Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Somehow, the Field of Asphodel was both underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time.
It was packed with millions upon millions of spirits. For anyone who died that was claustrophobic, this would be their Field of Punishments. There was no light, no discernible sound other than the miserable mumblings of the dead. The black grass had been trampled by eons of dead feet. A warm, moist wind blew like the breath of a swamp. Poplar trees grew in clumps here and there.
The cavern ceiling was so high it might have been a bank of storm clouds, except for the stalactites, which glowed faint grey and looked wickedly pointed. Dotted around the fields were several that had fallen and impaled themselves in the black grass. The dead didn't have to worry about little hazards like being speared by stalactites the size of booster rockets.
Rory, Annabeth, Grover, and Percy tried to blend into the crowd, keeping an eye out for security ghouls. Rory tried not to stare at the dead, though she couldn't help glance out into the field. But the dead are hard to look at. Their faces shimmer. They all look slightly angry or confused. They come up to you and speak, but their voices sound like chatter, like bats twittering. Once they realize you can't understand them, they frown and move away.
The dead aren't scary. They are just sad.
The four crept along, following the line of new arrivals that snaked from the main gates toward a black tented pavilion with a banner that read:
Judgements for Elysium and Eternal Damnation Welcome, Newly Deceased!
Out the back of the tent came two much smaller lines. To the left, spirits flanked by security ghouls were marched down a rocky path toward the Fields of Punishment, which glowed and smoked in the distance — a vast, cracked wasteland with rivers of lava and minefields and miles of barbed wire separating the different torture areas. Even from far away, they could see people being chased by hellhounds, burned at the stake, forced to run naked through cactus patches, or listen to opera music. Rory could just make out a tiny hill, with the ant-size figure of Sisyphus struggling to move his boulder to the top.
The line coming from the right side of the judgment pavilion was much better. This one led down toward a small valley surrounded by walls — a gated community, which seemed to be the only happy part of the Underworld. Beyond the security gate were neighborhoods of beautiful houses from every time period in history, Roman villas and medieval castles and Victorian mansions. Silver and gold flowers bloomed on the lawns. The grass rippled in rainbow colors. Rory could hear laughter and smell barbecue cooking.
Elysium.
In the middle of that valley was a glittering blue lake, with three small islands. The Isles of the Blest, for people who had chosen to be reborn three times, and three times achieved Elysium.
