A/N: Hey, guess what, faithful readers (which I'm hoping I have)? I'm not dead! It took me almost a year to post this pitiful 1600-word chapter, but after such a long absence, the fact that I'm returning at all is a pretty important step for me. But yes, I am back, and I hope my subsequent updates will be longer and faster. But you didn't come here to read apologies or promises to do better from a fanfiction author, so let's get on with it.

Chapter 4: Styx

Hera found herself standing on the banks of the Styx, the River of Hate which encircled the Underworld. Her divine powers alone could take her no further; only Hades himself was able to come and go as he pleased through the land of the dead. All others, whether living or dead, mortal or god, were forced to cross the river the old-fashioned way.

As she waited on the banks of the river, Hera took the opportunity to find her bearings. The Underworld was dark, yes, but after a moment Hera found that her eyes had adjusted and she could see quite clearly – not that the view was particularly grand. Before her she could see nothing but the black waters of the Styx, which seemed to her more like an ocean than a river, roiling and churning with a tremendous current which would have swept even mighty Heracles into oblivion. Above her, the yawning black void of Erebus stretched out in all directions, blotting out any view of the world above. Behind her was the narrow chasm that led back to the world of the living, the only way in or out of the Underworld.

When she was certain that no one was watching her, Hera hugged herself tightly. The Underworld was vast and black and eerily quiet, and it reminded her a little too much of Cronus's belly. She had been fortunate then – she had spent the least amount of time in that hellhole, and she'd always had her siblings to comfort her. Poseidon was kind of an ass and Demeter was a flake, but Hestia had always been agreeable. And Hades had been the best big brother she could have asked for.

But for now, she was alone. She was much older now than she'd been in her father's stomach, and far more powerful, but she still could not help thinking that the sooner she reached her brother's palace, the better.

Before Hera could dwell upon these thoughts any further, she could faintly make out a shape on the on the river, growing larger and clearer as it approached. It was a simple longboat with neither sail nor oars, gliding easily across the raging current. As it drew nearer, she could make out a hunched figure standing aft of the vessel, propelling it forward with a long wooden pole. Hera felt a small chill run down her spine as she realized that it must have been Charon, the ferryman of the dead.

Hera quickly adjusted her posture and folded her arms across her chest. She still felt more than a little daunted by all that she saw, but it was not in her nature to display such weakness to anyone else – especially not here, in a strange place where she would need every shred of authority she could muster.

As the ferry pulled up to the shore where Hera stood, she got a much better look at its pilot. Charon was a pale wisp of a man, with deathly pallid skin that hugged his bones so tightly as to make him appear to be little more than a skeleton. His hair and beard were white and extremely thin. He was dressed in a loose-fitting black cloak that further emphasized his gaunt appearance. His face was devoid of expression as he arrived on the bank of the river and extended his hand toward Hera. He did not look at her, but rather seemed to stare off into empty space. "One obol," said he, his voice lifeless and hollow as an empty tomb.

Hera blinked and inhaled slowly, making one final effort to compose herself. She had anticipated this, after all, and told herself that she had no reason to be intimidated. She looked up at Charon and summoned her most authoritative tone. "I am Hera, Queen of the Gods and wife of Zeus. I demand that you take me to my brother's palace at once."

At first, Charon did not move. Hera opened her mouth to repeat herself, but she changed her mind when the ferryman slowly turned to face her. His dull grey eyes were dilated and unfocused; not even the faintest glimmer of light was reflected in them. Hera found herself staring into the eyes of a dead man, and their gaze sent a shiver down her spine that she hoped he did not see.

If Charon did take notice of her fear, he made no indication of it. "The crossing is one obol," he intoned. "No obol, no crossing."

This time, Hera did not argue. With a single wave of her hand, she produced a silver obol and placed it into Charon's waiting palm. She could have done so earlier, but in truth, she had never needed to do so before. She had never before encountered a place where all her authority as a queen and a goddess carried such little weight.

With a single fluid motion born of millennia of practice, Charon deposited the obol into a heavy coin purse which hung at his side. Then he extended his gnarled hand once more, this time to help Hera climb aboard the vessel. Hera accepted the hand as graciously as she could, though her own fingers trembled at the ferryman's icy touch.

Once Hera was safely aboard, the ferry cast off into the dark waters of the Acheron. Both the boatman and his lone passenger were silent as the vessel glided across the black, churning river as though it were a tranquil lake. Hera stood as close to the front of the vessel as she dared, watching intently for the gates of the Underworld to appear on the horizon. Before she caught sight of them, however, she heard Charon speak to her once more. "I would caution thee, O Queen of Gods."

Hera turned to look at Charon, but said nothing. Caution her? Under any other circumstances, she would have scoffed at the idea. She was untouchable in heaven and on Earth; what could she possibly need to be cautioned against? But it took only one word from Charon's cracked, bloodless lips to remind her that she was in neither of those places. She was in hell, and in hell even a goddess had reason to fear.

"The world of men is far above us," Charon said, "the world of the gods even more so. Here, the name of Zeus means nothing; Olympus is less to us than a dream. Hades alone is our Lord and Master. Do not expect thy name or that of thy husband to earn thee privilege in the world of the dead."

The ferryman's warning should have daunted Hera all the more. She was a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by darkness and death, and now she understood on no uncertain terms that she had no power here. She was no better than any mortal who might have descended into Hades's dark domain. She was perhaps even worse off than they – Orpheus had come with his lyre, Heracles with his strength, Aeneas with his golden bough and a sibyl to guide him. Hera had only her inherent godhood to rely upon, and in a place designed to trap the immortal souls of the dead for all eternity, that was of little comfort.

But Hera thought on none of these things. Her eyes were wide, but not in fear. All her fears were quite forgotten now. All Hera could think of were the seven beautiful words that now echoed in her mind like the chiming of victory bells. The name of Zeus has no meaning here. Hera had never heard such wonderful news in all her life. She had no authority here, true, but neither did her husband. Even if he bothered to look for her, even if he managed to find her here, he would have the entire Underworld to contend with before he could drag her back to Olympus. For the first time since she'd held that cuckoo bird to her breast so long ago, Hera had found true refuge. She was free. And once that realization dawned on her, the rest didn't matter. For this freedom, she would face all that the Underworld had to offer. She would look her brother Hades in the eyes and ask him to give her quarter in his own palace, no matter what fearful things she saw or heard in the Land of the Dead.

Hera couldn't stop a smile from tugging at her lips, but she turned away so that Charon could not see. When she did so, she finally found herself staring at the entrance to the Underworld. It was not at all like she expected – there were no looming iron gates, no shrieking monsters circling round about it, no warnings to ABANDON EVERY HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE. There was only a giant open archway made of black obsidian, set between two high walls that seemed to stretch into infinity in either direction. As the ferry drew closer, Hera could see countless souls of the recently deceased passing unimpeded through the archway. Perhaps, Hera thought, this would be easier than she'd feared.

At last, Charon's boat reached the shore directly in front of the archway. This time, Hera didn't flinch as he helped her disembark. "Remember what I have told thee, O Queen of Gods," he said to her. "If we meet again, it will be by the grace of Lord Hades alone."

"I will remember," Hera replied with a nod, and no more words were shared between them before Charon once again set course for the opposite shore. For the second time, Hera found herself alone in the dark.

But this time, she was ready.

A/N: And there you have it, my inglorious return from the dark depths of not-having-enough-timein-my-schedule-to-write-until-very-recently. Is it just me, or did the layout of this site change about three different times since I last posted? Oh well.

I made the Styx the entrance to the Underworld because every source I have ever consulted, withth the exception of Dante's Inferno, say that the Styx is the river to be crossed. It's hardly worth mentioning, but I thought I might just in case there are Dante fans in the audience.

Leave a review if you forgive me for abandoning you. :)

-Herculade.