Cerberus Slept

by Doonvorcannon

  “Is this desolation empty?” I said.

  “Empty of life, yes. Overflowing with death, of course,” Hesiod said, walking forward to stand beside me and survey the landscape.

  “I thought the immortals of old couldn’t die.”

  “You’ve seen Kronos end by your own doing, and you heard him speak of Moros’s suicide. There is an undoing force in the air. A reckoning of some sorts. A reckoning in which you seem to stand at the center of.”

  “Is it a right reckoning? Why me, I don’t bother to ask. It is me that walks these paths, and I will see this through. Whatever this truly is. I do not trust this mythos and I suspect the demonic. Yet, I will not fail again. Kronos said I was destined to found a new people. Perhaps that is God’s word. Perhaps the Devil’s. But it is a word, and right now it is a something. I am tired of that wordless nothing. I refuse to fail as I did my beloved empire.”

  “Words as empty and meaningless as a bedded whore’s wedding vow. Find the quilted black unlike the others first.”

  I turned my back to the faithless poet and clenched my fists. I glanced at my forearms and flexed, enjoying the press of veins against skin. My strength and physicality were back. I hadn’t a sword to defend myself, but my fists would do for the moment.

  The freezing flames that chilled my bones forced me forward. First, I needed to find some shelter, if such a thing existed in this hellscape. Forward I marched, feet frigid against the black sand. I surrendered to the freeze of the air and without tension strode onward. The unnatural pillars of flame shot up in sudden and continuous spouts, a roaring furnace that boomed loud and banished any hope of quiet. I marched on, knowing that one wrong step could end me.

  “There are other Titans here, you know.”

  I didn’t answer. I’d not even bothered to notice that Hesiod had followed me. My excitement at the poet’s presence had ended as soon as the darkness had cleared and this Hell had revealed itself. One’s accomplishments and stature tended to be diminished in the flames of this infernal forever.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where the nearest Titan might be, would you? There is nothing here but useless fire,” I said.

  “This frosted flame has its use. How else do you think the Titan of light can be contained? Not in darkness, and not in light that burns. Only through the paradox of freezing fire can the light of the High-One be brought low. He cannot watch the world when torn apart by opposites. His attention divided; he has lost his own light.”

  “Is this Titan dead? I thought only two of the immortals have died.”

  “No, he is not dead. His name is Hyperion. But for as long he’s been forgotten, I wonder if his wisdom remains. He did not run, nor did he hide. He contemplated and watched, unable to decide what to do even during the Titanomachy—that ancient war in which Zeus led the new gods against the Titans, ending their tyrannical reign. So wise was Hyperion that he realized the wisest choice a Titan such as he could make, was to wait. And so he waited, his waiting and watching raising him higher and higher until he became so distant, so forgotten, that before he knew it, he’d paradoxically inverted, sinking into the very depths of being. Tartarus. His punishment was to be burnt in the flame of forgetfulness. He forgot what it was that made him who he was. To be burnt by such a flame is to freeze. That is who we must find.”

  “The present but past. I wonder if he might possess the key out of this wasteland.”

  Hesiod grinned. He shook his head, rubbed his face and stopped walking. Rolling his neck and then shoulders, his face seemed suddenly tired as if he’d only now just realized what it was to be of flesh again. I stopped and peered at him with suspicion. Was he my guide or warden? Stroking my fingers through my thick beard and scratching at my squared chin, I squinted my eyes and stared at the old, sullen fellow in front of me. His legendary status paled under the gaze of the present.

  “How is it that you’ve come to me? Who do you get your orders from, poet?”

  “The only orders I’ve received were from the songs of the Muses. I write on my own, and live according to virtue.”

  “What was this light you spoke of that showed you my face? I was a skilled soldier in my life, but nothing more. How is it that a man such as myself has been given this power to destroy the immortals? These gods I never once considered to be real. What is this falsity? How is it that I walk amongst the dead, in the flesh of my body?”

  “The light of impending doom. The light that lit Hagia Sophia aflame and left your city behind. Not a mere trick of the sky, nor a meaningless sign. No, that light that left Constantinople was not simply Moros, though Moros dwelled within it. That light was also of a higher being. Parallel to impending doom is everlasting glory. There’s always an opposite. To overcome what is fated is to be eternal. When Moros dissolved into nonbeing out of fear, he passed on the flame of glory. That flame frightened Kronos and it found me, but it wasn’t for me. It was only to reveal who was destined for that light.” Hesiod had the look of an evangelist proclaiming what he took to be hidden truth. There could be no doubting it by the crease of his brow and the stern glare in his dark eyes: he was a man convinced. But whether or not he spoke in allegory, I couldn’t tell. “When you awoke in the darkness, that was the glory of your blood aflame with that everlasting light. I do not know who you truly are, but I know that you are a leader of men and the next great hero. In times when the heroic has fallen forgotten, you bear the torch of Hercules, of Aeneas, once more. That is what the fire revealed, and that is what now courses through your blood.”

  At the mention of such great heroes I tensed up and glared at him, not with fury but fire. I was aflame with the desire to achieve. Constantinople might be lost, but there was a new land waiting to be conquered. I was that conqueror. Not when I got out of here, but now. Now! I remembered my father killing a lion with nothing but a stone perfectly thrown at its head. The power beaming in his eyes had propelled me into a career of soldiering. I always wanted to be more powerful than any opponent: animal, man, or myth, it didn’t matter. My father was no stranger to Roman and Greek mythology; he often bemoaned the fact that there weren’t more warrior-saints and that I should strive to be one. Well, in the stories of Hercules and Aeneas, the perilous journeys of Odysseus and Jason, and the epic battles of the Iliad, I heard of power and glory. And from those tales I built myself into a man worthy of fighting alongside an Achilles or a Perseus. And now I realized, I should have kept building myself until worthy of besting them. A man shouldn’t stop until he dies. But now I could see that after death, that increasing and becoming must continue. Eternity implies never ceasing, so I would increase. So, I would be greater.

  “And which way must I go?” I said. I looked up at my surroundings, the black sand and bursts of lava spreading out as far as I could see. Nothing else. “Where are the other souls? How is it that only you and I, not counting Kronos, are here but nobody else?”

  “Every mythos that the great civilizations have followed, all those gods fear you, Rangabes. Your Lord reigns over them all and they fear not only His blessing on you, but that of Apollo’s. There hasn’t been a man such as you that carried so much of civilization and history in himself at once.”

  I sighed, breathing in the rancid air defiantly. “They fear a fallen soldier of a conquered people?” I spat and shook my head in disgust. Those poor souls who survived Constantinople’s fall were in bondage now, after being raped and mutilated and who knew what else. I spat again as if to get rid of my guilt.

  “They don’t just fear you, Rangabes. They fear what comes after. The nation that will arise from your loins will be unmatched in all of history in terms of sheer power. This force, this people that comes from you has the potential to conquer the world, or destroy it and itself. They fear this most of all because not even the Fates and Prometheus could see the future this people might bring about. It belongs only to the strange one, Wyrd, and your Lord.”

  I scoffed and kicked at the soil beneath me. Wyrd? A mean
ingless name. But this mythology existed while Christ remained King? A puzzling truth, if in fact it was. I scratched at my forehead and squinted at the ground. I kicked my bare foot at the ashen sand, numb from the strange chill of the place. I was beginning to doubt this calling to found a people. Was I Aeneas? Was I just an empty avatar at the mercy of the will of the Fates?

  “A nation from me? My father was a great man but he was no saint... or mythological being, for that matter. And my mother, a good and faithful Christian, yes, but a simple woman.” I looked up at Hesiod, angry at this insanity, at my righteous death ruined. I should be in paradise, not this falsity. “I am my own man and make no promises for fatherhood or nation-bearing. I seek only a way out of this hell to wreak havoc amongst my enemies. The blasphemers must pay. Whether or not Constantinople will rise again doesn’t matter to me.”

  Hesiod slowly closed the gap between us, seemingly gliding in his calm and regal gait. His long mountain ridge of a nose took up my vision as he leaned into my face, his eyes transfixed onto mine. His thick yellow brows curtained his fierce and proud glare, and his jaw tensed as he stood there scrutinizing me.

  “Are you truly the man Moros feared unto death? The god of doom fizzled to nothingness by a vindictive boy? You may have had a martyr’s death, but for what? You don’t care that your people are finished? You want to leave your city for petty vengeance? Is it not custom for your tradition to say, ‘Vengeance is the Lord’s’?” He whispered the words wildly, whipping me without worry of retaliation. I clenched my fists and tightened my face, but allowed him a chance to relent. Yet he continued, “No, all I see is a scared soldier unworthy of the fear that so many great powers have for him. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps they should have let you ascend to your sad, pathetic paradise as your world burned below.”

  I headbutted the proud poet in his beak of a nose, cutting my forehead and painting his face in his own scarlet mortality. Growling, I grit my teeth and did not hold back. I swung my fist with the full weight of my body behind it and Hesiod threw up his arms in an attempt to ward off the blow. He failed miserably and my fist struck the side of his head. Staggered, but still on his feet, Hesiod laughed, spitting blood and putting both his fists up to fight. I glared at him wickedly, roaring with fury as I rained down attacks. I knew that this man had fought in battles during his day. He was unlike the soft scholars of my own time.

  But I was Rangabes, esteemed captain of the Constantinople forces and unafraid even of the strongest of Turks. I’d leapt off the wall to fight off the hordes of men alone. I’d cut down twenty before they finally overcame my acumen.

  This man didn’t stand a chance, and I let loose all the fury that Tartarus had filled me with over that endless time of suffering in confusion. Time was dead to me. Now, it was time to unleash. And unleash I did. Hesiod collapsed in a crumpled heap, a black pool of blood slickening his skin as he sputtered.

  My fists ached, bruised and covered with bits of meat from Hesiod and myself. I stood over the man, triumphant and calm. I rolled both my shoulders and then my neck, unscathed by any blow. My spirit was still alight from his disrespectful, despicable words questioning my merit.

  “Never question my manhood and never question my faith.” I glared down at the broken man who twitched in a heap like a swatted insect. I frowned, took a deep breath and extended my hand. “But you were right to question me. I do not know my destiny or purpose, but I do know that I will get out of Tartarus. And I will take what is mine. Glory belongs only to those willing to bleed. I think we both belong in that category.”

  Despite it all, Hesiod, bruised and bloodied, smiled a broken grin. With hands wet and crimson, he grabbed my arm and slowly climbed to his feet, using my body as a ladder. With labored breath, he muttered, “I fought in many a battle in my day. Never have I faced a man with fists harder than steel. I’ve seen less damage done by hammers and swords. The gods better fear you.” He spat blood and, still hobbled and bent over, laughed. “I had to see if you were honorable, both in combat and victory. I could use some of Hyperion’s wisdom now. Perhaps I should have thought of a better way of testing it.” He shook his head and slapped my shoulder.

  “You’re more of a man than the intellectuals of my day would ever imagine. They think of you as a curmudgeonly poet, writing nonsensical myths and boring moralities. You’d destroy them with your manhood. The kind of blows I landed here have killed many men much larger than yourself. I’m proud to have you by my side, Hesiod. Thank you for bringing some sort of light to this darkness.” I smiled and swept my arm backwards to gesture at the flames soaring in our vicinity. I frowned and looked at his split and crooked nose. “Without you, I might still be alone with nobody but Kronos yelling at my exposed spirit.” We both nodded in comradery and I quickly grabbed his nose and forced it back into place as he grunted. I received a half-hearted punch to the shoulder in thanks.

  “You were the one who killed that cannibal Titan. But did you have to go and break my nose?” He softly touched its still-bleeding bridge and winced.

  “Maybe now it won’t look so large,” I joked.

  “I should have watched and waited. The more I think about it, the more I realize Hyperion was the smart one. Forgotten and not in pain is better than this.” He dabbed his nose with cloth from his robe.

  I tore off a thin strip from my sad rag of a robe and held it out to him. “Be thankful you won’t be able to smell this,” I said.

  He took the ribbon with a grin and pressed it on, the blood making it stick. He shook his head and laughed. I grinned and joined him in his laughter till we both were bent over and gasping for air.

  “To Hyperion!” I said, finally getting a hold of myself.

  “To the forgotten frozen one. Hyperion will know where to go next. His time of distance has ended. There is no more watching in this world now. The time to act has long since begun.”

  I nodded and patted Hesiod on the back. With renewed vigor and strength, I strode forward into the burning wasteland of Tartarus. And so, we walked. And walked. And walked. And walked... and there was nothing. We’d been walking like this for quite some time and with the lack of any indication of change other than our own exhaustion, it was impossible to tell if we’d made any progress. There was still no sign of Hyperion or any other beings. The landscape’s flat nature and constant flashes of fire had such an uncanny appearance of sameness that I was half-convinced we hadn’t moved an inch. My aching feet made me question that, though the doubt lingered in my tired mind.

  “Can we really expect to find the so-called High-One in the lowest of places?” I said.

  “He’s here entrapped in one of these pillars of flame.”

  Hesiod felt at his nose, something he’d done consistently since my breaking it. All things considered, he was in pretty decent shape. Despite the dry blood caked onto his robes and face, and the spots of blackening bruises dotting his body, his energy and vivacity remained as resolute as ever. He seemed surer of himself than I. But the lack of progression was wearing me thin. My prayers to God to deliver me from this pagan falsity that appeared realer than He were only met with silence. I sighed and stopped walking.

  “Something isn’t right; we should have seen some change by now, something to mark our movement,” Hesiod muttered, stopping next to me. He turned his attention to a nearby spout of fire that had just burst towards the smoky sky. “I wonder...”

  “What are you getting at now?”

  Hesiod rushed over to the fire and thrust his hand in. He tightened his face and bit down as he stuck his arm even further into the flame till it was shoulder-deep. His face twisted with agony and his jaw clenched as he growled in pain.

  “Stop it, you fool!” I shouted, running after him.

  His face shimmered with a ripple of pale white light that emanated from his skin and, with a pained smile and nod at me, he threw himself into the flames.

  “No!” I screamed, reaching out in vain.

  Hesiod’s voi
ce drifted out from within the flames. “Step in, Rangabes. The glory of this fire is worth the suffering.”

  Before I could question the disembodied voice of Hesiod, the spurt of flame subsided until there was nothing left. I dove towards the geyser, desperately searching for some kind of sign, but I found nothing but cold sand.

  “A brave man, that Hesiod,” a triumphant voice announced behind me.

  I got up off my knees and faced the voice. A man cloaked in golden light, and nothing more, stood there expectantly. His physique was something to behold, with the light bathing his naked body in gold. His radiant skin made him look like a divine and living statue made entirely of precious metal. A body of muscle with not a flaw or drop of fat. A Titan.

  “Hyperion,” I said. “Now you show yourself. Why would Hesiod attempt such a foolish feat?”

  “His foolish feat was what brought me out of the darkness and to you this moment. He awoke me with his worthy cries of righteous pain.”

  “Has he perished?”

  “He’s waiting for you in a different realm. You must follow him into the flame, no matter the pain or pillar you choose.”

  “And what have you to offer me? Hesiod seemed transfixed on finding you, and only you, first.”

  “I am of the original twelve, a Titan wiser than all.”

  “So wise you are, that you hid yourself? Wisdom does not belong to the cowardly,” I said, standing tall and preparing myself for a fight, if it came to it.

  What I lacked in visible radiance, I made up for in height. Despite Hyperion’s glory, he was still a bit shorter than me. His golden hair was cut tightly to his head, with both sides shaved completely and just a thin layer left on top.

  “For one so ill-equipped,” he said, his eyes gazing at my rags, “you are quite the braggart.”