Phantom Chained

Chapter 24. The Battle of the Gods. Elm.

I spend the next hour circling the swamp and throwing every insult I know but it's completely and utterly useless! I even tried hitting it with a stick and comparing it to king Xerxes and other dumb monkeys.

I'm losing. The fight hasn't even begun but I'm already tired.

And the swamp slumbers, only occasionally popping a gas bubble.

I sit down and assess the futility of me running around throwing insults like an idiot. The bastard turned this into a battle he can't lose. I'm a hero, of course, but still same enough to not stick my head in the deadly quagmire. And he's not leaving without a reason to.

If only I knew what that reason was.

Where is the epic battle with a deadly beast, worthy to please the gods at the top of Olympus? Where are the nymphs and dryads cheering and applauding the victor? And I'm not even saying how my heroism should be sung in ballads by passionate aoidoi*.

I am lonesome and despairing,

Yearning for prolong'd battling;

Furiously cries, mine own palmy heart,

In mine own chest; being torn apart:

A grievous warrior; drops of sorrow spill'd;

His purpose unfulfill'd.

Years of being chained up taught me patience and the ability to wail in the style of Homer's Iliad for hours. Sometimes it has a theme and sometimes not. If anyone hasn't tried doing so yet, I highly recommend it; during the first hour, you are guaranteed to fall into a deep abyssal trance. Really helps pass the time.

If't be true only I wast a clever aoidos;

Commanding the powers of Tartarus;

Splitting the bosom of the earth

To uncover the hidden turf

Of the rancid calamity;

Bane of humanity.

Am I seeing things or did the swamp just stir during that last verse? Don't tell me it understood what I said.

"Vile creature, filthy coward, show yourself!" I cry out but the swamp remains motionless. Looks like we've got ourselves an aesthete. Let's have it your way, you rancid bog, anything to make you show your repulsive mug!

Thy cowardice is only uniform,

With thy detestable opprobrium,

Of which thou art the embodiment of;

A flawed existence thereof.

Plop! An exceptionally large bubble forms in the muddy liquid. It then loudly bursts, releasing a foul stench of rot and decay. Yes!

Continue!

Masterless and ineffectual,

Broken by all;

Once a parteth of something great,

Anon but a mockery of fate.