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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE xliii. the verge of final death _______
Like the last breath of a dying god, the darkness dispersed with a massive sigh. That was enough to tell Sebastian that they'd reached their dreaded destination. In front of them was a clearing - a barren field of dust and stones. In the center, about twenty yards away, knelt the gruesome figure of a woman, her clothes tattered, her limbs emaciated, her skin leathery green. Her head was bent as she sobbed quietly, and the sound shattered all Sebastian's hopes.
He realised that life was pointless. His struggles were for nothing. This woman cried as if mourning the death of the entire world - which soon could be a reality.
"We're here," Bob announced. "Akhlys can help."
If the sobbing ghoul was Bob's idea of help, Sebastian didn't want it. He knew everything he was feeling was a trick - a sick game of Tartarus, seeing how far it's victims could get without ending it all - but it was truly horrible. It was bringing out every depressing, suicidal, self-deprecating thought that Sebastian had ever had. And after two thousand years of heartache and overwhelming guilt, that was a lot.
Nevertheless, Bob trudged forward. Sebastian and Percy were obliged to follow, but still firmly held onto each other's hands. If nothing else, this area was less dark. Not exactly light, but with more of a soupy white fog.
"Akhlys!" Bob called.
The creature raised her head.
Her body was bad enough. She looked like the victim of a famine - limbs like sticks, swollen knees and knobby elbows, rags for clothes, broken fingernails and toenails. Dust was caked on her skin and piled on her shoulders as if she'd taken a shower at the bottom of an hourglass.
Her face was utter desolation. Her eyes were sunken and rheumy, pouring out tears. Her nose dripped like a waterfall. Her stringy gray hair was matted to her skull in greasy tufts, and her cheeks were raked and bleeding as if she'd been clawing herself.
Sebastian couldn't stand to meet her eyes, so he lowered his gaze. Across her knees lay an ancient shield - a battered circle of wood and bronze, painted with the likeness of Akhlys herself holding a shield, so the image seemed to go on forever, smaller and smaller.
"That shield," Sebastian murmured. "That's his. I thought it was just a story."
"Oh, no," the old hag wailed. "The shield of Hercules. He painted me on its surface, so his enemies would see me in their final moments - the goddess of misery. As if Hercules knew true misery. It's not even a good likeness!"
"What's his shield doing here?" Percy asked.
The goddess stared at him with her wet milky eyes. Her cheeks dripped blood, making red polka dots on her tattered dress. "He doesn't need it anymore, does he? It came here when his mortal body was burned. A reminder, I suppose, that no shield is sufficient. In the end, misery overtakes all of you. Even Hercules."
