#alkathous

Word of injured charioteers and destroyed chariots reached the king's ears. Horses that sped off in fear have been sighted in places all over the Peloponnese from Elis to Pylos. It was not surprising, as the trail near the mound has caused such ruckus before the death of former king of Pisa Oenomaus; however, it is peculiar to Pelops that it has continued on after those events. Pelops himself experienced first-hand the angered spirit upon his first arrival to Pisa; his soul nearly leaving his body when confronted by the spirit that appeared out of thin air. Great Pelops' skills in charioting did not fail him as he masterfully steered his steeds to avoid a crash and the apparition. Back then, Pelops did not know who the spirit was, only that he looked wretched, full of anger. Holes in his chiton and skin—left leg, left arm, center chest—that could almost show the other side. Pelops has yet to meet another with such hollow, disdainful eyes.

Yet once he was far enough, the weight of the spirit's presence was no more, and the young man forgot of the encounter.

After winning the heart and race for his wife Hippodamia—and the death of her father wicked Oenomaus—her wish was honored by Pelops to give her previous suitors a proper burial, for it was a desire of his own to achieve as well. It was on that day that Hippodamia told the names and home of each suitor that attempted to win her hand; that night, taken over by nightmares, she described each of their deaths to her husband. Her second suitor Alkathous was killed with three spears: the first struck his left leg in the calf, though he held the reigns steady in an iron grip; the second hit his left arm, causing the chariot to swerve and tip over; and the final spear pierced the center of his chest while he attempted to reach out for her. She pauses for a moment, parting her lips to speak, but no words come out like a secret. Instead, she kissed the hand in hers while whispering an affirmation to him. However, Pelops thoughts felt clouded, as though he was missing a dangling fruit from the lowest branch that was also invisible. The placements of those spears made Pelops' head turn and spin in familiarity for the following days, but he did not understand why. That is until he heard his wife shriek.

His fear carried his legs to find his distressed wife, finding her weeping heartfelt tears at the graves of her suitors. All sprouted flowers of the most vibrant shades at a rate that it could not have been anything other than divinely grown. Pelops embraced his wife from where she had fell to her knees on the grass. It was in that moment that he fully realized that angered spirit he sped pass was none other than Alkathous. The graves were surrounded by flowers of various colors, with Alkathous' having a shade of orange. Pelops stares at the suitor's grave.

There were fungi around only his grave.

Pelops lands his grand chariot with winged steeds, having them pull the chariot on the trail. Hooves clatter against dirt and pebbles with such swiftness that it leaves clouds of dust behind him. Pelops steels himself when he passes the first remains of a chariot. A heavy pressure starting to weigh down on his shoulders and back. It makes his ivory shoulder sprout pain down his arm. Escaping is always on the table, made easy with his flying horses, though the last thing he needs is for this pressure to crush his bones when taking flight. And the last thing he wants is to leave this matter unrested. Slowing down when the trail becomes cluttered with the remains of chariots, Pelops tugs on the reigns, drawing the chariot to a full stop. The pressure presses in almost immediately; it near suffocating that he finds it to be a miracle he can breathe. When attempting to speak, his throat locks up, causing him to gag on air. His eyes burn with small tears that he blinks away as he attempts again, calling out in a shout:

"Alkathous, son of Porthaon, brother to Oeneus king of Calydon, show yourself to me with all your rage and restlessness so that I may appease it!" His voice carrying through the intense pressure across the trail.

Then, before the king of Peloponnesus' very eyes, the apparition of wretched Alkathous appears. His form is the same as it was before—unchanged—with holes still torn in his chiton and skin. The suitor's dark himation is hardly secure on his body, yet it clings onto him as if woven into his flesh. His hair is dark, yet hard to decern if that is the true color of his hair. Dirt and grim is embedded in his hair and body. His entire person is hard to see, hard to identify, all except the hollow eyes that glare at Pelops. Despite the emptiness, it is the most alive part of him, burning all the same with fury and disdain.

The pressurized air allows for no breeze to push the tall blades of grass or cause their cloaks to billow. The phantom of Alkathous looks up at Pelops who remains in his chariot, seeming ready to flee if the situation goes hopelessly sour—yet despite being the one on the ground, Pelops feels like he is the one straining his neck.

"That is who you are, is it not?" Pelops speaks out into the heavy air, still needing to raise his voice for noise to leave his throat.

"Stranger, you know my name. My brother and father's too. Is it that I have not been forgotten, or are you a God that knows of me? You, who has horses with mighty wings, I saw how fast they carry you." The apparition speaks clearer than Pelops assumed he would, but the overwhelming sensation of his voice is from how it sounds like he is speaking everywhere around him at once. A voice that carries the rasp of a man with blood in his throat. A voice that, while not a shout, still sounds loud and dangerous.

It drives the king to respond, "I am no God, friend. These steeds of mine were gifts from Earth-shaker Poseidon. And I assure you; not enough time has gone by for you to be forgotten, for you are mourned by those that love you."

"Keep those that knew of me out of my memories. Anger and pain are all my thoughts now; it is all that is there for a wretched soul like mine. "I remember your face. You have crossed through here before, and now you have returned. Skilled you are in steering your horses, impressive then and still now. "Those Godly steeds will carry you through this heavy air, I can tell, so be on your way before you or your chariot is crushed." The wretched spirit declares with hints of mercy in his hollow, rageful eyes.

A form of mercy, he offers, by not pursuing Pelops' chariot if he attempts to flee, but that does not satisfy Pelops. Seeing the fury in Alkathous' eyes brings out anger in him, tightening his grip on the reigns. His shoulder rattles lightly from the weighted air; he does not have time to waste, especially not to being prompted to leave.

"Cease that tone you use!" His voice louder and more forceful, "Have you not felt your body at ease? You have been properly buried with your head! Venturing to the gates of Hades should be easy for you now that you can pay tribute to the ferryman! Does this not appease you? "Would the news of former king of Pisa Oenomaus being dead be enough to end the fury you hold in your heart?"

Pelops' body trembles from the long-lasting pressurized air, but also from anger. Anger from seeing the phantom unmoved by his words, despite being told of his murderer's death.

"What is it that binds you to this trail? Speak plainly to me! And hold back not a word!"

The wretched apparition seems to stiffen in his vague form. His hollow eyes look away from Pelops, and that pressure—while not fully gone—feels all the lighter. The suitor's face, before full of only disdain and malice, now holds one of emotional pain. His brows are knit together with a grimace on his face and his hands clenching tight enough to draw the blood he does not have. His lips as flat as a line that holds back a secret, reminding Pelops of his wife's face when she spoke of her suitors' deaths. This forces Pelops' anger to extinguish, instead fueling the fire of his resolve to pacify this soul, not only for his wife, but for the honor of the ghost before him.

With newfound control, his voice softer—easier to speak quieter without such crushing pressure—he speaks winged words:

"Please, Alkathous, my friend. "Tell me what holds you here. I wish to see you in anger and pain no longer. You never deserved such a fate from the start."

The dark apparition hears the king's plea; the softness in his voice holds true concern and conviction to help. Faced with such genuine care, Alkathous could not deny speaking the truth any longer.

"She got hurt."

Pelops' brows furrow slightly at the woman in question, but quick to assume it was—

"Hippodamia. Daughter of Oenomaus. "The one you sought the hand of—to save."

Alkathous' ghost flinches at the daughter of Oenomaus' name. A name that has not graced his ears for what felt like decades. His hollowed chest regains a light pressure that has nothing to do with the pressurized hatred in the air. Nostalgia. Remembrance. Love. He loved her, just like all the other brave souls that wished for her as his wife.

The spirit still faces away from Pelops, instead looking over his horses. Remembering her name:

"Hippo...damia." He tests the name, hesitant. As though pain would strike him if he were to, or a curse would fall over her. But he says it again. "Hippodamia..." A lighter tone that holds enough bittersweetness to make salt taste sweeter.

It is enough for Pelops to feel like he has not seen his wife in years. Such yearning and guilt in his voice.

"The race. It seems like you have heard of it." Alkathous manages to move on from the fair lady's name, despite looking as though he wanted to keep saying it. Seeing Pelops nod at his words, he continues on, "I was the second man to try for her hand after Marmax. That king's steeds were an intimidating sight, said to be bestowed onto him from Manslaughtering Ares. Yet despite knowing of his divine steeds, and of Marmax' end, I still chose to seek her love. "Maybe it seems foolish to do to you, stranger, but her beauty was unmatched, much like her charm. The sadness you would see on her face would be enough for any man to reach out and console her. "I thought I could be that man."

The pause that follows after the phantom's words is enough for Pelops to move off his chariot and embrace his wife's suitor, but he stays in place, knowing better.

The living cannot touch the dead.

Instead, he stays where he is and bites back words to hear the rest.

"I wished to ease her—Hippodamia—of that sadness that plagued her being. She told me of her trouble with her father, of her desire to leave, to be married. She was desperate, frantic. I have never seen such fear, and it has never looked so wrong on a person's face. "The way she gripped the chariot and onto me told me all I already knew. The death of Marmax struck true fear into her heart. 'I need to save you,' I thought. "I told her promises I could not keep—that I should not have made. She was too close to me, and that is when I realize how wicked her father was."

His voice becomes fueled by rage just as his eyes reconnect to Pelops' gaze—the pressure more intense than when Alkathous first appeared. Pelops grunts aloud as his ivory shoulder sends pain down his entire arm and neck. Luck shines down on him as the reignited spirit turns himself away in his bout of anger.

"He hurled a spear right between us! It passed by me unscathed but grazed her arm! Oh, the yelp she cried out was the most terrible sound that has ever entered my ears! It haunts me, even now!"

Pelops feels his gut curl in horror and then boils in fury. He knows of that scar, inevitable on their wedding night, but not through sight. The number of scars of his own made it easy to feel the damaged skin on the back of her arm, yet she never showed it to him. He wonders if these were the words she could not tell him. He already assumed it was caused by treacherous Oenomaus, but hearing of its origin did not make it easier to digest. Pelops could only swallow the fast-coursing anger, for there was no place to use it. That king is now dead.

The phantom holds up his hands that appear to be shaking, but his entire form was trembling in and out of sight from his rage. Clenching his fists, that rage turned to pain, and that pain to sorrow.

"I was a fool to not realize how terrifying her first ride with Marmax must have been. In that moment, the fear stormed over me as well. "My left leg was speared soon after as I kept Hippodamia from falling out the chariot. It pierced straight through and into the metal. "There was no way to run off anymore. "I kept the reigns in my hands, driving over this very trail when the second spear flew. It went through my arm and into the neck of my steed, hurling us to the ground. "I do not remember much after that. Only my failure to keep her safe. The pain she suffered... "That is what keeps me here."

With no more words left to be said, Pelops steps down from his chariot of winged steeds. The phantom's pressure is no longer torturous—but ever-present—yet Pelops crosses the gap between them as though there is no weight at all.

Each step he takes, he feels another emotion of the wretched soul: Malice; Pain; Shame; Hopelessness; Torment; Fear; and lastly Guilt. So much guilt. Up close, the weary, wretched spirit has never looked more human. And so Pelops spoke:

"She said you reached out to her in your final moments." He places a hand over his own heart, mimicking the wound in the phantom's chest.

"You have spoken to her?" The spirit says in surprise and immediate attention.

"I have," Pelops nods, "I have told you the former king is no more, for I beat him at his game, and he perished from it."

The spirit's mouth hangs agape; his hands teetering from the urge to grab Pelops' shoulders and knowing nothing will come of trying.

"Who are you, stranger?" He inquires instead.

"Forgive me! My introduction has been lackluster. I am Pelops, son of Tantalus, king of Pisa and the Peloponnese. "Husband of Hippodamia."

Alkathous is on the verge of tears—his frame trembling from such news.

"She is safe."

Pelops nods, making the spirit shed more tears of relief than he thought he ever would. He cries out so loud, the nearest people are brought to sudden tears.

"Please, let this be enough to move you. Harm those who pass by no more. Cause no more crashes and sorrow. Pay your toll at the entrance to Hades and rest like all the other brave men that wished to save our dear Hippodamia."

With these words, Alkathous wipes his face of his tears, looking upon Pelops with a smile that has not graced anyone in years—a smile that charmed the fair lady.

"You have given me the greatest blessing, Pelops!"

"It is the honor and respect all of you brave suitors deserve. "It is time to move, friend."

"Yes..." Alkathous smiles wider with eyes no longer hollow. The pain in them still present, and forever will be, but the ease in his form and the gentleness in the air speak of peace. "It is, friend and king."

The spirit's head blooms a wreath of flowers—a floral crown in vibrant shades of orange.

If Pelops had blinked in that moment he would have missed it, just as he missed the sight of the spirit disappear.

Hippodamia sits before her suitors' graves. The sight of their ever-beautiful flowers brings a level of peace that makes it easy to look at each one with pleasant thoughts.

A pressure she did not even notice slowly lifts from her shoulders—a weight that has been on her so long that it became normal. Her gaze is drawn to her second suitor's grave that is decorated with orange flowers. It appearing as though the fungi that were once there never existed, and she forever will never know of them.