Chương 16: Chapter Fifteen: A Bargain on Black Waters

"Not because I lacked funeral when I died, Do I lie here, a naked corpse on wheat-bearing land. Duly was I buried once on a time, But now by the ploughman's hand, The iron share hath rolled me out of my tomb. Who said that death was deliverance from evil, When not even the tomb, stranger, Is the end of my sufferings?" — Antiphilus of Byzantium, Greek Anthology Everything was silent. Cyrus couldn't feel his legs.

He couldn't feel the gnarled roots digging into his spine, nor the coarse bark of the ancient olive tree stabbing into the raw skin of his shredded back. A stifling numbness seemed to have seeped into his bones, viscous and smothering. It swallowed the agony until even the agonizing throbbing in his skull felt remote and diluted. And Ateas was gone. Cyrus didn't need his lost eyes to know it. The giant hadn't even bothered to fully use the machaira.

He hadn't bothered to cleave through any vital muscle or organ, refusing the boy even the cruel mercy of a swift death. Cyrus could almost picture the Scythian giant staring down at him, his broad lips contorted into an expression of revulsion. After all, a miserable, weak Little Hellene didn't deserve an execution. No, he was garbage to be discarded, left to be torn apart by whatever beasts prowled the dark wilds.

A warm liquid slithered down the bridge of Cyrus's nose, running down his cheek and dripping onto his collarbone. Thick and hot, it dripped down, pooling at the corner of his cracked lips, smelling faintly of metal. Blood had replaced his tears. He blinked again. And again. Where are you, Lady Theia? Where are you, Lord Helios? With each drop of the precious liquid leaving his body, Cyrus felt himself grow weaker. He felt cold. So, so cold.

The beating in his chest slowed, an encroaching frost spreading throughout his limbs. The red liquid kept pooling over his lips. He opened his mouth to gasp for air, but all that came out was a wet cough that only served to spray more blood down his chin. Lord Hades… he thought, his mind growing strangely aloof. Is this truly the end? It was almost funny. Just a few days ago, he had been so, so senseless to what the world truly offered. But in the blink of an eye, the veil had been torn away.

He had been imparted with knowledge of things he'd never known existed. He was introduced to the world of cultivators, of the ancient pneuma flowing through him, of men who were closer to the gods than other mortals. It had been terrifying and overwhelming. But by the gods, it had been wonderful. For a brief moment, Cyrus had been able to catch a glimpse of the heavens itself. The bloody corners of his lips twitched, curving into a bitter smile. Thinking back on it now, the Helicon Mist Sect hadn't been so bad.

He thought of Simos, the first person who had reached out to him when he was nothing more than a random stranger. His slipping mind even lingered on Thalia, too—quiet as she was, their few conversations had been entertaining and warm. I could have had friends, Cyrus realized. Real ones, not ones that teased me because of this horrid name. If he hadn't been so consumed by his own fear, bitterness, and arrogance, if he had just had a little more time… But no. Instead, he was dying alone under a tree.

A sickly grief choked him. He leaned his head back against the bark of the tree, feeling his tense muscles loosen. He felt the cold inching closer to his head, the agonizing beats of his chest almost gone. Let Hades take me, he thought numbly. He was tired. So tired of fighting, so tired of the pain. He closed his eyes.

"Bring honor to our blood, paidi mou." The memory of his father's voice crackled and sparked inside the darkness of his mind, his nose exploding with the thick, false scent of warm bread and smoking wood. Cyrus felt a bitter pang tear into his chest, shredding past the numbness, ripping through the exhaustion. No… A violent billow of horror rammed into him, burning hot, stifling the cold frost that had been creeping through his veins. How could he lie here and welcome death when he had committed such grievances?

This nightmare was the sum of his own hamartia —a foolish string of arrogant, irreversible errors. He had brought this ruin upon himself, yet it was his family who had been forced to suffer because of it. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. It had started with his hubris, indulging himself in the childish fantasies of heroics and divine destiny. Then came the pseudos, the toxic lies that he had poisoned his family with.

Swollen with a foolish pride, leading him to defy a noble, he had covered his humiliation with deceit, spinning a tale for his mother and father. Lie after lie, cowardly evasions meant to shield his fragile pride. And because of those lies, his family was now in grave danger. I cannot die here, a voice inside him roared. It was small, cracking and struggling beneath the weight of his bodily injuries, but he refused to give in. He refused. He refused. He refused!

He could not allow his sins to be the final legacy he left behind. He had to right his wrongs. He had to face his father, drop to his knees, and speak the truth, begging for forgiveness. He needed to protect his family from the shadows he had brought upon them. Not yet, Cyrus snarled internally, coughing up another mouthful of metallic bile. Lord Hades, you cannot have me yet! His fingers twitched.

Slowly, he inched them up, fighting through the agonizing pain, until his right hand dragged into the neckline of his blood-soaked tunic. There, he clutched the small statue of Hestia his mother had given him. He wrapped his trembling fingers around the cold wood. He squeezed it tightly, blood continuing to drip down his cheeks. He tried to force his destroyed body to move, but it remained paralyzed. His limbs were like lead, refusing to obey.

His muscle and bone felt completely severed from his will, utterly useless. His mouth twisted into a bloody snarl. He had to get up. He had to move. But why couldn't he? Oh, how furious he was.

"Damn you!" he wheezed." Eis korakas! Go to the crows, all of you!" He spat a glob of metallic bile onto his chest, his sightless sockets straining to glare into the blackness as his bloody self trembled with rage." Katáratos! Cursed bastards in Olympus!" Cyrus shrieked.

"Defiled, bloodthirsty monsters! Where are you now, Lord Helios? Sucking off while I rot in the dark? Is your sun too holy to shine on me, you hypocrite?" The horror of wanting so desperately to make things right, only to be trapped inside this ruined shell, snapped violently at his sanity.

"And you, Hades! Skata! Earth-eating scavenger!" he screamed, his words slurring.

"Spin your thread, Atropos! Cut it! Cut it, you miserable, wretched hag! I spit on your Fates! I spit on all of you! Give me my legs! Give me my arms, you bastards!" His chest heaved. He clawed at the dirt, he tried to hurl himself forward, but his body remained sunk into the mud, refusing to obey his command. Tears of blood smeared down across his temples as he thrashed his head back against the olive tree. Help me! he screamed inside his own mind, his consciousness banging wildly at the confines of his own body.

Someone, help me! His silent plea fell upon the deaf earth. There was nobody around. He was utterly alone. Until someone answered his cry.

"My, my. Curse them louder, my child. Let them hear you better." The voice seemed to rattle between his ears, inside his very skull, yet at the same time, coming from everywhere, yet nowhere all at once.

"Tell me," the voice echoed, steadfast and stoic.

"Why waste your final breaths screaming at the sky? Why curse the gods?"

"Because... because I can't move!" Cyrus gasped, sobbing, weeping. From his bloodied mouth, spittles of spit escaped from his grief. Though his mind was slipping, being floated away alongside the rivulets of blood pouring out of his body, the fury within empowered his heart to keep pumping, his lungs to keep moving, for his lips to keep stretching.

"I have to go back to my family! Damned Leandros, I'll kill him with my bare hands!" The mysterious voice murmured, solemn in a strange way,"You have some fine anger." It sighed.

"But you will soon die, my child."

"No," Cyrus wheezed, his chest filling with horror at the very thought.

""No... I can't." He shoved more agonizing breaths into his ruined chest, refusing to sink into the quiet buzz.

"No, no, no, no!" Cyrus gasped desperately.

"I am going back. I am going to save my home, and I am going to make Leandros pay!" The strange voice breathed out a deep chuckle, ancient and warm.

"Would you like to rise, then, my child?" the presence asked.

"Seek redemption for your kin? Cast punishment upon those that wronged you?" Cyrus could barely hear the words. But he heard enough. His mind was like a snake, coiling around the question, gripping, tightening, energy flooding into his dying cells, just enough for a couple of words to escape from his stilling lips.

"Yes… please…!" And through the waves of death that collided with him, dragging and gripping at the tails of his consciousness, yanking his soul towards the cold, icy depths of the underworld, the mysterious voice echoed back.

"Seek not to answer so lightly, my child. To accept my gift, you must bind your soul to mine. Speak the words. Swear an unbreakable oath! An oath upon the River Styx!" At that, Cyrus paused. An oath… Upon the River Styx? Even with his muddled mind, the draining blood slowly sliding out of him, Cyrus felt hesitation drill into him. He knew the oath was not for mortals. If one broke it, the river would claim your soul for eternity, dragging you into an endless nightmare no one—not even a god—could save you from.

The Styx... His mind wavered. Was he really going to forfeit his soul? Then Leandros's ugly, horrid, terrible face flashed, exposing Cyrus to the bowels of his deep hate once more. No, it didn't matter. Let the river take him. He deserved nothing less for his sins. But if he was going down, he was going to bring Leandros down with him. The fear was no more.

"Yes," he growled.

"I swear it!" And immediately, the mysterious presence let out a roar. What solemnity? What ancient, calm aura? A chilling hysteria packed Cyrus's mind, maddening in its screech.

"AT LAST!" the voice shrieked, cackling with a deafening glee.

"I HAVE BEEN BOUND FOR TOO LONG! SPIT IN THEIR FACES, MY SON, FOR YOU HAVE GIVEN ME MY WAY BACK!" Cyrus's heart ceased to beat. The cold began to overcome his muscles.

"Hear that, Zeus? Hear that, Hephaestus?" the voice screamed.

"A contract on the Styx! Finally! I am coming back, you golden bastards! I am coming back!" Lord Thanatos's chilling fingers wrapped around Cyrus's neck. And as the presence's mad cackling faded steadily away, he sank further down into the cold, cold, cold abyss. The obsidian silence reached out, enveloping his cooling husk of a body like a blanket.

"Sleep now, my beloved child," the voice whispered, much gentler now.

"Sleep, and awaken anew." And Cyrus's consciousness was stripped away. Existence shattered. He no longer drew breath. His open eyes were unseeing. There, Cyrus, son of Karpos, died. Until within his still chest— Thump.