FIVE - Love will Lead You Forward
NOW
The desolate world greets him. Clark's black-booted feet touch down upon a dark, pebbly surface shimmering from the reddish colored atmosphere. A hue for which Clark is unable to determine its source. There appears to be none. No sun. No moon. The light simply exists, yet his analytical mind refutes such a reality. Such a circumstance. It leads him to an uneasiness where thoughts race for purchase, prioritizing whether his super powers will wane from the lack of a yellow star. Pockets of cloud-like darkness dot the red sky. Cumulus shaped puffs from which jet black tendrils snake out. Long and sharp appendages swooping and seemingly moving in some sort of sentient manner. A mountain range appears to shift in expansion across the horizon. It juts, spiraling miles upward toward an unknown destination. Clark turns to where he entered this new realm, and there is no entrance. No magical portal. There is nothing before him but an infinite, flat landscape. Pangs of longing and loneliness place additional anchors within him. His nostrils flinch as his senses continue to take in the lifeless environment. A pungent stench lingers, a smell not unlike mixed spices burning over a too hot flame.
Movement in the distance catches Clark's eye, but it is not clear. There is nothing relative for him to gauge how far away the ambiguous motion is to his current position. He tests his super vision ability by scanning the insides of his hands and arms. Blood, made up of plasma and trillions of corpuscles, courses through his veins and arteries. In further self-assurance of his powers, he flies several feet upward without issue. He registers the elevated heat temperature upon his face and hands. Droplets of sweat bead on the top of his head, dampening his uniform's neck collar. A most rare occurrence for him to sweat. His furrowed brow glistens as his boots regain contact with the ground. Short wisps of smoke escape from the rocky bed under his feet as he walks toward the motion.
"Literal hell," he whispers, interrupting a distal silence mitigated by his heartbeat and the shifting noise of loose rocks under his weight.
The undulating motion before him reveals itself to be a body of water. The slow lapping waves make little sound as they breach the shoreline nearest to Clark. He stands in awe at the water's breadth, unable to calculate its entire size as where much of it melds with a thick, deep fog. He chides himself, nearly snickers, for thinking, maybe even hallucinating, the darkness is gravitating towards him by some unnatural magnetic reaction.
"The River Styx," Clark assumes aloud.
"Actually, the river, Acheron," Clarks hears.
He looks to his side to see a man, who was not there a second ago. He stands a foot shorter than Clark. His skin is pale white; how Clark would imagine vampires if they were real. A notion that makes him grunt as his mind points out the absurdity of vampires, yet not his current absurd circumstance. The man is lean and muscular, wearing a white, flowing kilt-like material down from his waist. His torso is naked with the exception of a long, similarly flowing scarf. A gold battle helmet with smallish, white-colored, metallic wings on either side, rests atop his curly, brown head of hair. Similar wings adorn the white, strapped sandals worn on his feet. Those wings, unlike on the helmet, appear to be in a constant, flickering motion.
"Hermes," Clark assesses, noticing there is no sweat upon the man's face or body.
"Hello, Clark," Hermes greets in a whiny, slightly high-pitch voice. "I've been expecting you."
"Common theme around here," Clark observes. "I was expecting, if anyone, Hades. My mythology may be lacking, I thought you lived in Olympus. He is, king of the Underworld."
"I do, for the most part," Hermes replies. "But here I am. One of few who can traverse anywhere. Though have no fear, Hades will make his presence soon enough."
"And you, a god?" Clark questions.
"Doubt in your voice," Hermes says.
"I'm to believe you were part, in the creation of Earth, the universe," Clark suggests.
Hermes flits to and fro around Clark at a Barry-like speed.
"I find it odd, peculiar," Hermes responds, stopping in front of Clark. "Did not Diana of the Amazons speak of us? Our true existence?"
"Of course she did," Clark answers. "Chalk it up, to human processing, or maybe just the scientist in me. The existence of something, once considered fantastical is unnerving to say the least. As I say that, the irony is not lost upon me, my existence to Earth was once fantastical."
"You compare yourself to us, to me?" Hermes questions. "A god?"
"Only an observation," Clark asserts. "Once thought incredulous becomes reality. Diana. The Amazons. You. All around me, in this place, is seed for new truths."
"Assuredly," Hermes declares. "Will your mind allow such seeds to take root in comprehending not only me, but also your fate? Doubt is such a powerful fixation. I for one, have doubt of you. Should you convince the ferryman, I doubt you will see the skies of your Earth again. Ever. But to your notion, we, my fellow gods, goddesses, almighty Zeus, neither created Earth nor the universe."
"You admit that?" Clark asks. "I thought humility was lacking amongst such powerful entities."
With a gritting of immaculate teeth, housed in a snarling smile, Hermes flutters upward to match Clark's eye level.
"We were birthed the right and powers to control an Earth that already existed," Hermes says. "From the glory of the Titans - Father Cronus, Mother Rhea, came forth Olympus. The Olympians. A new generation of deities on the planet, we were. We tinkered, Clark. Man, woman, created in our images. Creatures of all that draw breath created from whims of fantasy, and fancy. A new cycle began. Alas, Zeus would become bored, despite Olympus moving faster than Earth time. He tinkered further with the mortals. Sizes, shades, more defined physical characteristics. That satiated him. For a while. Now, a release from boredom has peaked within him again. Another cycle to begin, to interject himself back into the lives of mortals."
"Another cycle?" Clark questions. "How old is Zeus? You?"
"We were here at the dawn of this planet," Hermes answers.
"You're billions of years old?" Clark questions. "Four and a half billion years?"
"As I said, time moves differently in these planes beyond Earth," Hermes responds. "But yes, as it relates to your measurement of time."
"Nonsensical. Why wait to create humans?" Clark asks. "It has been less than a million years, Earth years since homo sapiens, Neanderthals. Denisovans came about."
"Clark, Clark, Clark," Hermes blows out returning his feet to the ground. "Have you not been listening? You live in, know of a history, of this one cycle. There have been hundreds of cycles. Zeus now, deems a new cycle to begin."
"Wait," Clark manages. "You said interject, you mean wipe clean? Human history for the last million years."
"No," Hermes states. "Nothing that drastic. This time. You. You made the world believe a man can fly, like a god. We will make them understand. Again. They, our subjects, we their gods. Real gods. It poses a challenge. This is the most mortal advancement Zeus has ever allowed. A task I believe he purposely made to be challenging."
Clark bears down slightly above Hermes. "How will this be done?" Clark demands.
"Let's just say, you played. Play, a pivotal role," Hermes smiles. "For now, I'm here to escort you to the ferryman."
"Charon, to the Underworld," Clark sighs to Hermes' acknowledgement. "I so tire of these games. Diana is here. Why? I had to, let her go, knowing, believing her next life would be peaceful. Serene. A happiness. Even without me."
"Your words are such, as if you had a decision in her final destination," Hermes replies.
"I will," Clark states, feeling a comfortable tension ebb within him, unable, rather not wanting to escape a never ending anger regarding his wife's treatment. Her callous dismissal, being sent to a hell after her death at Mongul's hands.
Hermes takes note of Clark's emotive torture, yet also stock of the impressive man before him. He wonders, for the first time, was it a miscalculation bringing Superman to the Underworld.
"I know something of lost love," Hermes states. "The rope you carry upon your shoulder, arm. Its origin…"
"I know its origin," Clark says. "Forged from the girdle, magic girdle I've been told, of Aphrodite. Compels whomever it is wrapped around to speak the truth. Tell me, Hermes, can a god be compelled?"
Hermes' smile is wide and swaggering. "There is no need for deception on my part, Clark. Least not to you. It would be me lying to a fish."
"A fish I am," Clark replies.
"A prideful analogy on my part," Hermes responds. "The lasso, the Amazons told you truth. Aphrodite was my love, Clark. Beauty unlike any other. Nothing I would not do to reclaim that."
"I assume you mean love," Clark responds. "Surprises me, love seems a petty affectation for gods. Goddesses. But if it is so, then you know. Realize. There exists no scenario in which I give up on her. Who brought, ordered my wife here? Hades? Was it Zeus? Do you know Diana's lineage?"
"Do I know Zeus is Diana's father?" Hermes asks. "Not exactly a well-kept secret in Olympus. It's rather difficult keeping track of them all. Or is it us all, me included? His progeny lives in Olympus. Some were on Earth amongst the mortals. You should feel honored. Diana was one of the strongest Zeus ever created. Hippolyta took his seed well. Bloomed it beautifully. See what I did there, Clark? And there became you and Diana. A pair for the ages. Albeit cut short. Me with the puns. Can't help myself."
Clark feigns a blistering fast, right-hand jab towards Hermes' face. Hermes easily avoids the punch as Clark anticipates. Clark's other arm comes up, its hand stretches outward and clasps around Hermes' neck. Hermes' torso and lower body jerk violently outward from the sudden stop. Clark lifts the god's body off the ground while steadily increasing his hand pressure. The shock on Hermes' face, struggling unsuccessfully to extricate himself, is all Clark needs. He releases his grip. Hermes catches himself, gently dropping to the ground to prevent further embarrassment.
"Maybe I deserved that," Hermes says with a gasp. "But to lay hands on me, you…"
"If what you say is true," Clark interrupts. "I have seen worlds you know not their existence. Things, people beyond this, concern me more than you, or your, the gods. A year I was out there, beyond Earth. Learned things, many things. How much my world, fragile. Just a drop in an infinite bucket of space. There's a despot out there. Always is. Seems to be a constant of the universe. Someone never satisfied. This one claims to have crushed thousands of planets. How many lives would that be? Did they not have gods? If they did, Darkseid assuredly laid waste to them."
"Darkseid?" Hermes replies, soothing his neck that had not been so abused since Zeus' touch, many millenia ago. "Didn't you and your League dispatch of him?"
"No," Clark responds. "Just his messenger. Much like you."
"Laying hands upon me as you did," Hermes seethes. "I can punish you to death."
"Where is it you think I am?" Clark utters, his head tilts as he slowly pinches his nose. His eyes close for several seconds as he takes measured breaths. He looks to Hermes, and then turns, walking away. "I've met Death," Clark continues. "Intriguing, woman? Disturbing friends. So, please, God Hermes, punish me to death. You are welcome to try."
Hermes is rooted to his spot, totally perplexed by the Superman before him. Never has such an affront been made towards him.
"You dare?" Hermes snarls.
Clark stops, turns his head slightly. Hermes sees one of the Kryptonian's eyes, glowing a pulsing red. Tendrils of heat curling away and up.
"You fail to understand me," Clark says with cold calmness, his body standing rigid. "Diana is my greatest strength, my greatest weakness. Knowing that she is a possibility in my life again, the regulator I've placed on myself, my abilities, well, my greatest weakness. Anyone, anything that tries to stop me from her, will face that. And maybe my determination still won't be enough. We'll see. I've been called a symbol for truth. And justice. What you have done to her is neither. Something you may have done to thousands, millions of others who had no one to fight for them. So, messenger God, I do dare. Do you?"
Hermes nearly steps backward before realizing he is a god. An uneasiness creeps over him that only, Zeus, he thought, could ever make him feel. His face dissolves into a controlled grimace. "You continue to be a revelation," Hermes utters. "No need for violence. At least not yet."
"To you, I've lived only a blink of the eye," Clark says. "Hope is something I always look to. To hear you, a god, speak so easy of violence, leads me to believe it is something, you indoctrinated within humanity. My year away from Earth, realizing it is a universal truth beyond here, is disturbing, heartbreaking."
"But your hope still exists?" Hermes asks. "Diana?"
"She is but a part," Clark replies. "One of many who fight something intrinsic to their DNA. I have had hate in my heart. Me, a world calls Superman, struggle to keep at bay. Do I, like humanity, take one step forward, two steps back?"
"Clark," Hermes smiles. "I never knew a conversation with, well maybe that's it, you're not quite a mortal are you. What did Chaos think in creating Kryptonians? Or did Krypton have its own Titans? What became of them? Such an odd notion, as mortal as an Earth human until you're in the vicinity of a yellow sun."
Clark's eyes slowly transition from bright red to their normal shade of blue. "You mentioned earlier, Zeus' children. On Earth?"
"No more," Hermes answers. "Diana and Hercules were the last."
"Hercules?" Clark questions. "Twelve labors Hercules?"
"Some mythologized, other parts factual," Hermes says. "But he has not been seen in over, what, fifteen thousand years. Olympian years. I've always been able to locate anyone, God, Goddess, otherwise, except him."
Clark takes a deep, heavy breath, stroking his covered, bearded jaw.
"Concern wears on your face," Hermes observes. "Or is that confusion?"
Clark takes a moment to pluck his left eyelashes. Another tell of his that Diana came to know well. It was anxiousness, an almost overwhelming impatience to finish his task.
"It is neither, God Hermes," Clark mildly mocks. "Just the lightbulb of conclusive realization."
"Conclusive realization," Hermes repeats, juking around Clark in an erratic motion, just enough to evade another attack. "Of what?"
"There will be no allies here for me, save one," Clark states. "Everything. Everything here is designed to prevent me, and Diana from leaving. Maybe not just prevent. Kill, I think. Can someone die again, down here?"
"Assuredly," Hermes responds. "Repeatedly, in Tartarus."
"Outside of Tartarus?" Clark asks.
"Hmm," Hermes muses. "That won't happen."
"Really?" Clark asks. "And why not?"
"Should you find an exit," Hermes begins. "No, no, Clark. We'll let this play out."
"So we shall," Clark responds.
"Such an enigma, fascination you are," Hermes observes. "Not of this Earth. Abilities that rival ours. Hell, Clark, you have unknowingly, or is it knowingly, put forth efforts and deeds to proselytize the mortals to you. You speak so candidly of gods, were you one on Krypton?"
"I am but a man," Clark says.
Hermes' incredibly loud, nasally laugh overwhelms Clark's hearing sense, causing him to take a step backwards. Clark watches Hermes, doubling-over, holding a shimmering meter-long, golden staff, his caduceus – two intertwined serpents around a cylindrical tube with wings at the top.
"But a man," cackles Hermes, aimlessly swinging his staff back and forth in Clark's direction. "No man has ever put hands on me. Brought concern to Olympus like you have. A couple of demi-gods, but never a man. By the gods, Clark, what you did to that feral creature. Doomsday, was it? Hmm, but a man. Come, Clark. Follow me, if you can."
Hermes speeds off, his attire leaving a gold and white ghosting trail behind him. By the time Clark moves, Hermes is at least a mile away. Clark is momentarily unsure whether he gains on Hermes, or rather, the messenger god is slowing down. It turns out to be the latter as the wing-footed, Hermes awaits Clark at a river's edge. Clark slows up several miles away as his tunnel vision catches peripheral movement. Again, he witnesses what his mind furiously attempts to establish, comprehend. A gigantic cluster of moving, mostly standing, naked bodies. Humans ranging from babies hovering off the ground to those who first breathed air many decades ago. They are translucent, almost spiritual, but not quite. There appears to be a corporeal nature to them.
The burnt reddish light from above, shines down in visible, rainbow-like streams illuminating the swirling, bobbing mass of not so long ago humans, a cacophony of surreal horror they seem, as light reflects upon and through them. Clark is drawn to the sorrow. Their pain. It gnaws at him as his breathing is the only sound he hears. The fallen before him are without noise. Tens of thousands of them, aimlessly moving in short, clipped circular patterns within an open, vast area of the deadland. Their feet rise and fall with no sound. They move without collision. As if an invisible barrier surrounds each one, repelling any and all things that may gather too close.
Clark's empathy mutates into an impotency to the surreal absurdity before him. It feeds upon logic throughout his body. A gross sensation he has felt but only once in his life. His imprisonment on the moon still haunts him. Nearly a century ago, there he lay on its surface, paralyzed within his own body for more than a decade. The remembrance shatters rudely with a loud and primal noise emanating from the underworld's distance. Or is it close? Maybe across the river's wake, the sounds now appear to come. They are angry and animalistic. Demonic. Clark's fists instinctively ball up, release, ball up again. He moves closer to Hermes as the sounds are omnipresent, his head swiveling in all directions. Then, it is not. A concentrated noise swoops down towards him. Behind him. Near him, yet unseen.
The fallen he moves by have no reaction.
"What is this? These people?" Clark asks reaching Hermes. "Souls of the dead?"
"Never ending," Hermes answers. "They will always arrive, and ultimately depart. Think of them as your fellow passengers."
The aggressive sounds from the river and above become louder. Then all becomes silent.
Clark looks to the river, just beyond Hermes, to see a vertical, cylindrical structure bleed out from the darkness. It glides across the water's surface, heading towards Clark and Hermes. Clark estimates its circumference just under twenty-five meters. From the water's surface, it rises five meters upward. Clark detects no entry points. It is completely smooth all around. Clark's vision is unable to scan through the exterior. The black, river water continues to lap against the moving structure as it gets closer, still so stealthily silent. Clark attempts to peer under the water's surface, to see how deep the structure goes, but only to be met with the river's murky blackness. The structure comes to a halt before reaching the deadland's edge.
Upon the structure, just above the water's surface, a large rectangular outline etches an entry way. Once complete, the outline partition dissolves away to reveal a standing figure. A very tall figure. At first glance, Clark believes it to be a skeleton, but as it moves out of the structure, and seemingly floats over the water, the figure is only near-skeletal. Thin, incredibly tight, greyish flesh stretches upon the points and concaves of its cheeks and jawbone. Intrigued eyes, residing far back into its eye sockets, zero in on Clark. Those eyes. Dead, black eyes, remind Clark of Brainiac. The figure wears a black, tight material covering its body from feet to shoulders. A black cloak with hood, lays securely around its neck. Pointy-toed, shimmering black boots upon feet, which have yet to take a step as the figure hovers over the land, and then settles to the ground close to Clark and Hermes.
"Charon," Hermes greets, as he turns to Clark. "This is where I leave you. You have given me pause, which I have not had in such a long time."
"Here's hoping I will give you additional pause in the future," Clark says.
"I don't think so," Hermes says, tapping his helmet down, and blazing off into the nothingness of the deadlands.
"A living entity," Charon's gravelly, baritone voice observes of Clark. "It has been millennia since a living has attempted to enter the Underworld. What makes you think you will be allowed entrance?"
Clark tilts his head up to Charon's unexpressive face. He nonchalantly floats upward for closer communication.
"Because," Clark begins, reaching into a hidden pocket on his black pants' leg. He pulls out a gold-colored, velvety bag with a cinched drawstring. "Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons. Of Themyscira, asked me to hand this to you, as payment for my passage."
There is no clear reaction from Charon at the mentioning of Hippolyta's name. His right arm and hand crank up, a desiccated upturned palm stretches out towards Clark. Hippolyta requested of Clark, not to open the bag or scan it, only hand it over to Charon for payment. And so he does, the small, light bag drops onto Charon's palm. His angular, thin fingers close around the bag. Clark drops back to the ground as Charon loosens the cinch, and looks in. There is still no reaction. He stands there. And stands there. Minutes pass as Charon continues his study of the bag's content.
"Is that sufficient?" Clark finally asks.
The ferryman looks down to Clark. "You can fly?" Charon asks.
"Amongst other things," Clark answers.
"I was not informed," Charon says, placing the cinched bag inside his cloak. "You have passage, Clark Kent of Earth. But know this, once you enter the transport, to the depths of Underworld, to Tartarus, you will find entering much easier than escaping."
"How do I enter?" Clark asks.
Charon motions his left arm towards his vessel. "Enter, and all will be."
Clark looks back to the mass of dead humanity. They are oblivious to him and the ferryman.
"Tell me," Clark asks. "Why would the dead need, want to make payment for entrance to an eternal hell?"
"Because as they exists now," Charon states. "They will eventually fade to nothingness. Payment grants them, possibility."
"Of?" Clark asks.
"Continued existence," Charon answers. "One way or another."
"Most do not carry coin," Clark observes. "What is their payment?"
"What I see fit," Charon answers.
Clark pauses a moment, wondering how they will all board, fit into the vessel, before he himself floats toward its opening. He stops close to the entry way, hovering as he turns to Charon.
"I think, we will meet again, ferryman," Clark says. "I don't think it will be as cordial."
Out from the darkness, multiple, large-winged creatures baring meter long fangs, swoop down landing next to Charon.
"It is all relative," Charon says as the creatures hiss and jerk toward Clark.
"Indeed," Clark ponders, turning back around to enter the vessel.
The entrance reseals itself once Clark crosses the threshold. He hovers within an impenetrable blackness and an isolating silence. The lasso's golden sheen is lost to him as he touches its smooth, weighted presence around his shoulder arm. And yet, his heartbeat does not race, his nerves do not quiver. It is his anticipation that grows. For she is getting closer. A calmness anchors itself within him, allowing only one image to take hold. To see Diana's alive, aware eyes is everything to Clark at this moment. Appearing below him is a small, pinprick beacon of blue light. It begins to expand, widen, forming a hole under him. The reflecting light shimmers off Clark's black and silver suit, yet it fails to brighten most of the vessel's surrounding blackness. The hole stops growing outward, just wide enough for a body to fit through. A heavy, invisible pressure descends upon Clark's head, his shoulders. He instinctively fights the force, but once again, he thinks of her, and allows his body to fall. Through the hole it disappears, as does the hole seconds later.
Streaks of blue light, ping around Clark's body as his descent continues, accelerated by the pressure being forced down upon him. The streaks slow, morphing into a singular red wave that washes over him, leaving the darkness in its wake. Time becomes lost to Clark. He knows not how long it has been when below, the oncoming darkness once again overwhelms his body and senses. The fall continues. With a jarring suddenness, light returns. Shapes come into focus. Clark's descent slows, comes to a halt as his feet find purchase on another rocky surface.
Everywhere he turns, there is the fallen. Most stumble upon the ground's surface. Others are raining down, as Clark did, from a blackness that is the above sky. They land without sound, all crumpling to their knees. They rise and stand without sound. And then like the others, move forward in concerted motion towards a seemingly singular destination. Clark lifts off, flying over the walking fallen, towards that destination. Bodies continue to fall around him, as they move toward a valley passage between two mountainous, smoldering black rock hills. Clark speeds further ahead to see a gigantic, white glistening wall embedded between the hills. Above it, a horrific, beautiful contrasting darkness. The wall has no apparent texture as the fallen do not hesitate, walking and disappearing into it.
Clark, however, is more than distracted by what stands at one of the gate's side. Imagined expectations once again confront reality as he slows his flight speed. There before him. The sheer, mammoth scale of the creature leaves him in awe. Clark has seen many exotic animals on multiple planets, but none this large. Its height measures more than sixty meters. Double, should it stand on its hindquarters. The creature is Cerberus, the literal watchdog of the Underworld. The beast has three canine heads attached to a deep, short-haired, black body; each head snarling in different directions. Drool cascades from mouths housing sharpened teeth rows, creating puddles upon the ground. Sticky saliva whips from their mouths, finding land drops upon the fallen. Rather than fur around the Cerberus' heads, there are slithering, coiling snakes, each as wide as Clark's body. The longest snake on Cerberus serves as the tail, its unhinged jaw snapping towards the fallen.
One of Cerberus' heads make eye contact with Clark. The two others quickly turn attention to the hovering man. Their barks are not canine; rather, what Clark imagines a tyrannosaurus rex would sound like, times three.
A bolt of white, tunneling light strikes down from above, making contact with the surface in front of Cerberus. The light quickly disappears. Standing in its place, upon the ground, is a very thick bodied, very short man. His clothing is similar to Clark's form-fitting black suit. Although, the man's torso clothing has no arm sleeves. Better to display his massive, muscular arms, proportioned to the rest of his body. He wears a gold colored crown, black hair tendrils wrap in and out, securing it to his head. His beard, cut and trimmed perfectly.
Cerberus' body and its three heads bow down behind the man. Clark floats over the swelling mass that is the fallen. He lands down several meters from the man.
"Death, Hermes, Charon, Cerberus I presume" Clark says, looking up to the beast and then to the newly arrived man. "And you would be?"
"Lord Hades of the Underworld," the figure states, in a deep, rich-sounding voice. "Surely a mortal of your intellect would have reasoned that. Or does my diminutive height counter your vision of mythological Hades."
"Maybe," Clark replies. "But I would be foolish to apply power to size."
Hades smiles. "You concern my brother," Hades states. "Therefore, you concern me. What did you give Charon to allow passage?"
"I do not know," Clark answers. "I was only asked to give by Queen Hippolyta, not look. Wouldn't you know, Lord Hades?"
Hades smiles, a smile of someone who narcissistically believes his intelligence has no peer.
"Ah, it has been too long since I dabbled with an outsider," he blows. "The ferryman and I have an agreement. Since the creation of this realm, my realm. The dead offer payment for final judgment. No payment, no entrance."
"Charon said they pay for continued existence," Clark states. "What is meant by that?"
Hades walks closer to Clark. Cerberus' heads lean forward, their huge razor sharp fangs glisten with saliva gunk.
"The realm has four possibilities," Hades replies. "The Asphodel Meadows, where one remembers their mortal life, then forgets it, and remembers again. Idyllic enough. No hot flames. Demons, if you will. There are the Fields of Mourning, though lovers be lost, death shall hold no dominion."
"Dylan Thomas," Clark responds.
"The scientist, the superman, and now learned man of poetry," Hades responds. "He was one of the few mortals that intrigued me on arrival."
Clark takes a second to comprehend Hades' words. A realization that everyone who has ever lived may exists in some form in the Underworld.
"You said four possibilities," Clark responds. "Where is my wife, Diana?"
Cerberus growls at the mentioning of Diana's name. Hades holds a hand up, and Cerberus leans further down. One of the heads has a long healing gash upon its crown.
"Your wife," Hades says, motioning to the injury. "She was, and continues to be he own intrigue. She is not in the Elysium Fields, but you know that. Which, leaves Tartarus. Imagine the worse, and you barely grasp the worst that is Tartarus. I have not stepped foot there in over, calculating Earth years, nearly eight thousand years."
Clark feels the itch in his stomach. Bubbling up, making its way throughout his torso, into his arms and hands. For her, he supplants the desire to grab Hades and feed him to Cerberus.
"She was thrown into Tartarus," Clark breathes out. "And left, to what, is it some hellish inferno?"
"The thing about Tartarus," Hades says while stroking one of Cerberus' heads. "I left the fire burning when last there. Who's to say, what or who has mastered the fire or been set ablaze by it. Don't worry, no one can, die again in Tartarus. But, oh the pain, can definitely be felt. A pain unlike any ever experienced while Earth bound. I see anger in your eyes. Enter the gate of Underworld, Clark Kent, Kal-El. Your destination has been ordained already."
"Hermes said one could die over again in Tartarus," Clark states.
"My nephew is many things," Hades replies. "Shifting truths is one of his qualities."
"There will be much to answer for," Clark says, eyeing Hades. "Much."
"Such boldness," Hades proclaims. "I do, truly, hope you find her. Tis it will be for naught. Should you even find your Diana, should you even escape Tartarus. Much will await you. You will never leave."
"Believe that if you will," Clark says. "But, neither Diana nor I, will go gentle into that good night."
Clark flies off, above the fallen, who are still moving through the gate's entrance. He follows suit, disappearing through the barrier as Hades watches. A smile creeps upon Hades' face, as he strokes the chin of another head on the Cerberus. He looks upward into the blackness above.
"Interesting," he whispers, and looks to where Clark disappeared seconds ago through the gate. "You create questions, Kryptonian. I give you that. It makes me, almost makes me, want to step foot again in Tartarus to watch."
Hades turns to Cerberus.
"Should either he or the Amazon come back through the gate," he orders, staring into the red-colored eyes of the Cerberus' heads. "Rip their bodies apart."
Clark passes through the wall, and finds himself standing before the Underworld judges, upon the same ground Diana fell through. The judges' silhouettes strike Clark more as bizarre whimsy than fearful fright.
"I am Aeacus," Clarks hears from one.
"I, Rhadamanthus," another voice follows.
"And I, Minos," the third voice announces.
"Is this Tartarus?" Clark asks, still unable to use his super vision to its full power.
"No," Aeacus replies. "You have been designated for Tartarus. So it is ordered, so it is done."
The ground under Clark opens. Rocky debris flies all around him. He looks to the judges, and then downward into the opening abyss. There is no pressure this time, pushing him down. He allows his body to fall.
As it was with Diana, the man of steel will fall for nine days.