Page 37 of Where Darkness Bloomed
She managed to descend the first peak.
The path was treacherously steep, more a downhill scramble over lichenand stone than a controlled descent. Rocks bit into her bare feet, and her chiton snagged on the sharp crags, tearing in places. When she reached the bottom, she was bruised, soaked in mist.
Kore shivered, eyeing the river.
What happened if one fell in—
Immediately, she pushed the thought away. Looking forward, she fixed her gaze on the next steep peak.
Then a voice, calm and steady, cut through the rush of the river.
“May I assist you, my lady?”
Her head snapped up, finding a gaunt figure at the water’s edge.
He stood aboard a low ferry, the bow rocking gently despite the river’s rough current. Gray hair hung in thin strands, framing a weathered face. But his eyes were older than stone, watching her patiently.
“You are Charon,” Kore said immediately. “The ferryman of the River Styx.”
“I am.” Charon bowed his head. “May I serve you?”
She hesitated. “I—I have no gold to pay you.”
He offered a thin smile. “I would not accept gold from my master’s beloved.”
The words struck like a blow, driving the breath from her. But if Charon noticed, he said nothing, extending his hand to her.
She hesitated, eyes straying once more toward the sheer peaks ahead. With no clear path forward, she took his hand and stepped onto the ferry.
He pushed off the bank, guiding the boat into the wild current with easy control. The river churned and snarled, yet the vessel barely jostled as it rode the rapids.
Charon chuckled, a rasping sound like dry leaves. “I have traveled this route for eons,” he said, as if hearing her thoughts. “I know its ways as a mother knows her child.”
The temple loomed behind, its shadow stretching long over them, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. “Where does the river lead?”
“Everywhere, my lady.” The ferryman’s eyes held ancient wisdom. “The Styx is the mother of all waters, flowing from the Underworld to the edges of the mortal world. There, I gather the souls who wait on its banks.”
Her brows drew together. “Could one not simply cross back to the living world?”
Pity tinged Charon’s smile. “Many have tried,” he replied. “But that path is only open to one.”
“Who?”
“Thanatos. God of—”
“Death,” she finished, a chill settling against her bones.
Charon inclined his head. “It is his duty to move between worlds, to guide souls here, as the Fates bid him.”
Silence descended as the ferry drifted onward.
The sharp ridges of the mountains slowly fell behind them, softened by distance. The Styx’s channel widened, flowing quieter now, as the harsh stone peaks melted into gentler terrain. Along the banks, fields of silver flowers rose to greet them.
“The Fields of Asphodel.” Charon gestured to the swaying blooms. “Where the undistinguished dead reside.”
“Undistinguished?”
“Those who lived without great wickedness or virtue,” he explained. “Neither condemned nor exalted, they wander here in eternal sameness. They are at peace.”
