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Rated: E · Fiction · Mythology · #2226279
The Goddess Styx decides to reveal the fate of her son's father.
Prologue

My hair fluttered across my face, riding the soft currents of the gentle breeze wafting through my palace. With longing, I gazed out over the grassy flatland as the sun ascended to illuminate the landscape. Footsteps grew louder behind me, i wondered who dared to visit me at this hour.

“Mom?” a bass voice reverberated through my bed chamber.
‘Twas my son, he was burly, mocha skinned with a wild dreadlocks that hung down to his belt line. Though he was many shades lighter, he heavily favored his father.

“Yes, child? ‘Tis rather early for you to be awake is it not?” I queried in response, my back still to him.
“What’s this weapon?” he asked curiously.

“What weapon ch—
As I turned to face him, I was shocked to witness my child holding a rusty, dirt encrusted hatchet.

“Where did you find that!?” I admonished. He reeled from my exaggerated reaction, dropping the weapon. Normally I would have chuckled, seeing such a well-muscled, fully grown man cringing in my presence like a startled toddler however, this was no occasion for humor. My eyes illuminated as I reached through space to grab the weapon with my telekinesis, it levitated towards my open hand and I closed my grip around it.

“It…it was at…what looked like a grave site.” He mumbled “…but there was no name anywhere.”
A long and drawn out exhalation escaped me as I dreaded the impending conversation. I closed my eyes, drawing the weapon close to my breast.

“’Twas…your father’s” I uttered

“My…father’s” He gasped, his face full of awe. Then his eyes narrowed as he refocused his attention on me. “You never told me what happened to him, you’ve been avoiding the topic for decades ‘mother’.”

Indeed I had been withholding that information from him, ‘twas a topic I actively avoided. However, I suppose I could hide it from him no longer. Given the hatchet’s mystical nature, he would find out one way or another. ‘Twould seem I had no choice but to divulge his father’s history at long last.

“Very well, child—

“Mother…I am thirty-six years old.” He interrupted, rolling his eyes in the process. “I am no longer a child.

“And I am Twenty-thousand…you will always be a child to me and MY child.” I asserted as I cradled his chin. A soft chuckle escaped me, a lighthearted half-cocked grin lined my face. “You are indeed your father’s child.”

“I would not know, mother.”

“You will child, you will.”
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