#like charon on the river styx

[gearsphere]

👁️ 🌟💀🌙 🗡️

[bkyngw]

i've seen people tag this ship as "speedboat" which amuses me

[cadavercowboy]

Need everyone to ride the Walty Goggs train straight into Boyd Crowder-ville, USA

[yungpilk]

Acheron, the river entrance to Hades before it was Styx

[anthonyspage]

🌊💀🚣‍♂️🍸

[quismihiignem]

Say Charon out loud

Do it just trust me

Ok so now that is over

Charon trying to find hades: where is my manager

[sanguinesmi1e]

This whole thing with Deadman giving Nightwing a coin that lets him see dead people has so many fun implications for dpxdc stories. Like, Danny invisibly haunting the batfam and pulling pranks, while Nightwing just stares at him like a cat staring down the invisible eldritch horror in the corner of the room that no one else can see.

For context, Nightwing has an obol coin which was used to pay Charon to cross the river styx. It gives him the ability to see and hear Deadman, and other dead entities. Including the "chatter of broken things" and “plaintive little cries of mass-produced stuff more easily trashed than fixed.” Aka Nightwing can hear inanimate objects. Aka Nightwing is probably being haunted by fast fashion and disposable packaging.

Man I really want him to meet Box Ghost so they can commiserate about the lack of respect paid to disposable products.

[khaire-traveler]

I'm curious because someone recently made the comment that it's only fair for Lord Charon to expect money in return for his services, but this system would actually raise a lot of questions. If you're curious, some questions I thought of are featured below.

(For the record, I still believe Charon deserves recognition for what he does; it's just the coin system doesn't actually make sense when you start examining it closely.)

Please reblog! 🧡 I want to hear everyone's opinions on this.

Not every Underworld god is paid for their labors. Some aren't even given offerings anymore, their names tragically lost to time. So, why is Lord Charon specifically mentioned to require coins for his ferry? Why not Lord Haides, for entry to his domain? Or Lord Thanatos for deliverance of one's soul? Or Lord Hermes for transportation from the mortal realm to that of the dead? Why not Cerberus for letting you through The Gates (he is a sentient being, btw, for those who seem to think he's just a random three-headed dog)?

Does The Underworld have an economy? Why does it need an economy based on coins from the material plane/Earth? How does it even determine currency value?I mean, just imagine how many different people from different countries would have gone to The Underworld and paid with coins over thousands upon thousands of years.

Does payment have to be coins, or is there maybe some other form payment you can provide? Does the value of the item have to be monetary, or can it be something that meant a lot to you in life? More of a metaphorical release of the material plane, in a sense, as you trade off something that ties you to Earth and are officially transported to "The Other Side".

How do you get physical coins onto a spiritual plane?

Why would Charon need coins from the surface world? Does he maybe just have a sick coin collection from over thousands of years of human history?

What about our ancestors who were alive before the invention of monetary coins; were they just expected to stand at the shore for 100 years for not having something that didn't exist yet?

Speaking of the last question, where do animals go? How do they get across the river Styx?

Why would the afterlife require money in order for you to enter it properly? That seems kind of fucked up and more like something a bunch of old men wrote down to declare the wealthy more important than the poor, no?

If this is really just a job for Lord Charon (who is a son of Nyx, mind you), that implies that maybe Lord Haides (or whomever oversees that) could hire others to help him. Is there more than one ferryman on the river Styx? What is their average hourly pay? How can I apply, and does anyone have any interview tips? Seems to me that it'd be based on commission.

Do you think the spirits on the riverbank get bored of waiting? What do you think they do for 100 years to pass all that time? 🤔

[lyrablack1883]

Charon

They said, if you wish to cross the river Styx, you have to pay Charon, the ferryman, a single coin. Severus never actually meet Charon but he meet other ferryman during his lifetime. Men who pushed him gently into the silent of eternal night.

The first ferryman was his father, a muggle who hated magic and himself. To cross over, Severus pay him with his childhood. He remembered the belt, the stings of cold winter, the hunger and the sound of rats running around the alley. But it wasn’t enough. The second ferryman was a beautiful boy with silver eyes. To cross over, Severus continue to pay him throughout his teenage years. He remembered the stings of hexes, the humiliation, and the wetness of his robes clinging to his body as he was drop into the lake. The ferryman then deliver him to the wolf. But it wasn’t enough.

The third ferryman was a man with red eyes and charming smiles. The ferryman told him, he understood his suffering, and gently, he marked him as his own. To cross over, Severus pay him the one thing he ever loved. He remembered the anguish, the regret, the stain on his arm, and the never ending crucio. But again, it wasn’t enough. The fourth and final ferryman was a man one step before d3ath itself. To cross over, Severus pay him with the only thing he had left, his soul. He remembered how the ferryman’s body falls, the way his last word was of him begging him to end it. With this final payment, the third ferryman approached him and in turn will deliver him to his final rest. However again, it seems it wasn’t enough. As the boy with silver eyes, took both of his hand, together they ran and the boy rowed them back into the opposite direction.

(I genuinely forgot what I was going for the first time I had the idea, so above is just the general idea of Severus and his connection with men who controlled his whole life, who he paid dearly for every stage of his life, and after, at the end, he was finally rewarded with death, except I don’t want his story to end like that, so Sirius here had the role to bring him back, you can view him here as a ghost or alive [where he didn’t fall into the veil], why him especially? I viewed these two as characters who lived through the same hell, the type that goes “you put me through this hell, so I’ll drag you down here too” but also “you and I went through the same hell, I managed to get out, so I’ll do anything to get you out with me”) [according to the extremely biased characterization in my head ahaha]

The age of these characters portrayal is set during the time Severus felt closer to death because of them. Tom riddle in his 50s when he killed lily, Tobias in his 30-40s when Severus still lived with him, Sirius in his fifth year when he sent Severus to werewolf!remus and dumbledore in his 150s when he asked Severus to end his life. Since this was also done from Sirius pov, Severus here is also portrayed in his fifth year except for the last panel where he is portrayed a moment before his supposed death at 38.

This was loosely inspired by the song ‘Achilles come down’ by gang of youths and this wonderful fic two sides by blue_inking and Zain

[friendship-switchblades]

the flavor text feels like an acknowledgment that they’re puppets on the strings of nostalgia (not in a way that they hate it, obviously, they’re doing the shows lol, but they’ve been summoned by a force they answer to). does a revenant know it’s dead? CAN a revenant know it’s dead?

i’m obsessed with the thematic possibilities i see here. it reminds me of how fans play with literal interpretations of “killjoys never die”

the parade as an unceasing spectre, an eternal unlife and undeath. there’s no psychopomp for the psychopomps themselves. charon cannot leave the river styx and rest. they march forever, the shadow self of “we’ll carry on”

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 2

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Prologue + Chapter 1

Chapter 2

He was burning up. He had gone through the Styx, so this must be Phlegethon, the river of fire that coils around the Earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. Would that he was in the Lethe, so he could forget all this pain. The twin blades in his shoulder and his ribs were back, and the awkward position of his body only exacerbated them. He was face down, sprawled across some sort of chair or saddle, which lurched and jolted underneath him like a boat over a fierce river. This confused him, for there was no boat across the Phlegethon, only the fiery current that burned the souls of sinners.

And he could spy those souls now, dark shapes that emerged from the flames and rushed at him, trying to drag him down with them. He thought he recognized one of them, a young man who struck him as particularly familiar, even in silhouette. And behind this young man, thousands and thousands more. His victims. But that made no sense. If his victims were here, that meant they were sinners and he had done right to kill them. So why was he here as well? Why were the flames licking at his head and his neck and his body, burning, scorching? And if he belonged here, why were his victims suffering along with him? Who was the righteous?

A jolt of pain shot through his torso, taking his breath away, and he came back to reality. Light was shining into his eyes, hurting them, though it was firelight or sunlight he could not tell. He couldn't lift a hand to shield himself or turn his head away from it. His limbs and even his eyelids appeared to be made of stone, so heavy they were, and a fog had settled over his brain, blurring everything and robbing him of any control over his mind and body. More than anything, it was this loss of control that frightened him. He had always been in full command of himself, and to be unable to speak or move was a terrifying form of torture he wouldn't wish even on his worst enemy.

Then the lurching stopped, and after some violent jolting, he found himself lying on hard ground, on his side, which made breathing less painful. He opened his eyes and saw flames. This really was the Phlegethon then. A dark figure crouched by the fire. One of those lost souls? Charon? No, there was no Charon. No Phlegethon. Only the stream. A horse. And a woman. And those green, green eyes. He couldn't see the eyes of the dark figure, whose face was hidden under a cowl.

The figure moved toward him. An arm slipped under his shoulder, lifting him, which hurt, and he felt a cup pressed to his lips. He closed his teeth against it and turned away, instinctively. He never drank or ate anything without having his taster test it first. But the cup followed his mouth.

"Drink it," a soft voice said. "It will make you feel better."

Better, meaning he would be well again, or better, meaning he would be dead and no longer in pain? He wasn't sure which would be preferable. That terrible burn of anger during his flight had been replaced by a creeping, nagging fear, brought on by his vision of the Phlegethon, and he was afraid that, should he recover, those ghosts in his dream would become too tangible, too real.

"Drink it," the voice repeated, a touch more impatient now. "I haven't gone through all the trouble to rescue you only to poison you. Drink."

He couldn't argue with that. And either way, he was too weak to fight off the cup. He unclenched his teeth, a bitter dose was poured into his mouth, and soon, darkness obscured everything.

But even in this darkness, the ghosts, the lemures, refused to leave him be. The darkness splintered into a million pieces, and each piece became a shadowy spirit that circled him, howling in his ears, clawing at him with their sharp talons and teeth, like a swarm of harpies, and he was too weak to drive them away. Some pieces of darkness coagulated into a bigger, human shape. It was the same figure of the young man he'd seen in the river of fire, now moving toward him with deliberate, inexorable steps. He curled up, trying to shield his eyes from its vengeful stares, but as it often happened in dreams, he found himself unable to move. It moved closer to the fire. Now there was nothing to prevent him from seeing its face—only there was no face. Above the neck, there was just a blank slab of skin, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, nothing at all. Yet somehow, as this abomination bent over him, Geta could still feel hatred radiating from it, like a heat wave over the desert.

He lashed out his arm with a feeble cry.

Something—or rather, someone—caught his arm. A hand slipped into his, a small, cool hand, soft of skin but firm of touch, and a gentle voice murmured something in his ears. The lemures and the shades were driven back, faded away. The dark became as it used to be in his childhood, friendly and restful, and he slept.

That was how it went for the next few days, though in truth he didn't know how much time had passed. Things happened in flashes and flickers, like shadows surrounding a campfire. He would open his eyes and see the dark figure stirring the fire, and a cup would be pressed against his lips, sometimes containing the bitter drink, sometimes containing something else, more palatable. Then sunlight would be hurting his eyes and he would feel coarse hair under his cheek and an animal smell in his nose. The pain in his shoulder and his chest was back, but he was grateful, for it helped him stay awake and avoid the realm of Hades in his dreams. But sometimes the pain was too much and he would slip into the world of darkness and ghosts and fire again, until that soft hand, that gentle voice, and occasionally those green eyes as well, brought him back.

He thought it would never end, this torturous journey with the brief rests that didn't bring much reprieve at all and only worsened the misery. Perhaps this was his punishment in Tartarus, just an endless, painful journey in a guttering dark that led nowhere at all.

At some point, the jolting worsened, and he felt himself sliding off the saddle, until someone caught him and righted him, wrenching a groan of pain out of him. They were going uphill. Then he was half-dragged, half-carried into a thicker darkness, and, thank Jupiter, there was no more bumping or jostling after that.

The journey was over, though the fire in his body, the pain, and the ghosts remained. More liquids were poured down his throat, something slightly sweet, something savory, like a broth. He felt better and then he felt worse. When the fire threatened to burn him, the bitter drink was brought out again, which sent him into a heavy, dreamless state of unconsciousness that was worse than even the ghosts. If he had been able to talk, he would have told whoever was looking after him to stop, to find him those hands and those eyes, which could help him much more effectively than a thousand bitter doses, but the mysterious Hippocrates remained inexorable, and the medicining continued.

Things swam into his view and took shape—a rough wall, a crudely made table, a small window, and a dark, scurrying shape. His mind knew them to be real, even that dark figure, who moved in a human way that was far different than the lemures of his nightmares. But before he could grasp them and form a picture of his surroundings, they were gone again, slipped back into the fire and the darkness. They came back though, more and more often, until one day, the fire finally cooled and the darkness receded. He opened his eyes and saw, clearly, not Hades, but a small, bare room—little more than a cell, really. He searched himself. He was dressed in a linen undertunic, coarse but clean, and there were bandages, smelling pungently of vinegar and some sort of herb, around his torso. His shoulder and ribs still ached, dully, and then sharply when he tried to move, and he was still lightheaded, but his mind was clear for the first time in days.

He sat up, stifling a groan, and discovered that he was lying in a low bed, on a lumpy mattress and pillow stuffed with what felt like raw sheep's wool, and covered with linen sheets. A tiny window gave the room its only source of light. The wooden shutters were closed, so only a few scattered rays came through, but they were enough to show him mud-brick walls with a door set into the far end, earthen floor smoothed by years of footsteps, and all the furniture, which consisted of the bed, a table, and a trunk. His cloak and belt were hung on a nail on the wall, and his boots stood underneath, but there was no sign of his tunic or his dagger. An earthenware jug and cup sat on the table.

So this was where he was. The picture he'd only seen in snatches and fragments was now whole at last.

The sight of the jug made him realize how thirsty he was. He reached for the cup, but his arm was weak as a newborn's and fell short. His hand dropped onto the table, rocking it, and the cup fell over with a clatter.

The door opened. Light poured into the room, momentarily blinding him. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. Geta's heart seized as the old superstitious fear came creeping back. Was it Thanatos, coming to claim him at last? Then the figure moved into the room, and he breathed more easily. It was a woman. He peered at her, trying to see if she was his guardian spirit with the green eyes. She lifted a hand to pull down her dark mantle, revealing a long, thin face with sharp features, accentuated by dark hair smoothed back over her brow into a simple knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were green, but they were a muted, pale green, nothing like the brilliant, calming green that had saved him from his nightmares. Could she be the same woman?

"You're awake," the woman said in Greek. Her accent was strange, though it was Syrian or Arabic, he couldn't tell. "Feeling better, I hope?" He tried to match her voice to the murmurs he'd heard in his sleep, but couldn't remember what it had sounded like. He only remembered being soothed by it.

"Who are you?" he asked. His voice only came out as an incoherent rasp. Seeing him struggle to swallow, the woman rushed forward, picked up the fallen cup, poured some water from the jug into it, and held it to his lips. The water was cool and sweet. He gulped mouthful after mouthful, almost without stopping to swallow. As the water slid down his throat, his chest unexpectedly tightened in pain, and he spluttered, spilling water and spit everywhere.

"Slow down," the woman said unnecessarily. "Your wounds are not yet healed."

He coughed and coughed, feeling as though his torso may tear open. It was a long time before the coughing subsided and he lay back on the bed, exhausted. By Jupiter, had he been reduced to such a weakling that a sip of water could hurt him so?

The woman put the cup to his lips again. He took smaller sips this time, letting the water cool his parched mouth and throat.

"Who are you?" he repeated. His voice was still faint, but at least it was audible. "Where am I?"

"My name is Daphne, I'm a healer," the woman said. "This is my hut. I found you floating on a stream in the Balikh Valley and brought you back to my village."

The Balikh! That was near the border between Osroene and Syria! By Jupiter, how long had he floated in that stream? But at least they spoke Greek here, that meant he was still within the Empire and hadn't strayed over to the Parthian side.

"My knife?" he demanded, not caring how brusque he sounded. His chest hurt so much he could only speak in short sentences, politeness be damned.

"I put it away, so you won't injure yourself or others." She glanced at the door, and that was when he noticed a strip of linen tied around her face, covering what looked like a cut. Had he done that?

"Give it back," he said.

"You've no business wielding a knife in your condition."

"Give me my knife!" he growled, and fell into another fit of coughing.

The woman looked at him critically for a moment, then she heaved a sigh of resignation and went into the front room. She returned a moment later with the dagger, still in its sheath, holding it strangely, like one would a kitchen knife, not a weapon. She handed it to him and quickly moved away, as if afraid he would spring out of bed and attack her.

"There," she said, "though I must say there is absolutely no need for it here. You're safe."

Safe? He was far from safe. Even as his body writhed and trembled from pain, his mind was clearing up fast, and memories came flooding back, vivid without the nightmarish haze that had veiled everything during his fever.

He remembered everything now. The march from Edessa to Carrhae to visit the temple of Sin, the Babylonian moon god, to pray for victory in the upcoming war with Parthia. The stop by the side of the road, overlooking a ridge, so he could relieve himself. The sound of furtive footsteps on the gravel behind him. "I've told you men not to follow," he'd grumbled, not bothering to turn around. "I need no attendant just to take a piss." Then the white-hot explosion of pain across his shoulder, spinning him around. The face of his attacker swam in front of his eyes, twisted in hatred. Martialis. One of his most trusted guards. Martialis had been pestering Geta to grant him a centurion position, but Geta had refused, preferring to keep a man he could trust close by. That had been his fatal mistake... or near fatal.

In the shock of the moment, somehow, Geta had had the presence of mind to pull out his own dagger and bury it Martialis's neck with one hand, while with the other hand, he'd grabbed at Martialis's knife as it stabbed into his chest, toward his heart. He had stumbled backward, rolled down the ridge, and then there was a dark, blank space in his mind, only broken up by snatches of memories like an unfinished mosaic—the painful staggering across a rocky landscape, the stream, Charon, the fire, and that hellish trip... He tried not to think of the ghosts.

"What happened to you?" the woman asked. "Was there a battle?"

Clearly, she believed he was a soldier. Good. He had no intention of persuading her otherwise. How lucky it was that he now preferred the simple clothes of a soldier to the elaborate imperial garb he'd once been used to. His intaglio ring, carved with the eagle and wreath that symbolized his power, was still on his finger, but the woman didn't recognize the image. No one would, save for those who were privy to seeing it on the seals of official documents.

"No battle," he said. "I was—attacked."

"By whom?"

He gripped the knife, finding comfort in its weight in his hand, thinking how ironic it was that the dagger that had meant to kill him was now his only weapon. How much should he tell her? He thought of Martialis again. The man couldn't have acted alone. The journey to Carrhae had been spontaneous, suggested by Macrinus, the praetorian prefect, who believed such a visit would bolster the army's failing morale and prepare them for the renewal of their campaign against Parthia. Whoever wanted Geta dead would have had to plan the assassination for a long time in order to seize this opportunity. Martialis didn't—hadn't had it in him—to seize such an opportunity, much less to plan and scheme. That was another reason why Geta hadn't wanted to make him a centurion. He didn't think Martialis would have made a good commander. A soldier through and through, a follower. Then who could have whispered poison in Martialis's ears and turned him against Geta, against his own Emperor?

He motioned to the cup, and the woman obligingly put it to his lips again, before retreating a safe distance away. "How far—are we—from Carrhae?" he asked.

"Five or six days' walk, over the hills. Is that where you came from?"

He shook his head. "Going there," he said. "From Edessa." It was a known fact that the army had been wintering in Edessa; it should be safe to tell her that much.

"Why were you marching on Carrhae?" the woman inquired. "Those two soldiers said the Parthians weren't going to attack us, but I don't like the looks of them. And they mentioned nothing about Carrhae."

This was new. He lifted his head. "What soldiers?"

"They were asking around for you," she said. "The day after I found you. But you said to hide you, so I told them I've seen nothing." She peered at him closely. "Was that wrong?"

So they had been searching for him. But why only two? Why weren't they tearing up the entire province to find him?

"What do they—look like?"

She described them, a rat-faced blonde and a dark-haired one with a scar. "To own the truth, they didn't seem too concerned about finding you," she added.

Geta didn't remember such men from his retinue. That raised his suspicion. He believed the army was loyal to him, but sending only two, seedy-looking and apparently incompetent men to search for him didn't inspire much confidence.

"Did they say anything else?"

"They mentioned someone called Martialis."

So they knew. Of course they had to know; the knife to the neck was enough to kill the traitor, and once they saw Martialis's corpse and discovered the Emperor missing, they should come to the right conclusion immediately. And yet—

"What's the date?" he asked.

"Three days past the ides of April," the woman said, and again he felt a shock. It had been eight days past the calends of April when they set out from Edessa. So for ten days he had been missing, yet there had been no widespread search, no outcry. It confirmed his suspicion that there was a conspiracy.

Who could it be? Could it be Artabanus IV, the Parthian king, wanting to dispatch him by subterfuge rather than facing him on the battlefield? Could it be someone hired by a disgruntled Senator, or by the entire Senate, who was tired of emptying the Empire's coffer for his wars? Could it even be a follower of his brother, someone he'd missed? He had too many enemies to count, and thinking of them made his head pound and his chest hurt. He dropped back on the mattress with labored breaths. One thing was clear: regardless of who was behind this conspiracy, he was in no condition to do anything about it.

The woman, the healer—he hadn't caught her name—was still peering at him. "I understand if you do not wish to tell me what happened to you," she said stiffly. He could tell she was not used to formal speeches. "But I cannot in good conscience let you perish here if there is help and better care elsewhere. If there is anyone you wish to send words to, let me know. The commander of your legion, perhaps, or a magistrate?"

There were only two people he trusted—Macrinus in Edessa, and his mother, currently in Antioch. But before he knew who wanted him dead, it would be too risky to contact them, lest the missive fell into the wrong hands. No doubt Macrinus was even now rousing all forces for a search, and Macrinus would know to proceed with the utmost caution. If the Parthians or any enemy of Rome got wind that the Emperor was missing, it would be the end of the Empire. 

"No," he said at last. "It's best that no one knows I'm here. But if you hear of any talk in your village, you are to inform me immediately." He heard the commanding note in his voice, and realized a simple soldier shouldn't be speaking thus. "I mean, I would be obliged if you let me know of any news or rumors," he corrected himself.

The woman still hesitated, and he thought he understood her concern. "See me through this," he said, "and you'll be handsomely repaid for your trouble."

"I don't need your payment," she said, sounding offended.

He snorted. "Do you heal people out of the goodness of your heart then?"

She ignored his jab. "All I need to know is, will I be in danger for taking you in?" she asked. "Either from you, or the men looking for you?"

He lifted himself up, with difficulty, to look at her. Seeing him struggle, she rushed forward and put her hands under his arms to help him. Her hands were strong, capable. He remembered how they had reached for him through the darkness and the fire and brought him out of hell itself. She had saved his life. And no matter what people called him, tyrant and murderer and worse, let no one say that Publius Septimius Geta was an ingrate.

"You won't come to harm," he said. "I swear it, by Jupiter and Minerva and—"

She shook her head. "I don't need your vow, just your word."

"Then you shall have it."

The woman fixed her gaze on him, her eyes piercing and inquisitive, with none of the softness he remembered from his dreams. But it had to be the same woman; who else could it be? All that nonsense about her eyes being greener than the hills of Caledonia must be the imagination of his fevered brain, no more. And it was nonsense. The hills of Caledonia were a hostile place, cold and craggy and full of hiding Picts waiting to drop boulders onto his men and bury axes in their skulls, not the place of rest and peace he'd dreamed of at all.

The woman weighed his word and seemed to decide that it was good enough. She eased him onto the pillow and got to her feet. "Can you tell me your name, at least?" she asked.

A simple question. He could have given her any name, any at all. Yet the question nagged at him. He had been born Publius Septimius Geta. He had become Severus Antoninus upon his father's ascent to the throne. He had been Caesar and Augustus and Domine. He had been called, both in friendly jest and in sneering mockery, Tarautas, after a famously violent gladiator. Now, he had no idea who he was.

"Romulus," he said eventually, thinking of the first king of Rome. The one who had struck down his brother and built an empire. The one who survived. "You may call me Romulus."

The woman frowned slightly. He held his breath. It was a common enough name, with no connection to his own. Did she suspect something? He put his hand under the pillow, closing his fingers around the hilt of the dagger.

"Just Romulus?" she asked.

"Romulus Publius," he said before he could stop himself. Perhaps it was foolish of him to use his praenomen, but then again, he thought to himself, it was common enough.

Thankfully, the woman raised no further questions or comments about his name. She merely nodded and turned to the door. Geta let out a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief, and released the dagger. 

"I didn't catch your name," he called after her.

"It's Daphne," she said.

"Like the tree?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled. "My true name is Nysa, after my grandmother, but she called me Daphne because I was always climbing her laurel tree as a child." Her face softened at the memory, and for a moment, Geta could almost recognize the guardian spirit from his dreams.

"Rest," she said. "If you need anything, I'm right outside." She went out, closing the door behind her.

Geta put his head on the pillow and tried to relax. Rest, yes. That was what he needed. Revenge would have to wait.

Chapter 3

Again, I'm sticking with historical facts by keeping Macrinus's office as praetorian prefect, which he held during Caracalla's reign.

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve (if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

[elvensixpm]

Vengeance Saga spoilers!

For Six Hundred Strike, I don't imagine Odysseus using Poseidon's trident against him, actually. Mostly because my idea of Poseidon is that he is much larger than Odysseus— a giant, terrifying vision of the sea, no, he is the sea.

There is no clear differentiation between the sea and Poseidon— the waves his spilling hair, the sea foam his skin, the mist his robes.

Imagine this:

Odysseus using the trident to wash Poseidon and himself to the rocky coast of Ithaca, his homeland, rugged and worn as he himself is. Birthplace to six hundred men gone to Poseidon's cruelty, he doesn't use Poseidon's own weapon against him, no, that would be too simple.

He wants his Ithacan brothers to drink their fill of revenge as well. He raises the trident and commands the water to his will, fighting the brutality of the storm whose winds force against his arm, as if warning him not to do anything rash.

His gaze finds the sharp, jagged edges of shore— large rocks like spikes that jut out of the sand like a palisade of swords.

That will do.

The god of the sea smashes against the rocks as Odysseus strikes the trident down onto the sand. Poseidon ebbs away before forming back, like how broken waves regenerate. Odysseus strikes.

Again. Again. Again.

He watches Poseidon splinter against stone before immortality melts him back together again. The golden blood that sprays in his face as Poseidon smashes against the bank leaves him with a greater satisfaction than any gleam of treasure ever would.

The storm's wind whips and howls in his face like a shrieking banshee— he uses it to pretend not to hear the god.

Odysseus' screams for venegeance, for retribution and for the god to call off the storm, drowns the other's pleas for him to stop. This was payback for his crew; does Charon accept gods' blood as payment? It was gold, after all. As it seeps into the waters, Odysseus hoped that it would reach his crew— so that they could finally cross the river Styx. So that they can finally, finally stop their aimless wandering.

Poseidon gurgles out that Odysseus is a monster. Like Charydbis— Odysseus spews back the gods' teachings in his face: Ruthlessness was mercy, was it not?

Poseidon... relents. The trident slips from Odysseus' hand and clatters on the ground. The storm subsides, and the mist lifts.

Odysseus' eyes set upon rocky Ithaca once again. He doesn't look back at Poseidon— there is no need to turn back to the sea now that he's home again.

The King of Ithaca has returned.

Yes, I replaced treasure Odysseus brought home in the book with Poseidon's blood LMFAO! I really thought the treasure part was important in the book, so I wanted to give Epic!Odysseus something of the sort as well.

I also used Charydbis as a likening of sorts because... well. Wasn't it the book— so I just had to incorporate her somehow! How'd I do?

This is how Ithaca's shore look like in my mind while I was writing. Probably not accurate. I just wanted there to be a connection between the place of birth of the crew VS poseidon being their cause of death.

I always have nightmares of smashing against there, because they look so sharp:

But facing outwards, so it makes more sense, haha. I'm just thinking about how Epic!Odysseus is a certified religion betrayer now. Whoops!

Also I just learned that Palisade is an ancient greek thing? I thought it was a Biology thing LOL. I keep running into these coincidences!

[xjulixred45x]

OKAY, I know I should work on the requests but I recently discovered the story of the game HADES and as a Greek mythology nerd that I am, I became obsessed, so I ask you to imagine this scenario that unfortunately I have not seen anywhere:

Platonic Yandere Zagreus+ Reader x son! reader

let me explain myself.

Imagine that we are between Hades 1 and Hades 2, where everything seems to be going well for Zagreus and his partner, both living in the Underworld and occasionally visiting the surface, but paying attention to their duties in general.

then they have a son! reader. Their pride and joy.

Zagreus probably thought that it would be difficult to have children without any kind of divine intervention, so seeing that his son was born alive by himself was a great relief and even pride, because it meant that he probably wouldn't have the same problem as his father, he would be freer than him.

son!reader ends up being a child who is super spoiled by his parents thanks to this, filled with affection not only from them, but from the vast majority of the beings in the Underworld, Achilles being a kind of Fun Uncle, Meg a cool teacher, Thanatos and Hypnos second father figures, etc.

even HADES loved this child.

the only problem that son! reader has is that, like his father and mother, he was very curious and stubborn. which led to the incident before he reached puberty.

It was an occasion where Zagreus and Reader were away due to a hasty visit to the surface, so son! Reader, like every child, did what he was told not to do:

get off the safe path.

From then on son! reader can die however you prefer, perhaps by the Hydra, by one of the enemies on the upper levels, by the river Styx, but my favorite excuse is that he found where the titans were and fell from the shock, dying instantly ( drawing a parallel with mythological Zagreus).

And when Zagreus and his partner find out? God, to say that they are devastated would be an understatement for their pain.

Everyone is hurt and sad about what happened, everything feels so silent now, heavy, empty...

to the point that the prayers of the beings of the Underworld reach the ears of Zeus, who in a certain way feels sorry for his brother for having lost a grandson and Zagreus for his son, who decides to apply Dionysus's typenof move, that is, leave the heart of the child in the womb of a human woman.

Zagreus is difficult to convince, he wants Zeus to do this directly with the reader, but if this is the only alternative, he will accept it. More when the mental health of both has also been seriously affected by this(Zagreus having mutilation and Self harm tendencies bc of grief and incapility of die? yep, although he'll probably be very worried if reader starts to seem like them too.)

And so the agonizing wait begins, the weeks go by, the months go by, and Zagreus and the reader are increasingly anxious and impatient. more distressed with a new day of silence at home, with each day of inactivity, with each hour that their child's room is empty...

But the wait pays off, when Zeus gives them the news that the time has finally come for them to go look for their son.

Zagreus takes off at full speed, with various bonuses given by people like Thanatos, Charon, some Olympians, hell, even his father goes easy on him.

and he begins to search quickly with the little time he has on the surface for his son, being guided by Zeus to where his son was.

When Zagreus was beginning to weaken and felt that he had come in vain, he heard it. a laugh, a small voice that he hadn't heard in a long time.

His son...alive again...

Here things are separated a little. two different scenarios.

1: SON! READER REMEMBER HIS LIFE LIKE GOD

This case is the fluffiest of all and definitely the least yandere.

when son!reader sees Zagreus he's running out to meet him, melting the godling's heart, relieved that his son is not only back in body, but in spirit.

They both return to the Underworld and receive them all with great joy, they ruffle the child's hair, give him gifts, Dionysius may even throw a party in honor of his return.

but it doesn't mean there isn't Yandere stuff.

Zagreus becomes incredibly overprotective of son! reader, to a disturbing degree, now practically does not leave him alone. the same with reader. If he is not with one, he is with another.

they make son! reader accompanies them everywhere and can only play with their supervision, only them, not anyone else. because the previous one was very effective last time.

I think the reader would use the death of son! reader like an auk to keep him fearful and thus avoid another incident. in general both being very obsessive with this new opportunity to have their son back.

Although it's not so bad, Zagreus and the reader continue to bombard him with love and affection, bringing him gifts, reading to him or telling him legends, even now they take him to the surface with them! It is within the scope of a happy ending, they could overcome their unhealthy tendencies over time...I hope.

The only way in this scenario for both of them to become yandere as is is if some person on the surface is "badly influencing" son! reader to be more independent or worse, go to the battlefield.

There Zagreus will directly get rid of said influence with the help of Thanatos.

Now, the most intense and interesting scenario.

2: SON! READER DOES NOT REMEMBER ANYTHING ABOUT HIS LIFE AS ZAGREUS'S AND READER'S SON

Imagine that you are an apparently normal child with some strange characteristics (like maybe red feet or heterochromia), living peacefully with your parents that you have known all your life as a mortal... and FROM NOWHERE the fucking GOD OF THE UNDERWORLD comes to tell you who you are HIS child and not of your PARENTS....

practically this reader.

Zagreus would believe that after having spent so much time among mortals his son has forgotten his true lineage and even finds his innocence cute with the whole thing, but they must return to their TRUE home as soon as possible.

Since he is a god, A SON OF HADES, even if the reader's parents love him, they cannot fight for him, so they give him to Zagreus.

Zagreus is overjoyed with this, reader is so confused.

because after all he does NOT know these people, he does not know this supposed father who ripped him away from his birth family, he does not know his supposed mother who greets him with tears in her eyes when they arrive at the damn Underworld.

He doesn't know any of the gods who welcome him warmly, who ruffle his hair, who call him cute nicknames, who seem to have known him all his life when they don't.

reader is feeling like some kind of glorified pet. an empty replacement. This is not his house, his HOME.

while Zagreus and reader think that their son must be feeling very shocked by all the information and come home that they simply shower him with more love. much to the child's displeasure.

If the reader continues to insist that he doesn't really remember them, Zagreus will probably dismiss it as something temporary, which is simply the adjustment after an event as traumatic as dying (he gets it, seriously! he dies every now and then, but he doesn't want to think about on what it must have been like for his son).

while reader will try with Thanatos to make him remember things from the past, show him family photos and portraits that they made before the tragedy, his room, his old toys and stories behind them. all with so much love that the reader feels uncomfortable, as if he were usurping the place of their true son.

I think the reader would be especially uncomfortable if mom!reader were also a goddess, he feels VERY intimidated by both of them, but when they show this very...vulnerable and loving side...he doesn't know what to think.

In this scenario, both Zagreus and reader are more overtly manipulative and yandere. Zagreus can use his thousands of failed attempts to try to get out of the underworld on his own so that reader doesn't even think about doing so, while reader uses the reader's death as a way to guilt trip him so he doesn't leave them.

The reader feels bad for them and their son, but is very afraid of them. More after seeing Zagreus angry.

At first they would see Reader's attempts to escape as something "cute" thinking that he was "imitating young Zagreus" and was not serious. Of course, if he ran into a shade, Zagreus would appear and take him home. simply a game.

But when they were lost for long periods of time, they had a panic attack thinking that the accident had happened again. and when Zagreus found the reader, on a higher level and with scratches, he was furious, almost killing all the beings on that level.

It was enough to solidify the reader's decision to want to leave. This man was not only terrifying, he was dangerous.

I think that in this case there would be characters like Meg, Patroclus, Odysseus, even Thanatos himself who realize the reader's discomfort around his "parents" and even become his only allies in his escape attempts.

but because they isolate him so much, so much to the point that he can only leave the house of Hades if it is with them, no one else, and they see the desire to RUN in his face. They feel compassion for him.

This is how a new story in Hades begins. As a reader you will have to face many powerful deities, shadows, and more to escape not only from the Underworld, but from your delirious new family.

but Zagreus would not be himself if he were not stubborn and persistent . I wouldn't let him run and escape easily. not this time.

Could reader do it? let the game begin.

Shares, reglogs and comments are very welcome!

What can i Say? I'm obsessed over games i will NEVER get to play :,) but at least i'll try to see gameplays.

[tylermileslockett]

The Greek underworld, or House of Hades, is generally described in Homer’s Iliad as a gloomy place of “the mists and the darkness” (Lattimore) where the spirits heroes and villains alike come to rest. Hermes as Psychopomp (Spirit guide), would lead the new spirits down into the land of the dead.  Souls would first drink at the River Acheron (river of sorrow) or sometimes mentioned as the River Styx (to specifically forget their past pains), then they would be ferried across by the boatman Charon for a coin placed within their mouths or upon their eyes. Souls would drink from the River Lethe (river of forgetfulness) to forget all memories of their previous lives, then pass through the gates guarded by Cerberus, the hound of Hades before being presented before Hades, and his wife Persephone. The other two  rivers of the underworld are the River Phlegethon (river of fire) and the River Cocytus (river of wailing) both associated with punishment.

         The Souls would then be judged by three demi gods: Minos (son of Zeus and Europa), Rhadamanthus, (son of Zeus and Europa), and Aeacus, (son of Zeus and Aegina.) and would choose a final place for each soul amongst the following locations:

the Asphodal meadows, (asphodal is a white lily associated with death), is where ordinary souls were forgotten, wandering in monotony amongst misty darkness. The Elysian fields, also known as Elysium, is described as a paradise where the honored heroes go to live in white houses amongst fields of gold, ripe fruit, and temperate weather. Tartarus is a realm residing a vast distance below Hades, and is a place of cruel, eternal punishment that, according to Hesiod, even Zeus feared. Here the defeated Titans were held, imprisoned in chains, as well as mortals who committed crimes against the gods, like Sisyphus, Tantalus, and Ixion. In addition, the Erinyes, (or Furies), the three goddess of blood retribution and punishers of criminals were said to inhabit this dreaded realm.  

If you share this image I'll pass you a golden ticket to the Elysian fields! Xoxo

Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024.

[maybeyoullfindthissomeday]

Serrated

Although they sparkle like celestial specks against an inky sky, your dagger eyes epitomize the saying “if looks could kill.” Because if they did, Charon the ferryman would've escorted me across the river Styx to Hades’ underworld a hundred times over. And yet, I’d still feel inexplicably content if it meant I was given the propitious chance for the rarified comfort of your electric gaze. Even with two left feet, it’s a desired dance between love, awe, and quiet dread, between panic and pure reverence.

[hearmeoutworthypoll]

Charon from Hades?

The ferryman guiding souls of the dead across the River Styx. Literally money-hungry

In-game merchant. Quiet and reserved with secret softer side. Affable until provoked

Reminder, the premise is “would a normie think it’s weird to find them attractive?” (Would they have to “hear me out?”)