Charon (working)
an excerpt

~somehwere around the first chapter...~

Taking a coin from his pocket, he flipped it into the air and watched as it fell back to land on his palm, rough side up.
The coin had been made a long time before people had discovered that it would look much nicer with someone’s profile on one side. He’d been perfecting this for years, he guessed. Flicking coins into the air and waiting for them to reach his hand again. It was a lot more interesting, he’d discovered halfway through, if you suspended the laws of physics momentarily and just waited until the coin decided to come back down, rather than having gravity demand that it do so almost immediately. Unfortunately, this coin had grown particularly fond of him over the years, and now fell almost faster than it had done when gravity had had a say in the matter. Sometimes Charon thought it purposefully limited it’s own trajectory, just to stay closer to him.

He re-pocketed the coin and shifted in his seat. The trade along the river was slowing. Either less people were dying, or most of them had already done it and the others weren’t keen on arriving anytime soon. If he didn’t do something soon- be seen, act, re affirm his existence with the universe at large- he’d fade away into nothing. Maybe even find out what one did for eternity in the Great Unknown, Second Death. Charon stood. It was no use. Defeat just wasn’t his style, and he really did miss the food they served in Hell’s lower quarters. Perhaps it was time he gave up this reclusive lifestyle and bought a house along the Styx somewhere, in one of the nicer, upmarket suburbs. Charon shook his head as he walked towards the river, and his little boat.

He wasn’t the sort of guy who lived in upmarket suburbs. He was the kind of guy who lurked in alleys and leered menacingly at strangers. The kind of guy whose very nature went hand in hand with a cloak, dark corner and large mug of strong liquor. The strong liquor part he could do with, actually. The boat rocked serenely as Charon boarded, it’s rust coloured skirting creaking ominously. Charon settled himself on one of the benches and pushed away from the bank, watching the reeds wave to him as he pulled away and headed for Hell.

~

Later, in a sprawling metropolis complete with waterfront views if one was willing to put up with the cries of whores and fishermen alike, a cloaked figure sat hunched over a mug of ale, the shadows fanning across his corner. The other occupants of the tavern, all locals and all highly suspicious of people who wore cloaks, kept their distance.
On any other day, and in any other tavern, such a sight would have been greeted with perhaps a few chuckles and a comment or two about how foreigners always seemed to insist on being so damn melodramatic. Here, however, such a thing was simply not done. Here, people appreciated the subtle nuances that practically screamed ‘Menace’ and left well enough alone. All this is what made what happened next so very odd.

Firstly, instead of slinking in with an air of secrecy and evil intent like any other patron, a simply dressed figure threw open the door and drowned the bar in sunlight. With a cheerful “Sorry!” to the few shadowed occupants who shrunk from the light with sustained hisses he crossed the floor to the windows. After peering out into the street for a few moments and seemingly breathing a sigh of relief a drink was called for, taken and carried to a table far too near the corner occupied by the cloaked figure. No one could possibly be expected to look formidable when a gaily dressed imbecile positioned himself so close.

When the door had been closed and secured once more the bartender turned his attention to the new arrival. After a few long moments of careful, considered scrutiny the mug that had been polished almost to non-existence dropped from suddenly still fingers. A murmur rose from the bar. No one had seen the barman’s hands still. No one. All eyes shifted to the newcomer, all ears strained to hear what spilled now uncontrollably from the barman’s mouth. “Fucking Being. Fuck! Fucking Divine Fucking Being in my Fucking inn. My Inn. In my Inn. Divine Being!” He looked from side to side in panic. “He’s one o’ them! Celestial creature, I knows it! An’ he’s in My Inn!”

The empty space around the newcomer seemed to draw as far away as possible and hold it’s breath. Every occupant in the inn did the same, except for the cloaked figure, whose full attention was focused on the mug that now hung in the air at around height of the barman’s calf.