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EXCERPT FROM SCARS AND BLACK ARMOR:
The dead men with the black armor stood in line, waiting for Charon. In their right hands, they held coins, forged of gold, but which held no monetary worth. In their left hands they held their scarred, black helmets. They did not speak as they stood, though their eyes met and quickly turned away. Falling ash made no mark on their armor; it merely blackened it further. Their time to gather onto the boat approached and the men, in silence, reflected on the choices they had made in life. Charred earth lay beneath their sandals, and drops of blood remained, staining the ground where they had fallen. But the earth lay still now. Though their bodies remained, they were not truly there. The men, unbound by the rules of the earth and the laws of Hades shuffled across the hard ground. As Charon’s boat slid onto the river’s bank, they stepped forth to be ferried to the golden fields, eager to meet the ones that they had loved and protected.
As he had done in life, the officer with the scruffy black hair stood in the final place in line. Shuffling his gold coin nervously in his palm, he followed the marching line of the dead. But the boatman, whose duty it was to bring them across the Styx and Acheron, raised his bony fingers towards the sky and motioned for him to stop, indicating that the man who had sacrificed the most would not be joining his brothers in arms. Charon curled his fingers and pointed to the vast mountain of Olympus located behind the man, and with a deft push, steered the friends and brothers out to the river, leaving the single warrior on the shores of Greece. The last Myrmidon cast his coin onto the ground, where it fell softly, cushioned by the burnt powder. In his heart, the warrior knew he would no longer have need of such things.
The mountain called to him.
From the shore he watched as the water of the Styx gently rolled against the departing skiff. The boat, made of stripped pine, moved ahead, sending trails of auburn like rusted metal down the river as it passed. At his feet the calm water reflected his heart, yet the dark ripples resonating from the boat moved like creatures from the deep.
Marching alone along the dark path, the man thought deeply on his life. Long before his arrival, the footsteps of others had compacted the dirt road. Snaking from the beach to the open canvas of the forest he followed the winding trail. He noticed that the green, summer limbs of the trees he had known well in life were but falling ash, black as a thief’s cloak. Above him, the mountain loomed. With each step he took, the crest of the peak swallowed more of the sky, and soon, the shadow of the beast engulfed his black armor in darkness. Pausing just before the threshold of the climb, he breathed in and felt the cold air fill his lungs, knowing that once he reached for the first rock, it had begun, and no retreat would be permissible. Steadying his feet on the small boulders which had crumbled from the ridges above, the warrior studied the path. An impossible distance. But not to him. Not to this man. It was only impossible if he believed it so.
The man upon the hill chose which rock to grab, carefully.
Only the most watchful eye, passing below the peak, might catch a glimpse of him. He climbed judiciously, but with strength. There was no stopping for comfort. He climbed, though the sinews of the muscles in his back throbbed with pain when they pushed against the leather straps of his armor. But he was brave in the fact that he merely continued. Days passed between handholds. Years waned along ridges. Centuries tore through the world of men below with each precipice the warrior overcame. The man still climbed, though he could not see his aim. It was only when the man crested a shallow ridge did his view open to expose the temple, still sitting far above in the distance. It was at this moment that he noticed the other climbers. Men camped along the route, some moved slowly with dread, but their faces meant nothing to the Myrmidon. The men recognized each other as warriors only by the state of their armor.
One man wore the trinkets and adornments of a vast empire, and yet he was so young, hardly older than thirty. His gaze was endless—it searched the land below, yearning for more.
Another man wore sheets of iron. Woven in a manner unfamiliar to the climbing Myrmidon, they bore three gold lions in the center of his cherry breastplate.
The final man was elderly, but a colossus in stature, and he wore a cloak of crimson; his eyes alone could stop armies. His bronze shield bore the Greek letter lambda, and he spoke but one word to the warrior in black. Andreia. Courage, or fortitude. In return, the Myrmidon uttered one word, Phrater, which means kinsman, or brother, before continuing his ascent up the mountain.
The Myrmidon continued to do his duty in death as he had in life, and not once did his eyes meet the ground far below. With his world in his hands, his heart drove each grasp, but he did not consider how high he would need to climb. He only considered the next decision, the next correct route to take.
The man continued up the slope, ascending to the holy glimmer of the heavens. Mount Olympus. And, as he reached the ancient temple and saw Zeus, the giant figure cast a great shadow upon the hall. A warm evening breeze curled around the white pillars and sang through the halls as the god beckoned him to approach. Mountain seamlessly melded with earth and the sanctuary sang with grace as the wind whistled through the architecture. Never before had the warrior seen such grandeur or opulence. He had spent his life atop soil and rock.
When the Myrmidon finally arrived at the end of the hall, he kneeled before the great god Zeus. Flames reflected from his armor against candlelit galleries of Olympus. Zeus sat silent as the man approached the throne of marble.
