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Venti is the ferryman.
Venti is the ferryman, the one who guides the souls of the dead and the gone and the damn, down, down, down, into the depths of the Underworld; he is the lone boatman with a fistful of gold and an eyeful of silver and a long paddle-oar, to guide the lost along the blood-red lengths of the river Styx.
And though this duty was important, and though this duty was vital – for where else may the dead so freely roam – it was lonely.
And it was hard.
The mortals – they cry and they wail and they bemoan their fate; they cling onto him, as they sob and they dirty up his cloak, screaming and blubbering that they were not yet ready to die. But – if he may be so open – after hearing many, many stories and yet countless more, he most certainly thinks at least some of them deserved their fate.
A cheating husband who used up his wife, forsaking all the love she had for him; a son who would dare to keep stealing from his father’s flock. A thief who would rob a temple blind, the poor and the rich alike and all the offerings to the gods, wiping the plates clean; a liar who would prey upon the weakness of his own sister and cost her all that she had – her child, her house, her husband, her home. A friend who would go as far as the poison the woman they could claim was their mother in all but name, because they thought they had something to gain – namely, her land that they so coveted. He can offer no clemency, no solace, no peace – nor does he wish he could.
But for every sin and every vice and every twist of a knife, there is a thousand untold tragedies.
A babe ripped from their mother’s arms, newly born and yet to cry for their first breath; a boy whose life had been stolen before he had yet a chance to live, a body so broken down, he could barely breathe. A father who would had walked a thousand miles, and would walk a thousand miles more, scars and tar etched onto his skin, taken by death and by war and by battle, never again to be given a chance to return home. A young woman who had been smothered to death by her own sister in her sleep, simply for being prettier than her; a little girl so battered and so bruised, it was hard to tell she was ever human.
It is lonely and it is hard, to continuously listen to the souls of the damned and the dead and the dying; it is hard, he thinks, to count the souls of the losses and the breaks and the murders and the plagues.
But if none were so willing to ferry them safely to the soft belly of the Underworld, then where would they go?
And then, he sees him.
And then, he sees him; he sees him, this perfect glimpse of this mighty god that drips of blood and gold and valor; this glorious might that dresses in a brilliant, vibrant, vivid crimson, soft and delicate white, and a subtle charcoal black; this tall, lone figure who stands so elegantly by the riverside all by their lonesome at the empty dock – a place no one else had so boldly dared to stand on before – as the souls of the dead are shuffled off his boat.
His voice is husky and low and deep, rumbling like the sounds of distant thunder; long, dark strands of hair – dipped in hues of copper and gold – frame his impossibly sharp jaw, like the strongest of steel, with a will to cut through bone and metal and stone alike. Smoldering amber eyes focus heavily as he carefully counts each and every soul off a list, bending his chiseled body down to greet them, as he strikes lines through name and number and sound.
And Venti think that this must possibly be the most beautiful god he ever dee see; a creature so rare and so fine, that none would ever believe that Underworld had given root to such a god – for the Underworld reeks of sadness and of death and of decay, of bitter anger and regrets, and only rot could grow here.
But yet –
But yet, he’s here – he’s here, as he stands with such a frightening presence; he’s here as his very steps command respect with each thud that they make, he’s here as his very hands move with such calculated strength; he’s here as he stands there, as though he would tower over the very gods of Mount Olympus themselves, and –
And Venti finds that he cannot speak a single world, cannot utter a single sound, his tongue so useless underneath his lips in the wake of such a perfect being, until –
Until he looks at him, and finds that amber eyes have solely fixed their smoldering gaze onto him.
And as this majestic, magnificent god looks at him – a mere shadow hidden underneath loose dark robes, a single verdant eye that peeks from under the black of his hood – he asks him who he is. He asks him who he is, and he gulps, because no one had ever asked that of him before. No one had ever asked that of him before, for they had all assumed that he was just the boatman – of which he is, there is no doubt – and had went about their day.
But now, he’s been asked that of him, and –
He answers, his fingers trembling as they grip onto his oar. “… The ferryman for the dead, sir. I carry the souls on the river Styx.”
And then, the god nods, and all seems right with the world, as Venti lets out a breath he didn’t even know he had held onto so tightly within his chest.
“Carry on, then.”
There is an old woman in his boat today.
There is an old woman in his boat, and she is very kind and she is very gentle and she is very sweet; she walks very slowly and she speaks very softly and he could easily tell that it was a quiet death; he could easily tell that it was a quiet death, having fallen asleep in her bed, empty after her husband had left her, yet warmed as it was surrounded by all her family and friends; her children and her grandchild, her sister and her brother, her friends from the temple and the neighbors from her street.
He could tell that she had known it was her time, dressed in a wreath and white burial shroud, surrounded by milk and figs and honey; he could tell she had known it was her time, and her son had paid her fare.
And as the boat rocked gently among the blood-red waves of the river Styx, she speaks gently, of the dawn, and of the night; she speaks gently of the spring and of the fall and of the winter and of the son. She speaks of the time she had just met her husband; she speaks of the time she had just bore her son. She speaks of her mother, when she was just a little girl, surrounded by flowers.
“The stories Mama always told me loved to say that Lord Morax is a very handsome man,” she giggles, like a school girl. “Tall with dark hair and amber eyes and a body made of bronze…”
“Surely, I’m not too old for him yet!” She jokes, laughing breathlessly. “If I cannot find my old husband, then I should see it to get a new one, shouldn’t it? What do you think?”
And as he laughs along, he thinks –
…
He thinks he might have seen him before.
And though none had before dared to stand so boldly by the riverside of the docks – claiming and clamoring and shouting that it was only fit for the dead and the gone and the damned – Venti starts to feel a small whisper of power, a vestige of prestige; he feels a lone and a somber and a distant, smoldering amber gaze that sears the back of his neck, as it looks upon him from afar, as it watches him guide the souls of the lost safely unto the shores of the river Styx.
And in the face of such might, of such raw, unending power, all he could do – so helpless and so wanting – was to lower his head in his hood, every time.
… He’s never had anyone watch him before. He’s never had anyone steer their gaze toward him, so intensely and intentively, as if he were an enigma to be solved, a puzzle piece to be picked, a prize to be collected – he’s long been ignored, for his is merely the boatman…
Simply a mere boatman, with a fistful of gold and an eyeful of silver and a long paddle-oar, nothing more…
The mere thought of it causes his cheek to heat up with unfound, unknown blueish flame, as he holds onto hands so gently, as he lets them go and waves and smiles and wishes them well.
… He has another feeling, too.
After the old woman had so joyously described him, Venti had a lingering, smoldering feeling that he had known exactly whom she had been referring to – this mighty and bold figure of blood and of gold and of valor that had dared to tower above the very docks he stood upon – but it had only been when he had watched a man that he knew, as he watched him tumble out of his boat, rocking against the waves as so desperately, he tripped himself before him, as he kneeled before the man he had called Lord Morax, asking for clemency and for forgiveness and for salvation, borne out of guilt and shame and a thick tar –
It had been then that he knew – that he knew the very god who had been watching over him from afar was the very same; the king of the damned and of the broken and of the dead and of the dying – Lord Morax, Overseer of The Underworld.
And gods, upon the realization, it cause his cheeks to heat up, it causes his lungs to lose the air within them, it causes his fingers to tremble upon his oar as he rows away.
Oh, how he thanks all that is holy and divine for the simple fact he had donned on such a large hood; it mercifully covers his quivering lips and flushed cheeks, as a lone verdant eye stares up from the dark, glancing back toward this god seemingly made of the most heavenly marble and dripping with gold. But, if he’s watching him, then –
Then, doesn’t that mean –
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no! It couldn’t possibly be!
Venti knew he was a fool, but oh – how he feels so simple-minded, so ridiculous as to ever even dare to believe that a god so great would ever –
… would ever take interest in a creature so pathetic and so lonesome as he.
But then – surely, he mutters to himself, muffled and quiet, as the cavern’s dew drops fall onto his skin and onto his eyelids and onto his boat and his rudder and his oar, distant starlight dancing across the verdant seas of his eyes as he gazes toward them – surely, he thinks, he would have no real reason to keep coming around then; as the Lord of The Underworld, he surely had much more important duties than to stare at a boatman from afar, didn’t he…?
After all, he wasn’t –
… He wasn’t important.
And yet, the times that Venti is able to catch his gaze from afar, hot and hardened and strong, are numerous; and before he notices, he starts to be able to count the influences from his king.
It only takes an off-hand remark about a leak; a mention or a complaint about a squeaky about, a groan on how the paint is peeling off of the bow, how it wobbles unsteadily in the wake, to get it fixed and repaired and good as new, all by the end of the week. His paddle-oar breaks in half one morning, and he curses Poseidon underneath his breath for breaching and breaking and poisoning the river seas, as he tries to clumsily steers with his hands – and despite already being in the midst of carving a new paddle by hand a little while later, he is gifted one made of bone and of steel within days. His cloak is torn and tattered in between the seams of the dock, embarrassingly so; and though he had already was trying to mend the damage later that day, in the morning, he is given new garb, hemmed with silver.
It’s –
It’s simply too much.
And when he sees him there, that lone and mighty figure of blood and of good and of valor that stands by the riverside at the docks, he – in a small, tiny voice, that trembles and stumbles and fumbles and shakes - he asks him why he is being given so much favor. Is there a debt he must repay? Is there a fault he must fix? Is there a god he’s… betrayed?
He knows the ways of the gods well – knows how the King of Olympus likes to butter up his people with love and fondness and gifts, only to sweep it all way, only to trick them to get what he wants –
If he had done wrong, if he had faltered, if he had waivered –
“… I do not have much, but…” Venti mutters, as he digs for his coin purse, “But I can give – “
He stops him, as he takes that pale and lithe and trembling hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing solemn kisses onto his knuckles; Venti blushes deeply underneath his coat.
And then, he smiles gently as he tells him that the souls of the dead speak their praises of him; that they tell him he is a gentle ferryman, and that he does his work very well – and would it not behoove him to reward such a diligent worker?
“But – “
“Not another word,” he says, firm, but fair. “With a reinforced oar and a boat that does not leak or break or waddle, you shall be able to carry them safer and father then you could have before – it is my only wish that you be able to carry out your duties as faithfully as you have before. You need not pay me back – your service is enough.”
And as he presses one last soft kiss unto the back of his hand, Venti whispers –
“… Thank you so much, sir.”
Morax chuckles.
There is a war.
There is a war and of what and of why and of how – he does not know; for the dead do not speak and the women merely weep and it is of little consequence, in the end. For it is wholly unwise and unkind and with much folly to meddle in the affairs of the gods; to try to stampede amongst their gardens of hate and spite and bitterness and regrets. It is surely a childish matter, he’ll concede – most likely one borne of kings and queens and power struggles, and most certainly includes a mistress or two – but it is hardly any of his business.
After all, he is merely the boatman; he is merely the ferryman with a fistful of gold and an eyeful of silver and a long paddle-oar, and his only duty is to ensure his riders have paid their fee and that he can deliver them safely along the blood-red lengths of the river Styx.
He is no god; he is no champion, no great hero, no messenger from on high – he is just the boatman, just as cursed and as damned as broken as the rest of them, and as the ferryman, to the boats, he must go.
Though…
Morax is here this time, too – perhaps he’ll know something about it, as he speaks to the dead and the dying and the damned.
… They talk, too.
They talk, and he comes to find out that in times of plague and of war and of famine, the Lord of The Underworld comes to personally foresee the arrival of the latest influx of new souls, to guide the cattle along onto their proper cages, to ensure no sin, no sinners, no murders, no thieves, no cowards, no violators of man escape the wrath of Tartarus. And he helps them grieve, too; he opens up his strong arms to the old and to the sick and to the young and to the children and to the lost, guiding them along to the lands beyond his domain.
… Today is a particularly cold day, too, he notes; he shakes and he shivers from underneath his cloak, his teeth rattling along his jaw and his heart beat slow inside of his chest, as a little girl sleeps from across him on the humble little deck of his humble little boat, her fragile, thin figure hidden from underneath the shadow of the seat. She is worn out and tired; her bones are broken, and her voice is gone. And though her will to live has left her long ago, she still yearns for the safety of an old rickety seat and the rhythm of the sea.
And as he watches over her, vigilant and gentle and quiet and calm, with all the breath of his lungs suckered out from underneath him, so gentle and yet so bold, does his lord suddenly pull him into his soft, warm arms; pale and lithe and trembling fingertips shake as they rest themselves upon his lord’s chest, craving an anchor, a sinking, a moor as his heartbeat goes fast and goes hot, as his face flushes and blushes and heats, as Venti tentatively rests his head against Morax’s bronze skin.
“Stay here a while,” his lord whispers into his ear. “… You’re shivering.”
And so, like that, they stay; Venti stays curled up in Morax’s chest, and Morax holds Venti tightly against him, breath ticking the back of his neck as their heartbeats become one.
And then, very quietly, he asks him how he became the ferryman.
And Venti laughs.
Venti laughs.
“I don’t know,” he tells him, still giggling. “… I don’t know! I simply awoke one morning, and I was already paddling down the stream.”
And oh, it’s such, such a stupid, stupid thing, in the end; for how many a time had he boarded and leapt and jumped and leaped from his fair lady passage? For how many times he had been sheltered by her hull? For how many times he had he found warmth and safety within her planks, her shelling, her stern, her bow?
So, so many times; so, so many times he could doubtless count them all and yet –
And yet, on the very last day that Morax would join him on his journey, he trips on over the side panel and stumbles forward, his paddle-oar splashing in the wake. He stumbles forward, legs trembling and twisting and shaking and swerving on the cragged rock and stone and sand as he falls…
Right into his arms.
He falls right into his arms and with such a fierce yet gentle hold, Morax catches him; he catches him as he holds in his arms, flushed against his chest, as he quietly asks him if he was hurt. And Venti, blushing profusely underneath the dark of his hood, simply mutters apology after apology after apology; he hadn’t meant it, he hadn’t meaned to, he wouldn’t dare do such a thing, he was sure of where he was going, he begs him not to hate him – and shamefully, he looks away, to try and quell his rapidly beating heart, about to burst from his chest and bleed all over Morax’s feet.
But oh, he couldn’t hide; but oh, he couldn’t hide – not from him, not so close, not so near, not so tender; not when they were mere inches apart, breathing the same cold, sordid air, not when he could feel Morax’s heartbeat within his own chest; and gently, rough and calloused and battle-scarred fingers snake their way into his hood, holding his chin gingerly as Morax turns his face toward him.
“… In all the time that I have known you, I have never seen your face,” he mutters softly. “… Why must you cover yourself so?”
He gulps.
“I am nothing but an ugly thing,” Venti whispers, afraid. “… I am nothing but pathetic and lonesome and cursed; the son of Medusa, I’ve been told. I – I do not wish to bring shame onto you. Please – please forgive me.”
“Utter nonsense,” Morax tells him. “You have done nothing to bring me shame, and there is nothing you need to forgive for.”
And slowly and softly and oh so very sweet, with steady hands and a gentle fingertip, Morax removes the large, dark hood that had hid his face from the light for so long; he reveals the pale flesh and bone and skin that lay underneath, the sole mismatched verdant eye next to dark blue and dark brown and sparkling white, untidy twirls of teal and of cobalt, riddled with hay and with grass and with straw. He is nothing but an ugly thing, he inadvertently whispers, and yet –
As his face is so lovingly cradled and held and caressed by rough and warm and calloused bronze fingertips, Morax tells him –
“.. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”
And then, he presses a seal on undead, pale lips, passionate and embolden and uncaring of what anyone would think.
And then, that’s when he knew –
That’s when he knew –
That’s when he knew he had found a home.
And though their love would flourish throughout the seasons, and though he would gladly plead his heart unto him underneath the pomegranate tree and though he would freely give all of himself in their secret garden, hidden away from view – he knew they could never be properly wed.
For all of the love that they had and for all the gold and riches Morax had attained –
He is still the Lord of The Underworld; he is still a king, and a king must take on a proper bride, he must take on a god, and Venti –
Venti was simply nothing but the ferryman, with a boat and an oar and a fistful of gold and an eyeful of silver.
They should have never met; and yet, they did.
And though their union would never be held on high in front of the gods on Mt. Olympus, for the rest of their days, Morax so lovingly and so sweetly calls him his husband; and when he is not weary and when he is not traveling, he is seated at their table. And when he is docked at the riverside, shuffling all the souls of the dead off his boat, Morax calls to find him. And in times of lull and of peace, in times where he can lay down his oar and his head, even if just for a moment, he finds himself in their bed, pulling and willful and wanted.
And though that glorious king upon kings – the master of all lightning and that is fury – would never approve…
All in the Underworld knows that he was consort in all but name.
It is simple life, Venti will admit; it is a simple life with a simple man and a simple, cozy little garden with a pomegranate tree. But it is a good one.
And even though the river may be wide and long…
He knows it will always take him home.