Linger
AN: Just a little something to give me a break from writing Night's Children. I think I could have done better, but it served its purpose of giving me a breather.
He never considered himself a hero.
Well, perhaps that was a lie. He remembers a time where he, young and arrogant, thought that he deserved to rule the world. He remembers thinking him self unstoppable and unconquerable, the greatest hero the world would ever see. Warriors from the heathen states would fear him, cower beneath his feet. He had wanted to be the iron fist in the velvet glove, the strength for the forces deserving it.
He supposed he should be thankful that the experience has humbled him somewhat. Because the man he is now would never think like the boy he was then.
The man knows that he had been defeated, not once, but twice. The first by deceit and loving intentions fueled by pride. The second by a slip of a girl.
How the mighty have fallen.
Hector of Athens had been destroyed by a child.
Not even a powerful one, at that.
Yet Hector wondered what was worse, the fact that his glory had been stolen from him by a pair of shackles, or now that he was free he had eternity to face all alone.
Elysium was denied to him, he had not bested any monsters, he had not been killed in battle surrounded by loyal countrymen against a noble enemy. Hector had been punished and killed from his own follies, and it replayed in his death. For he was stranded in Erebus, no money to pay the ferryman, and no name to declare its value amongst the other fallen, whose names included Achilles, Milon his friend, Ajax, and Odysseus. Worthy men with worthy ends. He is unworthy, he has nothing. His name will be forgotten, and he will no longer exist.
He was Hector of Athens, and he was not a hero.
Now, he will always pay for it as he watches the real heroes cross the river Styx into blissful infinity.
She always thought herself a failure.
Not to the point of self-resentment, or that she thought herself so worthless it interfered with her job, her sworn duty. But still, the stinging reminder remained, and it haunted her even now in the afterworld.
She had failed.
It shouldn't be as palpable as it was, but the bitter taste still stayed in her mouth. There was a vow she had taken, eons ago, a sacred oath to protect the innocent and to mentor the charges of Selene. She had done her best, she had strived for greatness, for perfection, to rid the world of evil and to prevent her girls (they were always her girls in her mind, not Selene's) from feeling the hurt and pain that she had felt.
She had failed.
Penelope of Athens had not saved and taught her students.
Her students had saved and taught her.
There should have been a tranquil sensation when arriving towards blissful oblivion, of finally freeing herself from the ever-lasting burden of an ever-aging body, but she still felt somewhat incomplete. She was tied down by the material burdens of the world, and she could not accept the final piece of her grand destiny.
In becoming a Magna Mater, she had failed.
And she forced herself to watch, as punishment. She saw her girls, all five of them, and she saw them fail, saw them struggle, and saw them hurt. A pain of maternal abandonment hitting her hard in her spectral chest each time she saw them fail themselves, because she knew this was a product of her failing them. She could remember trying to warn Serena of her dangerous love with the Prince of the Night. She could remember the terror grip her heart when Vanessa was surrounded by Followers. She could remember the pride she felt swirl up inside of her when Tianna sacrificed herself for the greater good. She could remember the feel of defeat when she realized that Pandia, her mentor, was now left behind to clean up her mess. She could remember screaming to no one in particular when she saw Catty willing go to her father in Nefandus.
Penelope forces her self to see and remember everything, so she can always know just how magnificent of a let down she truly was.
This is her self-inscribed punishment, alone and guarding children she no longer has a role in guiding.
Sometimes, it feels divine.
Most times, it feels worse than any torture Tartarus would have dealt.
It always feels like regret.
He never wanted any of it.
It was incredibly selfish, and ultimately inconsequential, he knew, but still the lingering, nagging voice remained in the recesses of his mind.
He never wanted any of this.
He never wanted to be a warrior, he never wanted to follow the young priestess into that god-forsaken hell, he never wanted a grand destiny or eternal glory or to even meet the love of his life.
He had wanted to be left alone, in peace. He wanted the simple life, a boring existence of a farmer or a merchant.
But Chrysippus was a Spartan, and a Spartan knows that the simple life will never be fulfilling. He was a warrior, he had followed Penelope into hell and back, he had acquired one of the most crucial destinies of them all, and he had met an incredible girl who had shaken every facet of his immortal life.
Yet, somewhere along the way of being the Keeper of the Scroll, vanquishing evil forces, falling in love, and serving the greater good, Chrysippus lost himself. He lost his past, his purpose, and to a warrior- even a reluctant one- there is no greater curse.
This reality didn't settle into him until after he had died, when he discovered that he had forgotten his older brother's name. The same brother whose ghost had gotten him entangled into this extravagant life, the brother he had been willing to risk Tartarus for.
He didn't know his name.
He didn't know his parents' names.
There could be no grand family reunion in the afterlife, if he did not know how to call for them.
Chrysippus has lost his path. In life, he had gotten so involved with his calling that he had forgotten that underneath the duty and the honor there had, so very long ago, been a man. He had once held a past, cherished family members, and a reputation to be proud of. He may have even been married once, he may have had children, he may have been a general.
He didn't know, and this is terrifying to him. He had strayed from his roots, his culture, his society, and had tumbled into the abyss of infinity.
He did not know who he was anymore. He didn't even know how to look, how to reclaim what had been stolen from him long ago in exchange for an immortal life.
Being a martyr was supposed to have restored his mission, to clear his vision, and to grant him eternity.
But now he finds himself facing eternity with nothing to support him from behind, and the journey ahead of him looks so very bleak.
Chrysippus anchors himself along the edges of the River Styx, crouched down on the ground and holding his head in his hands, because he doesn't know how to go forward when he is ignorant to what is holding him back.
For the first time in two thousand years, the once Spartan warrior is scared.
He never wanted any of this.
He had just wanted to go home.
And home had moved on without him.
They are apart.
Loneliness is a crippling disease, and a parasitic one at that. It latches onto your heart and spread upwards to your head, until the sensation becomes so heavy that it transforms into an anchor.
The hero laments not being able to join the other heroes in his rightful place.
The priestess regrets her shortcomings, and looses herself in the lives of her students.
The warrior tries to search for something that no longer exists anymore.
Broken, shattered fragments of something that used to be so great and cherished. Exalted immortals reduced to simpering shades of who they once were. Shame grows in them each day, and the pure souls they once were become corroded with earthly attachments.
It inspires pity, and the Goddess of the Moon, for whom all of them have lived and died for in their own way, discovers that what each of these stragglers lack can be formed whole with each other.
She guides them back to their glory, their successes, and their history.
She brings the spirits of Hector the Champion, Penelope the Saint, and Chrysippus the Loved back to one another on the river Styx.
She watches as three disjointed souls reconnect, and she smiles to herself because she knows that everything will work out, and that the trio can help each other find peace.
Hector forgets his stolen honor when he holds Penelope in his arms. He knows that heaven simply cannot compare.
Penelope remembers why failure can be acceptable, because failure brought her closer to Hector. Her regrets fade when she stares into his eyes without any external responsibilities for the first time.
And Chrysippus finds his history, his name, and everything in between when he embraces the two, because a family is not always bound by blood and there is now someone who knows him and will hold his hand when he steps onto the ferryman's boat.
They are together again.
And as long as they are together, eternity is not so frightening.
Everything else will come later.