The Day Hell Broke Loose
They said that one was defined at death by the actions of their life, that upon passage to the dark realm of Erebos their soul might be judged by the spirits of those long since passed.
He had heard tales of those of a land far south of his Mycenaean home, across the Great Sea, of a land in which one's soul was weighed against a feather, tales brought to noble Ilios by men in the service of Brave Memnon, slayer of Antilochus Son of Nestor.
Indeed, he had stood upon the walls of his beloved Ilios, watched as the mighty Achilles thrust his spear into the chest of the great warrior, whose army had given so much hope to the defenders of Troy.
He had watched in awe as his shining blade of bronze, that ornate, masterfully forged arc of destruction had drawn blood from Achilles, catching the sunlight and glowing with the ferocity of a fire in the forests of Dardania. He had stood there, at the side of his Prince, Paris, marvelling at the skill of this warrior.
He had stared, slack jawed as the fall of their king drew the Aetheopians into retreat.
And yet, here he lay, his own lifeblood leaking from his maimed, mangled body into the earth that gave him life, into the soil from which Poseidon and Apollo had created the bricks that, when combined, would become the walls of Troy, so strong, so brilliantly constructed that the full might of Achaea could not topple them in ten years of fierce warfare. Ten years in which the Gods and their own had watched; observed as their society; the pedestal upon which their image had been so reverently placed, tore itself asunder as a result of the vanity of three among their own.
The soldier was not of noble standing, of course, and yet it was only as he lay in the arms of Thanatos that he wondered. Wondered as the womenfolk of his town were slaughtered and carried away, as children and elderly alike were dragged from their homes, their houses torched as the Achaean host made known their rage.
A fellow soldier might have been thrown into action at the first chance, just another body to become food for the carrion who feasted upon what was left upon the field of battle, that once-pristine body of sand which beckoned travellers to mighty Ilion, the seemingly immortal city like a beacon of life among the dust which surrounded it, that once-pristine body of sand which was now stained a sickening red after ten long years of grinding battle.
A fellow soldier, a normal one would have died long before he did, now little more than ash upon the breeze, a soul in the River Acheron, wailing its misery to all that crossed it.
A fellow soldier might never have even seen the visages of the Trojan nobility.
Why was it that he had?
Jason, his mother had named him, for the heroic Argonaut, for the man who had sailed the great heroes of the age into the Sea of Monsters and to the land beyond the Hellespont, where heathens roamed and where honour was nothing.
His father…
His father greeted him with open arms at the Gates of Erebos, eyes shining with divinity that none else would ever see.
The ferryman smiled as he stepped away, and immediately he was enveloped in that same light, the light within each and every being.
He turned, and he wept as he watched his city burn.
A/N
Don't even ask. If you enjoyed it, yay. If not, not yay.
Darkest of Times and Waning Moon updates to come in due course, though little to no work has been done on either as of yet. Exams are looming, so bear with me.
Authors on CombatTombat's discord will know that I'm working on a PJOxSW crossover somewhere in the background alongside the long-term projects detailed in previous ANs in both my other stories to date, so I'm not entirely sure what's to come immediately after the end of Darkest of Times. I might just end up focussing on Waning Moon and then get onto the next project, but as you can see I'm a touch too impulsive for that.