Wonder, Sorrow, Joy

CHAPTER I

I watched him come to life, all red and shiny, bawling in the arms of my mother, the sharp contrast of her white skin against his crimson filling me with wonder. Who was this babe, so full of blood, so full of life, so mortal, that he would be granted reprove from his death by the Fates? Everything about this little boy, from his mismatched eyes of herb and blood, his hair of night, his seeming second chance at life, filled me with a curiosity I had never known. Perhaps, it was his own curiosity of the world around him, filling me.

I watched him grow up from a thin, scrawny boy who never even had the strength to clutch a wooden sword, his eyes nervous and shy to a tall, muscular warrior swinging a sword with a skull mounted on the hilt, his eyes shining with determination and stubbornness. He was always restless, moving from room to room, darting all over the place, running into shades and disrupting my duties. The master would watch him with a sort of angry contempt from atop his desk, reprimanding and lecturing him at every turn, but that never fazed the boy, bursting to the seams with energy anew, a fresh want to explore, to see the depths of the world. His wonder could never be quenched, no matter what anyone did, and perhaps, that is what made want to know him even better. The fact that someone could be so full of light in a place where shadows lurked around in the corners, baffled me, so very much.

I watched him discover the truth of his mother, and from that day on, he vowed to get to the surface, even if it meant he had to vanquish each and every hero in the Underworld. After years of restlessness, of feeling useless, he had a purpose now, and that was to explore the wonders of Olympus, to float amongst the sun-kissed Gods and Goddesses, laughing and jesting with his mother at his side. His purpose, was to live and fly, like a bird with outstretched wings, soaring through the sky knowing no limits, not to remain idle in a realm that was only ever his by name. Sorrow filled me at the thought of having to let him go, even when joy at the thought of seeing his mother, of leaving that horrible, wretched place fueled him on. We lay in his silken bed, the red carpeted halls looming before us, our heads touching, our breaths slow and soft. He would reassure me, tell me that he would always come back and visit me, and a sense of hope, not dissimilar to his own, made me encourage him to explore and explore.

I watched him fail, over and over again, his moods growing even more bitter each time he emerged from the Pool of Styx, his body smeared with his own blood. I watched my brother greet him, wearing a cloak as red as the blood that only ever flowed through him, and I saw how hard he tried to remain passive, to remain as bright and cheerful and energetic as he always was, not matter how much everything seemed to wear him down. He tried and tried and tried, and his father yelled and yelled and yelled, and I worried and worried and worried, our respective actions never ceasing. I began to think that he might never reach the surface and, shamefully, a sense of relief washed over me, that was quickly drowned out by guilt and a sorrow for him, for he still loomed the corners of the house, as pitiful as the lost souls that never found a way into the realm of the dead. He grieved for the freedom that we were both convinced he never would reach and I grieved with him.

I watched him emerge from the Styx the first time he had reached the surface and seen his mother. His eyes were blown wide, like he had woken up, startled, for a queer dream. He ran to me, his arms outstretched, his voice a mix of sobs and laughter, a grin permanently fixed on his face, as he embraced with such power, such passion, that I felt he would have taken me then and there, on the stone floor. He took me to his chambers, glee and exuberance vibrating off of him, his hair all tousled, his golden laurels askew, and we kissed and kissed and kissed, and I could taste the sweet, rich texture of ambrosia on his fine, red lips, as tears of relief flowed down his cheeks. He told me about the things I had already seen, the pearly sheen of the clouds overhead, the soft azure of the sky, the blazing chariot of Helios, glaring down at him, its light a a soft orange mixed with an eye-watering white, the dew-laden flowers all in a hundred colors he never even knew existed swaying in the gentle breeze that brushed past them. And when he told me of his mother, I could not help but collapse into cries myself, the two of us giggling and clutching at each other like children. He, Zagreus, had won, had finally come out as the victor in a battle he had been fighting for so very long. His happiness made me happy. We were life and death, one and the same, one filled with greetings of joy, the other with farewells of love.

Fin.