#moros.copy

The River Cocytus whispered tonight, its current heavy with muted prayers and the unspoken laments of both the dead and the living. To most, its voice was a torment, a reminder of sorrow without end. To a lone shade perched at the edge of a weathered pier, it was a lullaby. They released a soft sigh, an echo of a habit from mortal days, lingering still despite their lack of breath or lungs, and let the night breeze drift through their half-corporeal form.

They had just returned from the surface giving their report to Odysseus, ever the shrewd mind of the Crossroads. Nothing unusual to recount: a handful of Chronos’s soldiers, though most of the trouble came from the lingering beasts that prowled the ruins of Ephyra. Routine and predictable. And so, with the night washed silver by the moon, the shade let their feet dangle into the dark waters and allowed their thoughts to drift back toward the affairs of the Crossroads.

Princess Melinoë had already departed once more into the depths of the Underworld. Another attempt, another impossible strike at Chronos himself. Such was her duty, the shade mused. A life of relentless striving, burdened with both expectation and somehow a predetermined notion of failure. Somewhere behind them, voices rose in animated chatter, but the shade did not listen. This moment was theirs. Visitors, duties, conversation, those could wait.

Then the voices fell silent. The shade almost turned, but the sound of heavy, measured footsteps reached them first. Nemesis. She strode past with her usual severity, flanked by two guardian shades likely bound for patrol. Her gaze swept over the pier without pause, passing through the lingering shade as though they were no more than mist, not to the surprise of the shade.

Once, that indifference had cut deep. Once, they had burned for her recognition, even dared to dream of training under the vigilant protector of the Crossroads. They had wanted greatness in death, to seize the second chance they’d never had in life, to carve a purpose that might endure time. But Nemesis had dismissed them without ceremony, disdain plain in her words. Unremarkable in life, unremarkable still in death.

The sting had dulled with time, though it never truly faded. What once burned as ambition had softened into something quieter. Not greatness, not immortality, just the steady resolve to do enough. Enough for Headmistress Hecate, for the Princess, for Odysseus and the other shades. Enough for the Crossroads. Enough to matter, even if only in small ways. A quiet yearning remained: to be better, to prove themselves worthy of trust. Suffering was common, almost effortless. Kindness, by contrast, was rare. And so they chose it, again and again.

But they had always been weak. In life, as in death. They could not protect anyone, not their home, not themselves. Their modest dwelling burned around them as the thieves rushed through, shoving every coin, every trinket, every cherished keepsake into their pockets. A knife had found its way deep into their abdomen, and they bled quietly in the corner. Smoke clawed at their lungs, stung their eyes, though perhaps it was only the blood filling them inside. Likely both. The thieves did not even look their way, granting them the final insult of being beneath notice. Such was the dignity of their death.

Only one gaze had lingered: a pair of deep, violet eyes. Unwavering, solemn. While the fire roared and the beams above split with a groan, while the thieves fled without a glance, those eyes remained. Watching. Bearing witness. To them, the tall, ashen figure was no terror, but a comfort. The only assurance that they would not die alone, when all else had already been stripped away.

In their haste, the last thief dropped a handful of coins. They scattered across the floor, one rolling, spinning, until it came to rest within reach of a trembling, bloodied hand. Wrenching their hands from Thanatos’ waiting grasp, their fingers closed around it, the searing metal burning their palm. They held it tightly, as if it were proof they had left the world with something still their own, something they can offer to the boatman. And as the ceiling gave way and the flames claimed them whole, their last breath was not a scream, but a sigh of relief.

The next time the shade saw those striking violet eyes was when Doom Incarnate himself, Lord Moros, appeared at the Crossroads, summoned at the behest of Princess Melinoë. Many had taken it as an ill omen then, to invite the bearer of calamity into their hidden refuge was a questionable decision at best. Even Headmistress Hecate had her doubts, and the gathered shades, all victims of fate’s cruelty, could not help but remember the violence of their own ends.

The shade drew their feet from the river’s edge and leaned forward. From the pier, if one leaned just far enough, one could glimpse where Lord Moros had stationed himself beside the Fated List. At that moment, he was speaking with Princess Melinoë. (Had she returned early? Perhaps her fight below had gone poorly.) From this distance, the shade couldn’t make out their words, not that it mattered, for conversations in the Crossroads were always held in hushed tones. The Princess shifted slightly, her gaze moving over something inscribed upon the Fated List.

The shade had tried more than once to steal a glance at that divine record during the rare moments when Moros was not standing sentinel, but to no avail. All they ever glimpsed were letters in ceaseless motion, shimmering and reforming across the gold-woven surface, a language alive yet forever beyond mortal comprehension. The Fates had not written those words for them, and the prophecies were not meant for unchosen eyes. Speaking of eyes,

They froze.

Across the dim expanse, Lord Moros’ violet gaze found them. The shade couldn’t make out his expression from such a distance, yet the weight of that look was unmistakable. Heavy, deliberate, knowing. It cut clean through the haze of death and memory alike, dragging to the surface the image seared into their soul: fire consuming the walls, smoke clawing at their lungs, the iron scent of blood, the knife buried deep, and that final, fragile breath of relief before the end.

The shade tore their gaze away and rose abruptly. If they still possessed a heart, it would have been pounding against their ribs. Never before had a god’s eyes fixed upon them with such intent, so direct, so singular, that for one impossible moment, it felt as though the lowly shade was the only being left in existence. The thought unsettled them. They weren’t sure they were ready to bear the weight of being seen so completely, to become, even for a heartbeat, the center of someone’s gaze.

They exhaled a shaky breath, trying to scatter the storm that encounter had stirred within them. (Was it even an encounter? He had been so far away…)

Nothing steadied the mind quite like battle, they had learned. Perhaps it was time to return to the surface, to the torn ruins of Ephyra. If nothing else, the city’s remnants still offered what could be put to use: bones, nectar, ashes… remnants of lives lost. And in clearing the way, they could carve an easier path for the Princess when she next ascended toward Mount Olympus. Decision made, the shade turned from the Crossroads and vanished into the night.

—

It wasn’t long before the shade returned to the Crossroads. Their form was battered and faintly flickering, weariness clinging to every motion, but such was the cost of rushing headlong into battle. It couldn’t be helped. Inside their satchel lay a modest cluster of bones, there had been little else to find today, and the shade had no wish to wander deeper into danger. They were not yet strong enough for the true frontlines, however much they longed to be. This would have to do. A few bones for their trouble. Enough, for now.

The bones still had their use. The shade made their way down to the Wretched Broker, by the same pier where they’d sat beneath the moonlight not long ago. The Broker’s wares were few, but scarcity was a given in wartime. Still, fortune favored them: a single bottle of nectar remained. The shade traded the bones, receiving the neatly wrapped bottle in exchange.

Their first thought was to drink it there by the pier, a small indulgence for work done, however minor. Yet, as they turned, their gaze caught the ashen form of Doom himself, standing alone beside the Fated List. Shades passed him at a cautious distance, their silence heavy, their disdain edged with fear. For all his divine bearing, he looked… lonely. Something in the sight struck the shade deeply.

“Lord Moros,” the shade began, their voice naturally soft like a breeze, though not uncertain. The god’s violet eyes turned to meet them, steady, unblinking, curious. No shades ever sought him out, much less dared to speak.

“I bring you this offering of nectar,” they continued, holding the bottle carefully between their fading hands. “I hope it is to your liking.”

The glass caught the faint light of the moon, its surface glowing silver while the liquid within shimmered a deep amber hue. Moros remained silent, his expression unreadable, and the stillness between them stretched thin. The shade’s confidence began to waver. Had they done something wrong? Was the offering unworthy of him, or perhaps it was improper to speak to him at all? Unease crept in, and before they could stop themselves, words began to spill out.

“You were there… in my final moments,” they murmured. “And I wished to show my gratitude. I hope I’m not overstepping.”

“I… thank you. I don’t quite know what to say to such kindness,” Lord Moros murmured, his voice low and resonant as he accepted the bottle from the shade’s trembling hands. The faint brush of his fingers against theirs sent a ripple through the shade’s body. Relief washed through them like warmth through veins long stilled. They dared to look up, at his face, though not into his eyes, and straightened from their bow, uncertain of what came next.

In life, they had made many offerings to the gods, but never like this, never face to face. Offerings were meant for altars, for temples, for unseen hands beyond mortal reach. There was no opportunity for an ordinary soul to stand so near to divinity, let alone offer a gift directly. And even if such a chance arose, encounters between gods and mortals seldom ended kindly for the latter. They were just beginning to step back, to retreat into the safety of silence, when Moros spoke again.

“I have not received offerings from mortals before,” he said, turning the bottle in his hand as though studying the way moonlight caught the amber within. “Only the Princess has granted me nectar until now.”

The shade froze. Surely this was a test, some divine trick meant to expose arrogance or ignorance. “H-how can that be?” they stammered, words tumbling out in a fragile whisper. “You… you play such an important role in mortal life, granting us dignity in our final moments. How could it be that my humble offering is the first of its kind?”

Moros’ expression softened, the faintest trace of something melancholic flickering across his features. “Mortals seldom see it as you do,” he said quietly. “They meet me in fear, not reverence. My presence is not a blessing to them, but an end to be fled from. It cannot be helped.”

The shade struggled to comprehend it. Death came for all, it was as certain as the turning of the stars. Why, then, did mortals despise the inevitable so fiercely? Why scorn the one who carried it with such quiet duty? Did they not see that life’s worth was shaped by its impermanence? And yet, unfairly, they condemned the bearer of their fate. Lord Moros, who spoke with such calm and courtesy, more so than the other gods the shade had heard tales of.

“Then I shall bring you more offerings,” the shade declared, their voice steadier now, each word lending substance to their half-corporeal form. “For all the ones you have yet to receive.” Gratitude laced their tone, and for the first time, they met Lord Moros’ gaze directly. The deep violet of his eyes flickered with surprise, an expression the shade had never seen, and one they were wholly unprepared for, however, strangely it did not deter them.

“Such a promise… I must confess, I am wary,” Moros murmured, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “The gods above are more deserving of your offerings.” Though not meant as a warning, the words carried the weight of one, a reminder of how easily a god could take offense, and the peril that could follow. It would be a pity if the shade standing in front of him now were to be hit with a calamity they were not deserving of. Yet the shade remained undeterred.

“The other gods receive countless gifts already,” they said softly, their lifeless eyes gleaming with quiet resolve. “Please… I insist.” Their tone dipped to a whisper, as if fearful the gods above might somehow overhear this act of defiance, though such a thing was impossible. The Crossroads were hidden, even from them.

“I shall find you something truly exquisite!” Without waiting for a reply, the shade bowed deeply, saluted the god, and turned on their heels, already racing toward the ruins of Ephyra in search of something worthy. Odysseus’ waiting report was forgotten in the urgency, swept aside by the fire of their newfound purpose. Nothing mattered now but finding a gift befitting the Doom Incarnate, and honoring the quiet, improbable connection that had formed between mortal and god.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。