SANITY; heroes of olympus

04.8

She felt as if only Tartarus existed. This was the real world—death, darkness, cold, pain. That maybe she'd been imagining all the rest. Like every other good or semi-good thing that had happened in her life was a trick.

She shivered. No. That was the pit speaking to her, sapping her resolve.

The deeper they travelled, the harder it became to stay focused on the task at hand: getting through the Death Mist, finding the Doors, and getting through it all alive and with some semblance of her sanity.

"This place is worse than the River Cocytus," she murmured.

"Yes," Bob called back happily. "Much worse! It means we are close."

Close to what? Andy pondered. She had gotten quiet, aside from her little comments that were meant to keep both her and Dom's spirits up. It was strange to hear her being so optimistic. It wasn't to say that Dom was the cheeriest person ever, but Andy had to be the most pessimistic person Dom had ever encountered, and that was saying something.

She noticed Small Bob the cat had hidden himself in Bob's coveralls again, which reinforced her opinion that the kitten was the smartest one in their group.

Then the darkness dispersed with a massive sigh, like the last breath of a dying god. In front of them was a clearing—a barren field of dust and stones. In the centre, about twenty yards away, knelt the gruesome figure of a woman, her clothes tattered, her limbs emaciated, her skin leathery green. Her head was bent as she sobbed quietly, and the sound shattered all of Dom's hopes.

She realised that life was pointless. Her struggles were for nothing. This woman cried as if mourning the death of the entire world.

"We're here," Bob announced. "Akhlys can help."

—🌓—

Bob trudged forward. Dom felt obliged to follow. If nothing else, this area was less dark—not exactly light, but with more of a soupy white fog.

"Akhlys!" Bob called.

The creature raised her head, and Dom's stomach screamed, Help me!

Or maybe that was Andy's attention peaking.

Her body was bad enough. She looked like the victim of a famine—limbs like sticks, swollen knees and knobby elbows, rags for clothes, broken fingernails and toenails. Dust was caked on her skin and piled on her shoulders as if she'd taken a shower at the bottom of an hourglass.

Her face was utter desolation. Her eyes were sunken and rheumy, pouring out tears. Her nose dripped like a waterfall. Her stringy grey hair was matted to her skull in greasy tufts, and her cheeks were raked and bleeding as if she'd been clawing at herself.

Dom, for whatever reason, couldn't stand to meet her eyes, so she lowered her gaze. Across her knees lay an ancient shield—a battered circle of wood and bronze, painted with the likeness of Akhlys herself holding a shield, so the image seemed to go on forever, smaller and smaller.