Homer’s story ends the way all do—in death.

The Underworld is a place without color; a black realm that cocoons the dead in suffocating darkness. Jagged shale crunches beneath Homer’s bare feet. Which shore is this? He turns his gaze left, then right, squinting through the gloom for the ferryman. Charon, the daemon tasked with bringing souls to their final judgment. 

One more hurdle, then I will stand before the god of this realm. Homer daren’t think his name; lest he appear and declare Homer insolent. 

In death, Homer fears Tartarus more than he had in life. 

Silence deafens Homer, his heartbeat pounds out a deafening rhythm while he glances across the vast and empty realm. Nothing catches his eye beyond a dense fog rolling over the top of the water. Homer keeps his distance from the river’s edge, knowing better than to try and swim in waters infested with souls. 

A creaking sound breaks the silence. The groan of wood—age and neglect in the reverberation—catches Homer’s attention. He doesn’t have to strain to hear the rhythmic thump of an oar knocking against the side of a small vessel. Though Homer knows what to expect—having educated thousands by weaving stories of the gods—he shivers as the robed figure comes into view. 

Charon’s boat, a black rotted wood, bumps the shore. Shale clatters beneath the hull as the boat banks on the river’s edge. 

“Homer.” Charon’s voice is kind; opposite of his fierce demeanor. “Do you have the toll?” Charon holds out a hand—paler than bone—from beneath the long black arm of his linen robe. Palm up, in expectation. 

Homer, well prepared by the pupils who served him, retrieves two golden coins from his pocket. They say that gold is Hades’s favorite coin; a return of wealth to the dominion from which it sprang. Homer, like many before him, hopes to spend his eternity in the Elysian Fields with the heroes of old. Hades doesn’t grant entry to those who cannot pay their toll.  

Charon accepts Homer’s payment, without a word, pocketing the gold while waiting for him to climb aboard. 

 The journey seems long—hours pass, or so Homer assumes as they travel past miles of gloomy shore. 

In the distance, Homer can hear the rumbling growls of Cerberus. The legendary three-headed guardian who stands sentinel before the entrance, and exit, of The Underworld. 

Fear courses through Homer when they arrive at the foot of an obsidian palace. The belfries are massive; spiky and violent spires that shimmer despite the realm’s lack of light. 

“This is as far as I go,” Charon says, breaking the stillness surrounding them. “You must make the rest of your journey alone.” 

Homer climbs over the boat’s side. He stumbles on slippery shale as his feet touch the ground. While steadying his legs, Homer hears Charon depart. 

The ferryman leaves him alone at the entrance of Hades’s glassy palace. There is no resistance, not a single being to stop Homer as he makes his way inside. His feet make sound, but the sounds do not return. Echoes lost in the oblivion that fills Hades’s realm. Darkness clouds Homer’s vision, making it difficult to see as he approaches a obsidian stairwell. 

One thousand steps lead him into Hades’s throne room. A place where mortals find their final judgement. Fires of deep red light the room. The flames dance across glossy black walls, moving like strange sirens. The shadows don’t capture Homer’s attention. His gaze fastens on the throne—a massive seat crafted from pewter skulls.  

The skulls aren’t as intimidating as the woman perched atop them. She is beautiful, but something about her presence is terrifying. A tall woman with hair as dark as the obsidian that surrounds her. Adorning her head is spiky  platinum crown encrusted with thousands of glittering rubies. Stones that remind Homer of blood. Her eyes—the color of a thick fog at dawn—watch Homer with interest. In her bone-white hand she holds a bident, the weapon of Hades, and Homer falls before her with reverence. 

“Queen Persephone,” Homer begins, a faint note of pleading in his tone. “I am your humble servant, and I beg your mercy as you cast judgement upon me.” 

She smiles with lips red as the garnet meat of a pomegranate. Her gaze moves beyond where Homer stands, settling on something he doesn’t dare turn to see. 

Homer once conquered his fear of death; a true believer and active participant of the Eleusinian Mysteries. Years of Eleusinian rites flee Homer’s mind, and he quivers before the Queen of the Dead. Sitting above him is a maiden torn between life and death—the goddess that conquered both.  

“My darling,” she says, breaking Homer’s thoughts. Her voice as cold as the first freeze of winter. “Did you hear what this mortal called me?” 

“I did,” comes a masculine voice from behind Homer. The warmth of the voice startles Homer, as does the amusement lacing the god’s reply. “How foolish.” 

“Are you Homer?” The goddess on the throne asks. Her gray eyes narrow when she continues, “The poet who teaches mortals of the gods?” 

“I am.” Homer admits while dipping his head low to the black floor; in a show of respect. 

The god behind Homer moves, stepping around his kneeling form. Homer watches the large, bare feet of a god as they stop before him. Everything about the gods defy mortal beauty, no artistic rendering comes close to the beauty of this god’s toes. 

“Hmm.” The god’s deep, soothing voice sounds close to Homer’s head. “Did you write Hades as a man, Homer?” 

“I did,” Homer nods. “A terrifying, powerful man. A god unmatched.” He hurries to assure the god standing before him. 

Laughter bounces around the glassy walls, chasing away the cold that lingers in this realm. “Did you hear that, my love? You are a god unmatched.” 

Homer frowns down at the feet he keeps his eyes on, swallowing as he tries to understand the meaning of this god’s words. 

“Raise your head, Homer,” the god commands. He does; fear makes Homer eager to obey.  

Shock widens his eyes. 

A man stands before him, a man who retains the beauty of youth. Hair, the color of golden wheat, falls in soft waves over the god’s forehead. His eyes are as blue as cloudless skies in spring. His skin imbued with a sun-kissed glow. This god is nothing of the fearsome, terrifying man Homer described. 

As if reading Homer’s thoughts, the god before him releases another bright laugh. His big white teeth gleam; a smile made sinister by the hearths fires. 

“Who do you think I am, Homer?” The god asks, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. 

“King Hades.” Homer scrambles to touch the god’s feet, begging forgiveness. “I did not know, sire, please, please, my lord. Do not send me to Tartarus!” 

“Hmm,” the god hums, stepping away from Homer’s old hands. “You beg the wrong god.” His amusement is palpable when he continues, “I am the maiden you told mortals of, Homer. The one stolen from sunshine. A damsel held captive in darkness and despair.” 

Horror widens Homer’s eyes. He dares a glance up, at the throne, and catches the goddess smiling; her expression cold. 

“Tell me, Homer, why should I spare you from Tartarus for sullying my name?” 

The goddess, Homer realizes, is Hades. The god—who makes his way to Hades side with a booming laugh—can only be…

“Persephone,” Homer whispers with disbelief.

“Listen to us, myth weaver, and I will consider sparing you,” Hades says.

Persephone laughs before he speaks, and the sound makes Homer’s knees buckle. “Would you like to hear an epic tale, Homer? One woven in truth rather than the rumors of mortals?” Persephone asks; kneeling beside the Throne of Hades Persephone leans his head against her knee. 

Homer nods, muted by terror and curiosity. 

“How do these tales begin, my love?” Persephone tilts his head up, peering at  the goddess who sits as still as marble. He grins when Hades doesn’t reply. Persephone turns toward Homer, with narrowed blue eyes, and begins. “Once, long ago, Zeus, King of the Gods, said that Hades, Queen of the Underworld, should be married and ruled by a king.”