Chapter Text
“When Orpheus found her she was lying dead and cold. He lifted her in his arms. He carried her home, his face wet with tears. When the funeral was finished, when the pyre had burned and the heat of the fire’s heart had consumed the house of bone, Orpheus picked up his lyre and set off on a great journey. He travelled over land and sea until he came to a dark cave. He made his way through tunnels that wound to the left and right. He delved into darkness. At last he came to the edge of an oily, black river, the river of forgetfulness. On the far side of it he could see the shadowy hills of the country he was seeking. He was looking across towards the land of the dead.”
-
The land surrounding Delphi had a milder climate than the coastal regions of Greece, a ‘true winter’ as his mama told it, owed to living in the shadow of Mount Parnassus. Many of his countrymen would never see snowfall, but he had thrice before reaching manhood. It was not winter now, but spring; the hills were green, and the air was full of salt and the scent of oranges. The sky was clear enough that squinting, one could almost make out a small, isolated house on the westmost hill in sight, a humble dwelling far from the village.
Ilya lived there.
Not Ilius, as many a Greek liked to think. Ilya, child of foreigners from colder climates, battle trained in an era of peace, out of place in the lonely and passive work of shepherding.
It was late morning, when Ilya returned home with his herd to find his mother dead.
His family was small the day he was born, but had been shriveling smaller ever since. His brother had long since left to seek his fortune in violence, a mercenary of ill repute. His father, hidden here, shame of shames, had been disintegrating into a shade before ever crossing the river Styx. Despite being in his early twenties and thus well into manhood, he had stayed at home to help his mother care for him, and his father’s health felt like the most pressing weight Ilya could shoulder. At least, that had been his belief.
Until now. Until this very moment, surveying a bloody scene, when he realized his father, confused, angry, lost, had killed her.
It could only have been the most horrible of accidents. Ilya knew this; for all his cruelty, his violent nature, his father had loved Irina. To find him there with bloodied hands and a blank look was to find two corpses, one still drawing breath.
He knew then what he had suspected for months, as the light of recognition waned within Grigori. Any part of his father he might have once recognized was now gone. The solution, the horrible, whispered solution to his suffering now roared. If Grigori were gone already, there was no true loss. If he wasn’t, this was a mercy, to not allow him the moment of clarity to know what he had done.
With the same hand that had slaughtered wolves to protect his sheep, Ilya struck his father down. In the quiet, he went easily.
And then, among the dead, Ilya laid down on the floor and cried.
-
The following days saw their bodies burned. One night lying alone and overcome by grief became two, became three. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months. In the heat of summer, he found his voice crackling in the market from disuse, days upon days without encountering another soul on his lonely side of the hill.
It was untenable. He could not be alone in this world.
The nearby ledge of the high cliff called to him, horribly tempting. He wondered, if he died in that isolated valley, how long it would take to be found, if ever. And that night, tired of his own weakness, he made a decision.
The next day saw his flock of sheep and goats traded and sold, a letter sent to his brother, and Ilya bearing a rucksack filled with traveler’s rations. The gold chain retrieved from his mother’s neck was now the only item of personal value he had.
There were many little stories and ideas from his Siberian ancestors that he had been raised with, but the one that sat with him now was the proverb Смелость города берёт: courage takes cities. The Greeks, perhaps, would have taken that a bit too literally in their own conquests, and raised among village youth with stories of gods and feats of passion, the arrogance of gallantry had infected him, too.
One answer, supplied by myth and poor logic, rose like bubbling yeast within his mind, doubling in size, then tripling, until no room for other thought remained: He would face down Death, by whatever name this cursed country called him, and demand his mother back.
-
It was said there were many paths to the underworld, which would make sense given the number of people reaching that destination. The closest he could find or think of was a deep, cold cave, a lava tube seemingly endless, that he and all in his outskirt village had been warned not to wander down.
Barely half a mile in, and the exceptional darkness enveloped him. He solved this with a stick, an oil-soaked rag, and a flame, and kept walking.
The cold was worse and harder to deter, but he had survived many winters. He felt perpetually cold since his family’s demise, so if the external matched the internal, so be it.
He had to have been walking the better part of a day and maybe even into the night when another light appeared within the cave, a glowing presence, a man who was possibly more than a man. Ilya had never known a man to have wings on his helmet or shoes, or to create his own light.
“You’re heading the wrong way to stay among the living, son.”
Ilya bristled at the excessive familiarity. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Scott.” He offered Ilya a hand to shake, which he took. “The god of travelers, and messengers.”
“What the fuck kind of god is named Scott?”
He shrugged easily. “I’m known by a lot of names. That’s one of them.”
“Hm,” Ilya offered dismissively, and moved to walk past.
Annoyingly, the god kept pace with him. “You sure you want to do this, kid? This path is fraught.”
That was a new word for Ilya. “Fraught?”
“You know. Treacherous. Full of perils? I’m supposed to deter you.”
“Are you the god of the dead?” He asked sharply. “No?” The look he gave him, eyebrows raised, would have gained some harsh words on his attitude from his mother. The thought brought with it a stab of cold, lonely pain. “Then fuck off.”
They walked together in silence for a few beats, Scott unbothered by the young man’s attitude, and Ilya doing his best to ignore his company. In truth, Ilya was moments away from snapping another harsh inquiry when Scott spoke.
“Fill me in, at least. What’s the goal here?”
“My mother,” he answered, given the conversation yielded no easy escape. He stared directly forward and kept moving. “Her death was untimely. I am going to retrieve her.”
The long pause that followed was uncomfortable, but at least blessedly unquestioned. “Grief is a difficult thing,” Scott intoned, “but this isn’t the solution. She’s not coming back. You’ll only die yourself.”
That might not be so bad he considered, but knew better than to voice the thought. “I do not recall asking for your opinion,” Ilya replied instead, though his tone was more tired than harsh.
“And yet, you’re getting it anyway.”
“Tell me something useful, then, old man,” Ilya reasoned. “If this journey is so deadly, what is going to kill me, hm? What is between here and the land of the dead?”
Scott heaved a sigh, a wearisome god about to give a wearisome answer. “Well, you have to cross a river, but you haven’t died and been burned, so the boatman won’t take you. And then the next step is to pass through a gate guarded by a three-headed monster.” He was counting the horrors off on his fingers, Ilya noticed. “After that, you have a choice; you can either ford another uncrossable river, this time with no boatman at all, which makes you lose all your memories, or you can face down three judges and have your soul evaluated.”
“Ah.” Two rivers and a monster then, Ilya quickly decided. He didn’t need anyone looking at his soul. “Is that it?”
“‘Is that it’ he says.”
“Well? Is it?”
“Technically, yes,” Scott conceded, and the smallest bit of light was showing now from the end of the cave. It was very little and still very far, but in eyes adjusted to hours of darkness, the point of light seemed almost blindingly radiant. “But don’t forget, then you’re in the underworld. Where Death will tell you no, and then you’ll have to find your way back out.”
“That is tomorrow’s problem,” Ilya disagreed with the flap of a hand. “Today, I get there.”
“Not today.” Scott disagreed. “For the few mortals who have done this before-”
“So it has been done.”
“-it took them each about twelve days. And they didn’t end up happy, let’s just say.”
“I will take ten,” Ilya confidently asserted.
“There’s really no talking you out of this, is there?” Scott asked wearily.
“And here I was thinking you would never understand. You are so slow,” Ilya goaded.
“Watch it,” Scott cautioned, but the words were toothless. “I’ll check on you again tomorrow. If you want to turn back then, I can help.”
“Yes, please. Meet me right here tomorrow,” he offered, with a plan to be so much farther ahead at that point.
“Very funny,” the god replied dryly. “I can find you, you know. A lot more eyes are on you down here than you think.” And with that creepy statement, he was gone.
-
An hour, maybe two passed before Ilya was entering into a misty grove with enough light to imply daytime but no direct sun. He blinked, stepping out of the mouth of the cave, startled by the ground’s softness, and able to see the first river before him. For all his claims of speed, he was exhausted down to his bones; clearing the cave had been of utmost import, given he could fall asleep and not know which direction to travel on waking. Worse, even with a direction marked, he could wake unable to see a foe as they attacked.
Now he knew his challenges, and they wouldn’t, it seemed, include an ambush. Two rivers and a monster, he considered, the water flowing before him now.
The river was dark and murky, uninviting, though it flowed like any other. He knew better than to touch it when leaning forward, seeing thousands of catfish-like creatures wiggling in the depths of it. Instead, he looked across it, and to the massive distance it spanned. Despite what he had been told, he saw no boatman.
So, awaiting a boat and thoroughly tired, he lay down on the soft ground and went to sleep.
-
My mind is not very creative today, he considered, as his dreamscape looked much like the marsh he had laid down in. As with all dreams, his body felt looser, mind less heavy, the edges of the world blurred and softened.
However, unlike in other dreams, he found himself in the presence of the most stunning man he had ever seen.
The man had dark hair and deep, warm eyes, with a strong jaw and nose, softened only by his pink lips and smattering of freckles. His clothing was as dark as his features, black pants and a long black vest with finely embroidered edges wrapped with a cloth belt more suited to the lands east of Greece than here. His arms were like that of a statue brought to life, each swell and groove illustrative of power.
The punch of unslakable lust that coursed through Ilya was as surprising as it was undeniable; he had wondered if that part of him had died in the six months prior to his parents’ death, when caring for his father had driven thoughts of pleasantries from his mind. Certainly, he hadn’t had a salacious dream in that time. Even prior to that, never in his life had he conjured someone so appealing as the man before him now.
He was more than stunning, even. He had a presence to him as well, an inescapable and undeniable power, which blanketed more thickly as he approached, as he crouched in front of Ilya. It was so potent he could almost taste it on the back of his throat. He wanted to taste so much more.
And then, with those eyes looking directly into his own, he felt raw, like an exposed nerve, and frightened. The man glanced down, eyes sweeping over him appraisingly, before returning to rest on his face but not his eyes directly, and the feeling passed.
“Ilya,” he began, his voice as warm and certain as the rest of him.
“You say it right,” Ilya interrupted, pleased. Usually, he was not so optimistic as to even dream that.
The man’s face lost its sternness to his small, surprised laugh. “Good. I'm not as … Greek as most people expect.” He seemed to catch himself, pausing with a look that dared Ilya to question him about it, but no question was forthcoming. Ilya was simply enjoying the man’s delicious proximity to him. “I came to warn you. You need to turn back.”
Ah, okay. A bit redundant, but it made sense, that some subconscious part of him was afraid. “I have heard this. I am not giving up.”
The man's face creased in frustration, somehow making him even more alluring. “You must. You can't-”
This was not a lecture Ilya wanted from his fantasy. Instead, he shocked the man to silence, brushing fingers over his face. “Pretty.”
A gorgeous pink flush rose to freckled cheeks. “What?”
“You are pretty,” Ilya clarified to his dream man, before cupping a hand to his jaw, pulling him forward, and kissing him.
The kiss was clumsy, the man clearly surprised and off-balance from the tug, but his lips were smooth and hot and perfect against Ilya’s own. He barely had a chance to familiarize himself with them, to gently coax them apart, before a firm hand on the center of his chest pushed him away.
The pinkness, previously isolated to his cheeks, now reddened his whole face. Ilya wanted to eat him. “I ... stop it. Pay attention. This is important,” he chastised, shaking his head as though to clear it. “You have to know this journey will kill you.”
The reasoning felt both true and tiresome. “Maybe this is important,” Ilya argued with a grin. “You have to know you are pretty.”
The man was growing irritated, and the energy of it sizzled between them in a way that probably only Ilya found enjoyable. “This isn't how this is supposed to go,” the man murmured, seemingly to himself.
He had never had to work so hard to seduce a dream before. However, the people of his dreams had never been quite so gorgeous, their kisses never felt so hot and real, so the effort, he felt assured, was worth it. “If I tell you I understand your warning, can we be done with it?”
The stern concentration on the man’s face was truly begging to be kissed away. “I'm not sure you do, though,” the man protested.
“I do. I promise, you cannot deter me.” Then, tired of conversation, he leaned forward to do as he imagined and kissed the expression off of him.
This time, the embrace was more expected, and Ilya was delighted to feel hands, gentle but steady, against his shoulder and his back. Ilya’s approach was less decorous, a thumb pressing the hinge of the man’s jaw to gain an open mouth as the other needily cupped his skull to keep them together, but he received no complaints for his efforts as the man melted into his touch.
With a soft sound of pleasure, Ilya pressed the man to the earth and pulled back to examine his prize, hands roaming freely.
The man’s mouth, so beautifully pink prior, was now red and wet and open. “This is such a bad idea,” he whispered with a wince. “I don't do this, usually. Ever.”
Ilya found he couldn’t muster the will to care what coy imaginings his mind had woven into this man. “Don't do what? Fuck? That is shame.” Despite any verbal protests, he was being allowed and aided in removing the fabric separating him from the man’s chest, which was unsurprisingly as perfect in tone and heft as his arms were. He kissed his way down it in gratitude, with special attention laved on each ridge and nipple. “Looking like this,” Ilya continued, “you should be getting fucked all the time.” He could only assume the man preferred to receive, as everything else about him was catered to Ilya’s exact specifications.
The pretty blush was back in full force. “This isn't what I came here to do, I mean.”
Ilya couldn't for the life of him understand why that was so important right now, but even in his mind, he believed himself decent. “Okay,” he conceded, pulling back. “Should I stop?”
The man was panting as their eyes locked again, and the feeling, like the electric pressure of the air before lightning, did nothing to tame Ilya’s want. Whatever internal battle this man was waging seemed to come to an end, as he pulled Ilya down into another kiss.
-
Waking from the most pleasant of dreams, he found himself smiling before he even opened his eyes. His mind was such a dark place; there was something more than pleasant, something wonderful even, in being gifted a reprieve from his isolation, if only for a moment. He rose feeling lighter than he had in months, more himself, more hungry for his coming victory.
This feeling was substantiated a moment later. He blinked into the light, made limp by the fog obscuring it, and saw a boat slowly approaching on the water, a skeletal man rowing. He waved him down, but the boat was already headed directly for him.
If, at any point in this process, one were to forget they were on their way to the land of the dead, the paper-thin, grey skin of the boatman, wrinkled as a hound and brittle as chalk, would remind them.
“I have coin to pay,” Ilya began, producing one from his rucksack which the man’s bony hands greedily snatched. “I can pay double, if needed, to make exception.” The man looked at him with bleary, deep-set eyes, saying nothing. “As I am not dead,” he clarified stupidly.
“No need. No bribe would work on me, child,” the ancient voice rasped. “The boss said to take you. Get in.”