“I don’t think…” I falter. “I don’t believe, now, that there is any glory in war.”

“You are wrong,” he replies. “On the battlefield, you must kill or be killed - the highest stakes. Death or glory; the winner takes all. ”

“It’s not a game.”

“It is the ultimate game. It is the only arena in the mortal realm where one man holds the power to send hundreds to their deaths at a word. And who do you think is whispering in that man’s ear?”

“Every one of those lives is worth something!”

He laughs then.

“What worth do you - an immortal goddess - place on a mortal life?”

“The same as I place on mine - and on yours,” I snap. I do not know if it is really true, but I want to believe it. I want Antigóni to be wrong. In this moment, with these pictures in my mind, I long to take back every sword-stroke and every arrow I loosed from my bow in battle.

He laughs even louder.

“The same - as mine?” he asks, incredulous. “That is like comparing a raging forest fire to a leaf. I could swallow up a million mortal lives, and never even notice the difference.”

I don't doubt it is true. I thought the god of war and I would have something in common, some shared love of technique and training, perhaps. But his dismissal of mortals as mere pieces in a game has made me sick to my core. I do not want to be like him.

I turn away from him in disgust, but he grabs my arm.

“Don't turn your back on me,” he says. “We are not done here.”

His face has changed. He isn’t laughing now, but he isn’t shouting either. Instead, his voice is low and dangerous. But I have always been reckless about danger.

“We're done,” I tell him, jerking my arm from his grip. And I walk away.

---

When I meet Poseidónas, I see he is alone. I’m not sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, I’m glad there will be no entourage staring at me and whispering behind their hands, but on the other I’m uncomfortable being alone with him. I have been around water all my life: the rushing mountain streams, the springs and forest pools, but I know nothing about the god that rules them. Still, I long to forget my conversation with Áris, and above all to swim in the sea again. My childish fascination with it trumps any anxiety about what else might happen.

It takes us until noon to reach the coast, but we ride most of the way in silence. I don’t mind. It’s not an awkward silence, and - after the twittering of the nymphs in my chambers and the noise of the feast - I like the way he doesn’t speak unless he has something to say.

The air gets noticeably warmer as we descend the slopes. The beach, when we reach it, is a wide expanse of golden sand under the burning sun. We tether our horses above it, where there is shade and grass for them to crop, and walk down. I pull off my sandals so that my feet can sink into the sand. I wriggle my toes in it, feeling the fine, rough grains against my skin. The tiny waves lap the shore and I close my eyes, turning my face to the sky, breathing in air that is fresh and salty, listening to the cries of gulls as they wheel overhead.

Suddenly, I hear a splash and open my eyes to see that Poseidónas has dived in and is already swimming away from the shore. A thrill of excitement pulses in my abdomen and I throw off my chiton, dropping it on the shore by his clothes, and wade slowly into the water. It is only a little chilly, and I soon become used to the temperature as the water creeps higher, over my hips, my stomach, my breasts, finally slipping over my shoulders like a blanket. Then, I dive, propelling myself through the clear water with my feet. I feel like an arrow, shot from a bow. I swim until my lungs feel as if they might burst, and then I shoot to the surface, gasping.

Poseidónas is some way off, and I swim towards him, languidly now. When I reach him, I find I don’t need to kick my legs to stay above the water - there is some current around him holding us up.

A delighted laugh bubbles up inside me and escapes my lips.

“Are you doing this?” I ask him, and he inclines his head to show that he is.

I lie back in the sea, then roll over and lie face down, watching the movement of the water. It’s flowing up from the seafloor like a waterfall in reverse. I bend my knees and bob upright, sweeping the wet hair off my face.

“How do you do it?” I ask Poseidónas. “Can you teach me?”

He smiles. “Power like mine is not something you can teach - it is something you are.”

I remember what Dímitra said to me about the children of Krónos.

“Do you think I could have power like you?” I ask.

He looks at me appraisingly. “Perhaps,” he says.

“What can you do with it? Can you make waves higher than a ship? Can you make the sea calm in a storm? Can you dive down to the very bottom of the sea, even when it is fathoms deep?” Another thought strikes me. “Are there really sea monsters?”

He holds up his hands to indicate that I am asking too many questions, that he wants me to stop.

“Come here,” he says.

I’m aware again, as I was in King Nikándros’s tent, of my inability to read a situation. What does he want? I stare at him a moment, and he must read the doubt in my eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. Perhaps it’s the fact that he does not insist that convinces me to swim closer. Perhaps it’s just curiosity.

He takes me by the shoulders and presses his lips to mine. He doesn’t kiss me, though. Instead, he breathes into my mouth. It is the strangest sensation, entirely unpleasant, and I pull away in disgust. But he only smiles again.

“Now you have a little of what I have - for a little time,” he says. “Come.” And he dives beneath the surface.

Only a split second passes before I follow him.

The water is so clear that I can see the rocks on the bottom, the brightly-coloured plants and creatures upon them, the intricate shells, some with their occupants peering out. I swim down, down, but I don’t feel any pressure building in my head. I touch the seafloor, and bury my fingers in the fine sand as if to prove that I’ve reached it.

Poseidónas is sitting on a rock, not far away, as easily as I would sit on a rock on land. I twist my body around and find that I, too, have this ability. I can walk to him across the seafloor as if I were walking across a beach. I realise I don’t need to breathe either, although we have been under the surface for some time.

Poseidónas jerks his head and I nod - I will follow him. I swim after him, deeper and deeper. In the murky depths, I can no longer tell if it is his feet I’m following, or an enormous fishtail. But when he stops and I catch up with him, I see he is just as he was before - at least, he has legs and not a tail. But here, under the water, he looks even more magnificent. He is more than handsome or beautiful - I don’t have words for what he is in that moment. His skin glows like polished wood, every one of his muscles clearly defined. His hair fans out from his head in a dark halo and his eyes flash in the gloom.

I’m staring at him, but he’s pointing at something below us: a shipwreck, sunk to the bottom of the sea. It’s a sobering sight - such a feat of mortal engineering lying broken on its side. The mast is gone, and green algae has already begun to grow on the hull, on the rails and deck. I swim closer, running my hands gently over the soft, swollen wood, looking for traces of the men that sailed in this ship - were they traders or warriors? From these lands, or some far-flung place?

I see a door in the floor of the deck. Its hinges are rusted with salt water, but I pull it open and swim inside. It’s very dark, although I can make out a mass of cargo beneath me; clay vessels - hundreds of them - some broken into shards, some miraculously still whole. My hand closes around the handle of a small one and, kicking my legs, I make for the square of light above me.

Once outside the wreck, I turn my find over in my hands.

The image upon it is simple, rendered in black upon the reddish clay. It is a huge figure seated upon a throne. He is bare-chested, but long flowing robes cover his legs. In his right hand, he holds a trident, and his left is stretched out, holding back an enormous wave which threatens to crash over a tiny ship below. The sailors on the ship are all looking to him, hands raised in supplication.

Poseidónas taps my shoulder and I look up. He’s pointing towards the surface, and I understand the tiny portion of his power that was gifted to me will soon be spent. I start to swim rapidly upwards, but he catches my shoulder, shaking his head. He indicates that I should swim slowly, and so I do.

Just below the surface, I feel intense pressure on my lungs and the desperate need to breathe again. My head breaks through the water, and I gratefully suck in deep lungfuls of air.

Poseidónas’ head appears beside me, but unlike me, he isn’t gasping for breath. The transition is easy for him. I show him the jar I pulled from the wreck.

“It’s you,” I say.

He shrugs as if to say that it’s of no consequence to him.

“Do you wish to see your likeness on mortal vessels?” he asks me. “To have temples and statues built in your honour?”

I consider for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I do not care for such things either, but to be the last name on their lips, to hold their death or salvation in the palm of my hand - that is power.”

I’m shocked, not only at his words, but by the mild way in which he says them, as if we are still talking about images on clay pots. He must read something in my expression, because he adds: “Who do you think sank that ship? It was one of my waves that broke the mast, that turned her over, and my waters that pulled her down to the depths. All the men on board perished, lifting their voices with their last breath to implore me for mercy. I did not give it to them.”

Part of me recoils from his words, but part of me remembers the battle-maddess, the exhilaration, and I wonder if what Poseidónas feels is so different.

There is something hard in you - a kernel of indifference, like a shard of ice in your heart.

Perhaps I’m more like him, and like Áris, than I want to believe. Could I be as powerful as them? As cold? As cruel?

Poseidónas closes the distance between us, placing his hands on my shoulders again, and I have a sudden vision of the two of us, tall as mountains, above a raging sea on which tiny mortal vessels plunge and founder. The wind howls about us, and inside it I hear the echo of a hundred voices crying his name, and mine. Their screams make me stronger, and I find I cannot care about them in that moment - cannot recall the faces of the dead I so recently railed against Áris about, or why they mattered to me. I only feel the power coursing through me as I turn to look at the sea god next to me. In my vision, he is every bit as beautiful as I saw him under the waves, and more - beautiful and terrible, and I want him more than I have ever wanted anything.

I slap his hands away from my body.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

"Opening your eyes."

"I don't want to see that!" I snap, afraid of the indifference I felt towards the drowning mortals and the desire I feel for him still. I don’t know if it’s lingering from the vision he showed me, or if it is really mine. If he reached out to me now, I don't think I would be able to resist, although I don’t want him to.

But he doesn’t touch me, only leans back in the water, his eyes still on my face, as if he is waiting for something.

I look down so that I won’t have to meet his gaze, and notice the clay jar is still in my hand, the majestic figure enthroned, his hand outstretched. I see now that he’s not holding back the wave at all, but beckoning it. The mortals on the ship are not raising their arms in worship, but in terror.

I let the jar fall from my fingers and watch it as it floats down through the water, to be swallowed once more by the murky depths of Poseidónas' sea.

I remember what Antigóni called me.

"You're a murderer," I say, raising my eyes to his.

"When a mortal kills another in cold blood, that is murder," he replies. "Such words do not apply to us. We are gods."

"What you do - it isn't right!"

"Right? What is right? What is wrong? Kóri, you are a true-born goddess - you are outside all that. You are benevolence, you are vengeance, you are a creator of heroes and a destroyer of dreams. You are more. For you, there is no right or wrong. You answer to no one."

For a moment, I’m caught up in his words, the strands of the vision still curling around the edges of my mind. I feel my fingers itch to shape destinies, to shape history, to shake the foundations of the Earth. Could I? Would I? But I also remember Antigóni's pallid face, the bundle that could have been her child: the price they paid for my interfering with fate. Poseidónas' past must be strewn with Antigónis of his own, but to him they are inconsequential. He doesn’t care that a web of destruction branches out from every skeleton that lies on the sandy ocean floor.

“You could have it all,” he says. “All you have to do is reach out and take it.”

I shake my head. It feels too full. My body doesn’t feel like my own - part of me is repulsed by his callousness, part is drawn to him with an intensity I don’t understand. Overwhelmed, I dive under the waves and swim for the beach, my legs kicking and my arms whirling, as if I can outstrip my own thoughts.

Back on the sand, I dress and wait by the horses for Poseidónas. I watch him emerge from the sea like the god he is, salt water running in rivulets from his long hair and over his perfect skin. I look away, confused by such beauty and such cruelty encapsulated in one being, confused by what I feel and by what he might feel about me.

We have spent this time together, alone and naked in the sea, and yet his eyes have never strayed from my face. He doesn’t leer or grab at me like Ermís or Níkandros, and so I’m not sure what it is he wants.

I know I’m not worldly-wise, but I do realise he is playing another game entirely. I don’t trust him at all.

To be continued …