Son Of Peleus: An Original Short Story

“What are these chains that bind me?”

The Styx flowed a vibrant, horrifying red, the likes of which he had never seen before. The air was thick with sulphur, choking his lungs in a thick black haze. Across the bank, plains of ash stretch as far as his eyes could see, while above there was no comfort in a sky of stars. In its place was a cavernous darkness that seemed to close in and isolate one's very soul. He looked down on his body and observed his prison. He was engulfed in chains that seemed tightened endlessly around his swelled arms and torso, whilst keeping him latched to each side of the creaking, rotting rowboat he flowed along. This prison kept him on his knees, arms outstretched. Vulnerable and pathetic. The Spear of Hellas had never known anything of this sort.

There came no answer to his question, filling him with bewilderment and his oh so infamous fury. He began seething and darting his head like a hawk, hunting for the rowboat’s operator, but the air was too thick with smog to look upon the helm. As if high Olympus had heard his cries, the blackened air around the boat began to clear faintly, bringing forth a horrific form at the helm, slowly and meticulously lowering an oar in and out of the redness. The figure towered at least eight feet into the air, appearing incredibly hollow and scrawny despite the long, tattered cloak draped upon its person. This ghostly figure’s presence seemed to confirm his fears, and caused an uncharacteristically human shiver to run down the Spear of Hellas’ spine. 

“You are the ferryman, are you not? Come to take me to Elysium’s green fields.” he said.

But no answer, nor acknowledgement of any sort came from the figure, who did not even pay his prisoner the respect of a glance. This once more ignited his legendary rage.

“Why do you not speak to me damn it! Do you not know whom you bind here?! Have I not earnt a greater fate than these accursed chains?!” he roared whilst rattling the links which bound him.

This time the figure straightened its ghoulish neck, revealing its glowing, hellish eyes and as if offended by the commotion, let out a deep, booming groan that rocked the boat to its core.

“Grruugghhhhhhh”

Much like the boat, the once unshakable Spear of Hellas was rocked in equal measure by this unearthly response. Looking down upon his own helpless form he closed his eyes and whispered to himself in resignation.

“What has happened to me?”

A response.

“You are banished from death.” 

Like a bolt from almighty Zeus’ hand, his eyes flashed open once more and again he darted his head around, hoping to put a name to the ethereal voice. He saw nothing. Then, over the gentle flowing of the Styx, a voice and a lyre could be heard in the distance. Although faint, it was clear this voice was once filled with passion and vibrance, but had since been engulfed by sadness and loss. He shut his eyes once more and focused. Becoming clearer and clearer, he could hear verse being sung with an excellence unlike anything he had heard before. This was not just the voice of a bard, but the voice of a genius.

“You know not where you are,

Oh you poor forgotten legend, 

You know nothing of your trials, 

Your fate darkening every second

You were dragged here in silence,

This land of misery and death,

To flow across the Styx,

Now you have drawn your final breath,

Your savage butchery in life,

Compares nothing to this land’s,

Your bloody legend is forgotten,

As you lay face first in the sand,

Much like my poor Eurydice,

You will burn within this realm, 

You poor forgotten butcher,

Charon guides you at the helm 

You know not where you are,

Oh you poor forgotten legend, 

None weep for your trials, 

Your agony swelling every second”

He opened his eyes once more and saw the voice's owner, sat atop a stool along the riverbank, delicately clasping a lyre of unimaginable grandeur. His hair was raven and dishevelled. He wore long black robes, intricately adorned with motifs and patterns. His face was decorated with darkened makeup around the eyes and lips, that perfectly accompanied his forlorn expression.

“Oh son of Peleus, how the mighty have fallen.” the bard remarked and sighed.

With that, he rose from his perch and began to mount the now docked rowboat, nodding solemnly to the ferrymen before taking a seat beside him. The boat was soon back floating across the river.

“Sorry for the lack of parley,'' he continued, pointing to the ferryman with a wry smile. “I know Charon is not the finest conversationalist. I hope you enjoyed my lament.” 

“Who are you?” the Spear of Hellas growled. He was in no mood for games.

“Forgive me.” said the bard, bowing his head in apology. He seemed completely unfazed by the warrior's tone. “I am Orpheus, and have been sent here to enlighten you, son of Peleus, on your newly found plight. You see… it pains me to say that you, much like everyone else who dwells within this realm, have died.”

Without hesitation the Spear of Hellas snapped back,

“I know this already, bard. I knew that I would never see Greece again once I had sailed for Troy. But why am I chained like an ill-tempered mutt?! Why do I float across this land of decay instead of roaming the valley of heroes? Have I not done more than any man to earn the glory of Elysium?”

“Oh son of Peleus…” Orpheus purred with more pity than the Spear of Hellas could abide.

“Why do you not call me by my name?! Have I not done more than any man to earn it?! Show the honour I deserve bard!” he barked.

Orpheus looked calmly upon the poor, shackled soul in front of him. He was all bark and no bite.

“Your name will be forgotten, son of Peleus. All memory of you will fade and disappear with time. Lord Hades has deemed it so. No one will ever utter your name again.”

This proclamation stifled the last spark that burned within the Spear of Hellas. He hung his head, letting out a long, painful groan in despair. It seemed the gods themselves could not have crafted such wretched words that could leave this once indomitable hero in this state. So hopeless. So lacking in fight. Orpheus had somehow managed it.

The bard rose from his seat, kneeled down in front of him and began slowly caressing the chains that covered his body. 

“As for your prison…” Orpheus said whilst lingering a long, bony hand over the prisoner’s bound, outstretched arm, “These poor things are destined to dwell in this realm much like you and I.” Running his index finger across each loop, he continued. “Each link represents a poor soul butchered at Troy...” 

The bard’s finger rested upon the Spear of Hellas’ open palm.

”…By your hand.”

He lifted his head slowly. Locking eyes with Orpheus, he spoke stoically. Without repentance.

“I shall shed no tears for those men. They were merely a stepping stone for my glory, each to a man.”

“And yet,” Orpheus returned, “You shall have no glory.”

The bard rested a hand upon the prisoner’s shoulder.

        “You, like me, have been chosen to serve in the House of Hades. He values extraordinary talent, you see. I am now his court musician. Because of your impressive barbarism at Troy, he will have you as his sentinel.”

The bard rose once more and looked down on him pitifully.

“I’m afraid only the ordinary are allowed to rest in death, son of Peleus.”

He paused for a moment, then looked up at Orpheus. An idea. One last gasp of hope.

“What of the Olympians?! Surely mighty Zeus grieves for me?” he rasped.

The bard was unmoved and simply shook his head sorrowfully. 

“You robbed the Prince of Troy of his honour in death. Apollo makes certain you shall suffer in equal measure, for he much loved lord Hector. The Sun god holds great influence. The Olympians have condemned you to Hades. He is the reason we are here, you see. Lord Hades takes from you that which you hold most dear.” Orpheus’ paused for a moment. He turned to stare at the void beyond the bow of the ship. Closing his eyes, he gave a long, forlorn sigh.          “But one should never look back.”

Keeping his stoic composure, he reopened his blackened eyes and turned to face the Spear of Hellas.

  “From you, son of Peleus, he has taken your glory, and with it, your name.”

Casting an eye to the fog once more, Orpheus looked out into the distance. 

        “We are close to the House of Hades, ready yourself, son of Peleus.” The bard announced passively.

The prisoner simply bowed his head and whispered.

“Achilles, my name… is Achilles.”