Pitchfork

by Nicole Scarano

  “Hades!” Alkaios jumped up in front of his wife, horror in his eyes.

  “It is the truth!” Tentacles of wispy smoke seeped from Hades’ skin as her anger simmered. “I do not see a way to save myself. The Old Ones may accept me as their own, but, Alkaios, what do you think they will do when they discover I carry a half-breed? They committed genocide. Slaughtered their families. They will rip our son from my womb, and what is worse, by that time I might not even care. Stop treating me as if I will survive this.” Hades’ voice caught in an anguished choke, and her lips fumbled as her speech faltered.

  “Hades.” Alkaios lunged for her, but she jerked from his grasp.

  “I will never get to be a mother,” she sobbed and disappeared in darkness. Alkaios closed his fist around the dark wisps of smoke, trying to hold onto it as if it would bring his wife back, but it drifted through his fingers and dissipated into the night air. He stood motionless in the waning light for a long moment and then faster than the crack of Zeus’ lightning, had a piece of debris gripped in his fist. An unnerving roar broke from his lungs as he hurled the stone at the temple, and a cloud of rubble and dirt exploded on impact.

  A feminine yelp came from behind the dissipating cloud of dust, and a wide-eyed Medusa peeked out from the sanctuary, her head inches from the collision. She said nothing, just stared at Alkaios through the settling cloud. Alkaios knew he should apologize for nearly decapitating her, but he could not open his mouth. Instead, he lowered his eyes, covering them with a broad and calloused hand, and stood in the dimming light. He took a long moment to regain himself, and when he finally managed to meet her gaze, all he saw was her sympathy, which only made it worse. His heart constricted, and Alkaios grabbed his chest as if to crack open his ribs and crush the agonized organ. He could not bear to have Medusa watch him crumble, so in a veil of inky black smoke, he vanished.

  Alkaios appeared in his room in the Underworld a second later, and with all of his strength drained, he collapsed to the bed. He hunched over, head in his hands, and sat there destroyed.

  Soft footsteps snapped him back from the rabbit hole of despair he was falling down. Alkaios would recognize the sound of that body moving anywhere. His eyes shifted to the door and saw Hades tentatively hovering just outside.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. Alkaios rose from the mattress, and that was all the invitation she needed. Hades flew across the room and was in his arms in a heartbeat. Alkaios enveloped her smaller frame and pulled her as close as was physically possible. He wanted to cover her body with his and keep her safe, hidden from all who would harm her.

  “I am sorry,” Hades repeated into his chest, voice wavering as she clutched him. Her fingers dug into his broad back as if she was trying to claw a hold into him, and her ribs heaved against his in a warbled rhythm. “I am terrified.” Her tears spread warm over his chest. Alkaios’ heart shattered like fragile glass, and he tightened his grip on his wife. He buried his nose in Hades’ hair and breathed in her scent before kissing her crown. His strong hand on the base of her head held fast as if he could hold together his own heart if only he clung to her tight enough.

  “I do not want to do this,” Hades sobbed uncontrollably. Her body collapsed into her husband’s powerful arms, the only thing keeping her upright. “I know I have to, but I am terrified.”

  Alkaios tilted his head and buried his face in her hair, letting the soft tresses catch the tears that desperately escaped his eyes. His chest physically hurt as he clung to his wife, the only woman he had ever loved. Alkaios knew that this would kill him, and he was at peace with that because life without Hades was not worth living. He would welcome death over a lifetime of knowing this heinous fate befell the one and only woman he would ever love.

  “I would trade places with you if I could,” he cried into her hair, neither of them caring he was soaking it. “I would die if it meant you went free.”

  “I know.” His massive chest muffled her soft voice. “But you cannot.” Hades pulled back and shifted her swollen eyes to meet his. “I do not want to do this.”

  Alkaios grabbed Hades’ face and swung his gaze to the ceiling. He could not look at her. It was killing him, and the tears running down his cheeks would not stop. He felt like he was choking or dying, drowning in excruciating sorrow. His breath came heavy as Alkaios stared heavenward. Refusing to look down and observe Hades’ terrified features, he stood that way for a long moment, chest heaving as he cradled her face in his palms.

  “I will find a way,” Alkaios said, finally looking down, and her expression almost killed him. The fear in her eyes speared his soul.

  “What if you cannot?” Hades asked with trembling lips.

  “Then it will kill me,” he answered, backing up and drawing her toward the bed. He crumpled to the sheets and took her down with him, wrapping his body around hers. “I refuse to live without you.” Alkaios cradled Hades tight to his chest. “I do not think I can.”

  The whole of the earth slumbered, silent in the early morning hours, yet something startled the Oracle of Delphi out of a deep sleep. Blinking in the night, she listened for the sound that woke her but heard nothing save the breeze whispering through the windows. She rolled over and swung her feet off the bed. Something had woken her; she sensed it rather than heard it, and grabbing a shawl from the back of a chair, the Oracle wrapped it around her marked skin and wandered out of her chambers. Her eyes scanned left then right, but nothing out of the ordinary presented itself. The hallway was empty.

  She was padding softly over the stone floors before she realized she was even walking. Something silently called to her, pulling her forward in the darkness, and it was not long before recognition dawned. Her feet were leading her to the room where her handmaid had found her, where she had carved an ancient prophecy in the floor with her own nails and blood.

  Hesitantly, the Oracle reached out and pushed the door open. It swung with a soft creak, disturbing the silence, and she stepped inside, bare feet landing just in front of the scrawled prophecy. Her eyes searched the room but saw nothing. With a sigh, the Oracle made to leave when a shadow moved. She froze stiff. Alarm pricked its deadly needles into her neck as an ominous form took shape in the room’s corner, and a woman of smoke appeared from the shadows.

  Hades glided forward, irises black in the night. The Oracle wanted to run, to scream fleeing from this demon, but her feet were rooted to the tiles as the dark queen drifted closer.

  “I have a prophecy for you,” Hades growled into the midnight air, and the Oracle shivered at her voice. It was not the voice of the beautiful woman who had stood here just weeks before. She had little time to consider this though, for Hades lunged, closing the space between them with unnaturally swift grace and seized her skull. The moment Hades’ palms pressed against the Oracle’s temples, a shock jolted through the mortal woman’s body, and white flashed through her vision before the world went black.

  XIV

  Charon could not be certain through the dense fog, but he swore he saw a huddled shadow lurking on the earth’s shore of the River Styx. He had come from that direction moments before, ferrying the shades of a group of hunters who had left their village never to return. Their bodies decayed on earth while their souls had wandered the riverbed for days, unable to pass without coin, but their families must have found them and given them a proper burial, for in the early hours of the morning, their coins flew through the mist to his waiting palm. Charon could finally ferry them to their justice.

  The moment the dead had stepped into his boat, he recognized something was wrong. Not with the men, but with their death. He was still a god, a resurrected Titan, and he sensed the change in the air as they climbed aboard. Their deaths reeked of darkness and evil, even greater than what was ever present in the Underworld. Charon’s stomach had pitched the instant he felt them. Deep down, he knew what had killed them, but he could not bring himself to say it out loud. He would have to tell Alkaios, but the terror in his gut dreaded
it.

  So, as he pushed the ferry through the cold water back toward earth’s shore, Charon prayed the figure was not another hunter, a straggler he had missed. He had made a point to ferry them all at the same time. The cruelty wafting off them was sickening even to him, the dark ferryman of the Underworld, but the closer the boat drew, the more of the shadow he made out. Whatever it was lay crumpled in the sand. The fog weaved thicker around the shape, and he could not tell if it was a shade or a trick of the terrain.

  Charon gave his pole one last hard shove, and the ferry plunged into the sandbank. Part of his deal with Hades was that he transport the shades from the land of the living to the land of the dead. As long as he remained in his boat and on the boathouse grown from a piece of this craft, he was protected from the Olympians. The new gods would kill him just as they had the rest of his kind if they realized a Titan still drew breath. Charon never left his ferry nor his home, save the few times Hades had commanded it, yet standing here inches away from the shore, something told him to move, to leave the boat.

  Charon stepped over the edge and with a deep inhale, launched himself to the beach, careful not to touch the poison water. He moved cautiously toward the shape, and after a few steps, his toes landed on something that was not sand. He glanced down, and his heart lurched when he saw the black fabric strewn across the riverbank. He recognized who this was.

  “Alkaios,” Charon called, his deep voice echoing over the water. In a single stride, he was at the shadow and threw himself to his knees. There Hades lay, black hair and dress splayed over the bleak sand; eyes unopened, chest barely rising.

  “Hades?” He scooped her limp form into his arms. She was cold to the touch, her skin pale and colorless. The air hissed behind him, and Charon snapped his head around to see Alkaios appear in dark tentacles. The King opened his mouth in a question, but the ferryman shifted his torso, revealing Hades’ nearly lifeless figure.

  “Hades?” Alkaios rushed forward. Charon stood, her body light in his strong arms, and passed Hades to her husband. Her head lolled sideways onto Alkaios’ chest, her arm flopping down to hang in midair.

  “What happened?” Alkaios clutched Hades as close to his heart as physically possible.

  “I do not know,” Charon answered, reaching out and lifting Hades’ limp hand to place it on her stomach. “I just found her.”

  Alkaios said nothing, just stared at his friend. He did not have to speak. Charon already knew what was playing out behind the god’s panicked eyes. Charon was terrified for Hades as well, but he knew it was worse for Alkaios. He was not sure he could bear this if it were Ioanna in harm’s way, but he cast the thought aside with violent disgust. It was horrible enough this was happening to the woman who was his savior. Charon refused to let his mind wander to how it would be if it were his wife. It would kill him, and by the look in Alkaios’ eyes, it was ravaging him.

  “I should warm her up,” Alkaios said after a moment and vanished with Hades, leaving Charon alone in the fog.

  The sun heralded morning, and the city stirred with new life. A group of yawning women began to gather as they left their homes to draw fresh water from the well. One woman complained that her husband had kept her up half the night with his snoring. Not to be outdone, her friend lamented how her babe cried most of the night, leaving her exhausted and therefore to be pitied the most. A young newlywed stifled a yawn as the crowd traversed the sparse streets, and when all the women looked at her with knowing smiles, she blushed like a blooming rose at her reason for lack of sleep.

  And so the journey to the well continued as a woman complained about the aches in her body, and another gushed with pride over her son’s first steps. Two women exchanged tips on the best way to roast lamb, while two younger girls giggled quietly about how handsome the blacksmith’s son had become. A typical dawn, a daily chance to exchange their gossip as they started their day, but as they closed in on the well and found her, that changed. This morning was not normal, and perhaps no morning would ever be again.

  For there, sitting in the dirt before the well, crouched the Oracle of Delphi. Dust streaked her light hair. Her subtly opaque shift revealed the marking on her skin and hung lopsided off her shoulder in filthy folds. The crowd froze as they filtered into the square, unable to bring themselves to move toward the water. They watched in horror as the Oracle, oblivious to their presence, drew unrecognizable symbols in the dirt with her fingers. The Oracle never traveled down from the temple. She served separate from the people; her access to the gods kept pure in her seclusion. Her handmaidens ventured into the market to make purchases for their lady, but the closest these women had ever come to seeing this strange yet divine woman was when she stood on her elevated balcony. Most who sought her council went into Delphi’s sanctuary, but when the Olympians spoke through their prophet for all to hear, she would stand on that balcony and proclaim the words of the gods. Never did an Oracle descend into the city, yet here she huddled, squatting on the earth like the town drunkard.

  The number of women slowly expanded as they all stood suspended in confusion, watching the Oracle mumble to herself as she scratched the dirt. Before long, the men, curious why their wives and daughters were not returning with water, began to appear. The city square grew more crowded; the onlookers alarmed by the Oracle’s presence. Appalled by her disheveled appearance and terrified by her actions, no one moved save the sun, which would not halt its journey across the sky behind the darkened clouds.

  “Oracle!” A frightened feminine voice shattered the silence. The entire crowd gave a collective jerk and stared as the Oracle’s handmaid burst into the square. The girl skidded to a stop when she saw her lady crouched in the dirt, still mumbling and drawing in the dust as if nothing was happening around her.

  “Mistress?” the handmaid whispered, creeping forward with her arm outstretched. Whether to protect herself or touch the Oracle, no one could tell. “Oracle?” But just as her fingers were upon her, the Oracle jerked her head upright, snapping her eyes to meet the handmaid’s. The girl screeched and stumbled backward, for the Oracle’s irises were rolled back into her skull, the whites flooding her sockets. Her unseeing eyes bore into her handmaid, and then slowly, they surveyed the crowd, noticing for the first time she was not alone.

  “Olympus will burn in fire and agony,” the Oracle said, sending a wave of cold through the throng, “and you will all kneel as you should have from the beginning before you die.”

  XV

  Zeus was the only god absent their bed when the first shudder shook the mountain. Zeus had been unable to sleep. Uneasiness clutched his chest, so he had crawled out of bed not caring to be quiet as to not wake Hera. He had wandered out to the dark mountain and climbed down to the ledge that was solely his now that Hades was gone. Zeus had once loved that she had shared the solitude here, but in her absence, a cold woman he did not love warmed his bed. Zeus found himself here more often, in a space that was supposed to give him peace, but mostly it made him angry.

  Yet here he sat, unmoving and uneasy when the mountain lurched. Zeus was on his feet faster than was possible for a man his size, and a moment later, he stood on the grass at the cliff’s edge above his secret ledge. He froze, waiting and listening. Only once before had this mountain shook so. It was when Hades broke the seal to the Underworld, and Zeus’ chest filled with dread at what the reason could be now.

  With a whisper of wind, his thunderbolt flew into his hand, and Zeus gripped it tight. The sunrise that struggled to break through the thick clouds just moments before was strangled. Darkness was coming.

  Without warning, Poseidon appeared next to his brother, trident grasped in his fist. He was not alone, for only seconds, later Athena, Ares, and Artemis emerged from nowhere brandishing their weapons fiercely. Artemis reached up to her quiver and removed one of the gold inlaid arrows and notched it. She turned to meet Zeus’ eyes in the fading light. The clouds never blotted out the sun on this mountain unless Zeus pulled forth a st
orm. This darkness, this was not him. This was an ancient evil. The first had come.

  “Olympians!” Zeus bellowed as the ridge shuddered again, and the gods answered the battle cry. Apollo materialized next to Artemis, notching his golden bow, ready to strike when she did. The mountain heaved, and the clouds thickened, blocking out all light. The Olympians stood frozen in the blackness, gripping their weapons in fear.

  Cruelty and evil wafted on the breeze, and in this darkness, Zeus knew they were easy targets. He had to bring light to the peak, and so with a powerful thrust, he hoisted the thunderbolt into the air. An immense spark of lightning shot from the ancient, worn metal and pierced the clouds, lighting the field in an eerie white glow.

  The sight that met him froze his heart. Inhuman creatures were crawling over the mountain’s edge at an abnormally fast speed, even for a god. Zeus heard Hera gasp as she appeared beside him, but the sound barely registered; the sight was too appalling. Men with the heads of beasts, monsters so deformed they hardly resemble mankind poured onto the ledge. They charged toward the Olympians, their demonic black eyes hungry for blood. The Old Ones had finally shown themselves, and seeing them, Zeus knew this was the end. They could not win this.

  Artemis and Apollo were first to move. In tandem, they raised their bows and with expert aim, loosed them. Their aim true, the arrows shot with deadly purpose toward the onslaught of monsters. The Old Ones’ speed did not slow as the arrows hurtled toward them, but as the tips prepared to shatter the hearts of the crazed gods, those in the way merely pitched sideways, causing the projectiles to hurtle by target-less. Artemis watched in horror as her arrow careened through the herd, striking not a single inch of flesh. Just as it arrived at the edge of the mountain where it would plummet through the sky toward earth, a monstrosity of a god with jet black scaled skin and rows upon rows of sharpened fangs housed in an imposing mouth leapt up from the rim of the cliff. His hulking body hovered in the air, jaw gaping wide, and with a powerful snap, his teeth crushed the arrow. The wood shattered into jagged splinters as the Old One landed heavily on the grass. He locked eyes with Artemis and struck his fist to the side, catching Apollo’s arrow. He snapped it in half as if it were straw and dropped it, all the while staring down the goddess of the hunt. His immense clawed feet dug backward through the grass, tearing deep, gouging wounds in the dirt. Artemis swallowed and lifted her fingers, grasping another arrow from her never empty quiver, and slowly brought it to her bow. The moment it touched the string, the fanged god barreled onward. He was faster than the rest, and as the Old Ones vaulted across the open fields of Olympus, this hideousness aimed for her.