The Goddess of Blessed Death

A Tour of Hades

Ships float, anchored in the massive cove before Athens. The air is warm and sweat gathers along the king's brow. King Demophon looks over the mass of men across the empty space. King Eurystheus's general at the front of one along the shore, their dinghies bobbing in the water behind them. Just as King Demophon's is, Eurystheus's tent is set up far from the battlesight, but both kings stand by their generals for their own prebattle rituals. Acacius and Hyllus stand at the front of the mass gathered between the wall of Athens and the other army.

A mantis has brought a cow calf out before Demophon's army. The calf's head is pulled back, exposing its neck before the gods. There is the murmur of pray before the mantis brings a sacrificial knife down, slicing open the calf's throat in an offering to the gods. King Demophon cannot hear from where he stands, but he knows the mantis is praying and beseeching the gods as he works, disemboweling the calf to pull out its liver. The work takes time and the pungent stench of death and blood festers, carried by the breeze over the army.

The mantis is bowed over, blocking Demophon's view, inspecting and interpreting the liver and flow of blood. After several minutes of tense silence, the mantis rises. He walks over to Demophon and bows.

"King Demophon," he says. "It is an auspicious day if one relies on one's strengths. Water surges with power. It sustains and it kills."

"If you lose your talent for poetry, become a mantis," Acacius mutters to Hyllus, who snickers.

The mantis shoots a venomous glare at the generals. "He who mocks," says the mantis, "lacks."

Acacius snorts while Hyllus scowls, high brows drawn forward, casting shade over his dark, hooded eyes.

"Mantis," says Demophon. "The calf."

The mantis tugs at his chiton as if it is out of place. "Of course, my king," he says. "Through their humble servant," the mantis bows, "the gods have recommended use of the seas." With spite he adds, "The general's sister's sacrifice promises hope."

Hyllus's scowl morphs into a grimace, and Acacius puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't grow distracted, brother," he says. "Focus. Fight for her. Let her death not be in vain."

Hyllus grabs Acacius's forearm and Acacius grabs his. Their heads bow, pressing together. Hyllus has grown to admire the general. They have trained and fought together. There is an understanding between the two that Hyllus has not known before. They think, act, and believe and value in the same ways. In just the short time Hyllus has stayed in Athens, not even his father's gift Iole can compare. To Hyllus, Acacius is second only to Herakles in his heart.

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When Makaria wakes, her arm instinctively moves out of the covers, only to touch cool, dewy air and she shrinks back under her covers until only her head sticks out. Outside, the world is dark, the light ever a dim white glow whose source she can't quite see or place. Perhaps moonlight has melted and seeped through the earth and it drips from the underworld's ceilings, like the paint from her wall's thorn.

Makaria throws off the covers and shudders. She wants to bathe, but she remembers her promise to Persephone.

Persephone.

The goddess herself.

A goddess herself, Makaria.

Makaria might think it was all a strange dream if she had not awoken in the underworld.

A goddess of blessed deaths.

It sounds surreal and the task, impossible. How can she take care of all the blessed deaths out there? Are there very many, to begin with?