Late to the Party (1-2)
Traversing the Underworld requires a level of access available to a privileged few, a privilege that makes itself known each time Charon’s medallion glows. An answering glow illuminates the roads and bridges that rise to meet him and the gates that open for him.
He walks without hesitation or interference until he arrives at the large white columns and arching doorway that lead to the banquet hall. As he enters the anteroom Charon lowers his hood to reveal his wizened face, wispy white hair, and eerily blue eyes.
Ornate twin doors tower over the four soldiers who stand guard, and even over Charon’s larger frame, glittering with jewels and precious metals twisting to create intricate patterns. None of the soldiers greet him verbally, their eyes are already lowered in deference. Two of them lower their heads as well and stare pointedly at the ground.
Their lips tighten to a thin line under their helmets, their knuckles and nail beds grow white as they grip their ceremonial spears and Charon smiles in sympathy. The two staring at the ground must be newer recruits. More seasoned soldiers have an easier time keeping their composure.
A familiar melody starts up in the banquet hall, followed by a call and response as the new song begins in earnest. One of the soldiers adjusts his stance, shifting pressure to a different foot. The movement catches Charon’s eye and he notices the other soldiers adjusting their posture as well.
“Have you been here long?” He asks the soldiers.
One soldier who managed to keep his head up answers the question in a clear voice. The gleaming emblem on his shoulder marks him as an officer of notable rank, possibly a lieutenant.
“Since the banquet started, sir, but there was a shift change yesterday. Two of our number are new recruits. Please excuse any disrespect, sir, it’s most likely nerves.”
“Relax, soldier. I won’t hold it against you or your men.” The wrinkling skin in the corners of Charon’s eyes soften his face as he smiles.
“Thank you, sir.”
The other soldiers visibly relax after their exchange, and those holding their heads down manage to straighten up. But when Charon doesn’t move toward the door, they exchange confused glances—as much as they can without openly moving, anyway.
“Would you like us to keep that for you while you’re inside, sir?” The lieutenant asks, indicating the woven basket peeking out of the ferryman’s cloak. Charon hugs it closer in response and his smile turns impish.
“If you did that, what would I present to the king and queen in its place?”
“But those are—no, of course, you wouldn’t want to greet them empty-handed. I didn’t mean to offend.” The incredulous soldier almost raises his eyes to meet Charon’s. Almost, but he catches himself in time. The other soldiers steal glances at the basket in Charon’s arms and similar expressions of surprise and curiosity ghost over their faces.
“This gift isn’t the most traditional, but neither is this event,” Charon answers. “Besides, with everyone else likely to bring precious metals and jewels, they might appreciate something more practical.”
“The Meadows had a bountiful harvest this year, sir. It’s all thanks to Their Majesties.” One junior soldiers speaks up, pride outweighing his nerves.
The lieutenant clears his throat and the junior soldier lifts his head immediately, keeping his eyes lowered. The constellation of moles along his cheek and his generally pleasant features surely make him popular, and Charon wonders idly about the man’s connection to the Meadows.
“Well said, soldier. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Charon nods, even though he knows the gesture is lost on the man who can’t even look him in the eye. With one final breath to steel himself, Charon steps through the banquet doors that the soldiers rush to hold open for him.
Tables dot the room, each with a circle of plush chairs providing a respite for dance-weary guests. The banquet hall is alive with energy, buoyed by every chord Dionysus plucks from his lyre. He twirls through the crowd, filling every glass he passes to the brim. Wine and mead anoint the floor when another round of cheers begins. A company of musicians and dancers trails behind the god of merrymaking, pulling new partners from the crowd as they go. Yet another, smaller group follows them—Dionysus’ most junior attendants. Equipped with brooms that leave no debris and mops that need no wringing, they clear the floor of broken glass and liquor before the next pass.
Other than Dionysus, Charon spots a few more familiar faces mixed in with the crowd of gods, demigods, and automatons. One golden-haired mischief-maker catches Charon’s eye.
Hermes is all smiles as he charms a woman away from the tables: a demigoddess related to the changing seasons, judging by her attire and the flowering stems braided into her hair. Whatever her affiliation, she happily accepts his request for a dance. Hermes pulls her close, guiding her through the fast-moving crowd with a firm hand around her waist. Now and then, he leans down and whispers something that causes her cheeks to flush.
Charon isn’t alone in watching the pair. Even in a crowd, the golden-haired god attracts attention with his graceful moves and anyone would be forgiven for missing his partner’s difference in skill. If she stumbles or steps on his toes, Hermes simply holds her closer and gives her a dazzling smile. Her eyes shine with adoration and the early symptoms of affection as she stares up at him. She hardly notices when his hands start wandering.
Hermes brings the young demigoddess’ knuckles to his lips, caressing her fingers as they dance. Charon’s brows draw together in concern when Hermes slips a jewel-encrusted gold band off her finger. As the dance winds down, Hermes lowers his partner into a swoon-worthy dip, lingering there with his eyes locked on hers.
With their dance concluded, Hermes escorts his partner back to her table, notably more flushed than before, and gracefully takes his leave. That’s when he finally spots Charon watching him and winks. Charon frowns, fully intending to pull him aside. But Hermes knows him all too well—and has the benefit of speed. He takes advantage of the chaos in the banquet hall and melts into the crowd before Charon can catch up to him. For all his efforts, Charon finds himself face-to-face with Dionysus.
“Charon! So nice of you to join us.” Dionysus’ voice rings out as the music fades a bit. Behind him, the line of dancers also comes to a halt to watch their interaction. A silver chalice materializes in the ferryman’s free hand and slowly fills with a golden liqueur: ambrosia.
“Better late than never.”
“Any later and you would have missed the whole party.”
“Knowing you, it could have gone on for another week.”
Thanks to Dionysus’ wine and all the good food, no one shows any signs of fatigue. The crowd following him, on the other hand, stands aimlessly behind their leader. Their stares, curious from some and hostile from others, settle on Charon as the intruder stopping their party. Charon shifts under the weight of their stares, covering the mostly hidden basket by his side in an even thicker layer of shadows.
“Shows how much you know. I’ve gone for two months before. It was one of Ares’ events, celebrating some war, or victory, or death, or…something.” Dionysus waves his hands about as he talks, spilling wine that quickly and discreetly gets mopped up by his attendants.
“Was it that memorable?”
Dionysus lets out a short bark of laughter. “After two months…well, you were invited. Maybe if you came you could remind me why we were all there.”
He takes a long sip from his chalice before continuing, staring into the depths of the murky liquid as it refills.
“In any case, I’m sure the important people remember.” Dionysus continues, completely oblivious to his friend’s hardship.
“I thought the invitation was a courtesy.”
“Well, you’re not wrong. I can’t imagine what they’d do if you actually showed up.”
As Dionysus stares into his cup, his eyes seem to glaze over before snapping back to Charon’s face with impish glee. Charon could feel his brows drawing together again and fought a losing battle to keep his expression neutral.
“But if you did come…You must know, Zeus hosts the most—”
“If I attended, there wouldn’t be a party at all.” Considering Dionysus’ temperament, a simple suggestion could easily snowball into a campaign, or worse, a scheme. Charon shakes his head, firmly rejecting the idea. Being the center of attention comes naturally to Dionysus and he’s perfectly comfortable having an intimate conversation with a crowd of observers. But for Charon, positive and negative attention leave the same sour taste on his lips. The adoring glances, the envious glares, and the curious whispers overwhelm him easily. He keeps up his smile, but his eyes dart around for a chance to end the conversation. The sooner he can make his greetings and a clean escape from this place, the better.
“I don’t know about that, I think you’re a riot,” Dionysus says, flashing Charon a wink and a charming smile and sending a group of goddesses behind the ferryman into a fit of giggles.
“A riot waiting to happen, maybe,” Charon mumbles. If he tried the same thing, he’d be met with gasps and confusion.
“And that’s a bad thing? I still remember a particular French do, it went on for years. I’m not saying this to take credit for it—even I can be humble—but I did feel compelled to give it my attention.”
“Yes…I believe I met a few of the guests who were disinvited from that event,” Charon says, raising an eyebrow in a show of disapproval before pulling a more placid expression, but Dionysus hardly notices the shift.
“Not everyone can make the cut.” Dionysus rubs his chin thoughtfully and the mead or beer sloshes around in the chalice in his hand. “But you could also argue the unlucky ones are those who do!”
Dionysus laughs heartily, his whole chest heaving, his head rolling back as he tries to catch his breath. Without bothering to say a final word to Charon, Dionysus claps loudly. Just like that, the singing starts anew and the dancers scramble to follow as Dionysus charges off again. A whirlwind; that’s the only way to describe him.
Mercifully abandoned, Charon takes a hearty sip of ambrosia. The taste of it is less like the sickly-sweet blend Olympians typically enjoy and more like the imitations made in the Meadows that are more like mulled wines. As the bittersweet flavor coats his tongue its warmth spreads through him, bringing a smile to his lips. At the same time, the shadows cloaking him reach out greedily, trying to steal the light from the air around him. The contradiction of his softened expression and the grasping shadows are enough to discourage small talk as Charon makes his way to where the guests of honor are seated.
