Swear on the River Styx

by WhimsicottMoon

During the Titanomachy, the river goddess, Styx, sided with Zeus. He declared that, from then on, every oath must be sworn upon her. This is the fate of that underworld goddess, driven insane by her ancient duty and the insincerity of mortals. Winner of Flash Fiction Silver Key in 2016 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

I own all the promises ever made.

All the broken ones, the fatal ones, they're all mine. But I remember yours the most: I will always love you scrawled carelessly across a sticky note in smudged graphite. I can almost see it now, two reckless teenagers passing notes in secrecy, whispering hushed words into each other's ears. Promises, promises. They all break so easily. So fragile. So precious. So commonplace.

It's mine now. When you swore to love her forever, you inadvertently swore by me. Shame, shame. You dropped your promises into my waters when you crossed into the Underworld, and now they're mine for eternity. You might as well have written TO: THE RIVER STYX across them in black, felt-tipped marker and tied them all with ribbon. That little note was in the middle of the bundle, undoubtedly the prelude of many other promises you made to her. That poor girl who undoubtedly had her heart broken. Oh, yes. This one looks like a broken promise.

I bind all promises together as goddess of the River Styx. When you broke your promise to love her forever, you gave me the right to claim your soul. To break your little mortal will and incinerate your sanity for violating my ancient rights that Zeus bestowed upon me as a reward for siding with him in the Titan War. But times have changed, and there are too many oathbreakers to count; now I content myself by collecting all the meaningless little promises.

Your note was all crumpled and torn when I found it, you know. So neglected, even before it joined my torrents of water, before it joined the multitudes of promises, floating like lost fish in my murky waters. There was a little stain on it, brown and repulsive. This promise had obviously spent time in the trash. She threw it out, I suppose. But I won't.

Perhaps she didn't throw it out. Maybe it was a disapproving mother, a jealous friend, or one of the four winds who plucked it out of her hand. Thousands of monarch butterflies migrate across North America to return home for the winter, but all promises return to me, like homing pigeons flying home. This one is precious, for some reason. Carelessly made and tragically broken. So beautiful. And all mine, mine, MINE.

If you listen close enough, you can hear them coming. Fragments of whispered words, snatches of wedding veils and promise rings clinking as they fly through the Underworld, shrouded in their own little stories of fulfillment, regret, and deception. The promises come to me, tiny little paper wings and gilded halos fluttering in the breeze. They come, an assembly line of suffering that joins the host of sorrowful, tormented promises. Most of them are broken, you know. I heal them again. I make them whole, and I make them mine.

Your love, I suppose it's mine now too. Funny how such a worthless little note became the prized possession of an immortal goddess. But do you know how rare love is in the Underworld? After several millennia of cold and damp, love is an unknown commodity; promises like yours are the candles that light my darkness. It's as fragile as all of the other worthless promises, but it means more than all the rest for some reason. I've added your promise to the pile of my most precious promises, and I promise I will treasure it infinitely longer than you did. I swear on myself. And that's why you'll never see it again. Your promise, your love, your heart, it will always be mine now.

I'd see it burn before I give it back.