~Hades~

The day began with an unnatural stillness that hung over the sea like a shroud, the kind of silence that tightened mortal throats and made men glance over their shoulders. Even the waves, which usually lapped rhythmically against the ship, had stilled as though the world itself was holding its breath. The Sirens' island loomed ahead, a jagged silhouette of dark rocks and treacherous shallows, its cliffs worn smooth by centuries of luring sailors to their doom. The men moved about the deck with hushed urgency, softening beeswax over a flame and stuffing it into their ears as if their lives depended on it—which, of course, they did.

Odysseus stood at the mast, his face set in grim determination as he oversaw the preparations. His men's movements were jittery, their eyes darting nervously to the horizon as though they might already hear the Sirens' fabled song. When the wax had been distributed, Odysseus ordered his men to lash him to the mast. They worked quickly, binding him tightly with thick ropes, their hands trembling as they secured the knots. Odysseus had insisted on hearing the Sirens' song himself, though he trusted his crew to ignore his inevitable pleas for release.

As for me, I required no such precautions. The song of the Sirens held no sway over gods, and I was curious. Few mortals had ever lived to describe their music, and their vague accounts spoke more of torment than beauty. It was a riddle I intended to solve, and so I stood leaning against the mast, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with an air of detached amusement. The men avoided my gaze, as they often did, too uneasy around the strange traveler who never seemed to fear the things that terrified them.

The ship edged closer to the island, the water growing unnervingly calm, as though it had been drained of life. Then, faint at first, the sound began to drift over the waves. It was unlike anything I had ever heard. The music wasn't merely a sound—it was a force, a melody woven from threads of longing, desire, and despair. It resonated deep within, pulling at memories long buried, awakening emotions I had thought dulled by eternity. Images flickered in my mind: the Underworld bathed in twilight, the gardens of Styx blooming with ghostly flowers, Hecate's voice as she laughed softly, her presence a beacon of light in the shadowed depths of my realm.

The Sirens' song was a masterpiece, crafted to pierce the heart and unravel the soul. I could see why mortals flung themselves into the sea for it. And yet, as breathtaking as it was, it lacked the power to ensnare me. It was a reflection of the truth, not the truth itself, and I had stood in the presence of far greater things. Still, I allowed myself to enjoy it, the way one might admire an artist's work without being moved to act upon it.

The mortals, however, were not so composed. Despite the wax in their ears, some of the men trembled, their hands tightening on oars or rigging as if holding fast to reality itself. Odysseus, bound to the mast, strained against his bonds, his face contorted with an agonizing mix of longing and frustration. He shouted incoherent cries, his voice carried away by the wind, but the men stayed firm, resolutely avoiding his gaze.

Then the Sirens themselves came into view, perched on jagged rocks that jutted from the water. Their forms shimmered with an otherworldly beauty, part bird and part woman, their talons gleaming like polished obsidian, their feathers catching the light in iridescent hues. Their faces were angelic, their eyes wide and luminous, but their smiles carried a predatory edge that betrayed their true nature. As they sang, their voices rose and intertwined, each note more haunting than the last.

The ship passed through their trap, and the Sirens grew frantic, their tones sharpening with desperation. They called out to Odysseus, promising him everything his heart desired, but the crew rowed on, their ears safely sealed. When it became clear they would not have their prey, the Sirens' voices faltered, their song unraveling into a discordant wail. I allowed myself a small smile, murmuring under my breath, "Not today, little singers."

The calm didn't last. Ahead, the cliffs of Scylla loomed, their jagged edges rising high above the churning waters below. The men stared in wide-eyed horror as the ship approached, the sheer scale of the cliffs and the ominous roar of the nearby whirlpool Charybdis enough to freeze the heart of even the bravest among them. Odysseus barked orders, his voice cutting through the rising panic as he directed the ship to hug the cliffs, keeping as far from Charybdis as possible. 

"Eurylochus, light up six torches!" Odysseus ordered as the man ran to do as he was told handing out the torches as everyone waited. 

And then she appeared.

Scylla moved with a terrible grace, her multiple gaping maws emerged from the shadows of the cliffs like vipers from their lair. Each head was mounted on a long, sinewy neck, their movements eerily independent as they craned forward to survey the ship. Her faces were grotesquely beautiful, her wide, glittering eyes filled with a malevolent hunger, her gaping mouths lined with teeth as sharp as daggers. Her body, mostly hidden among the rocks, was a mass of scales and writhing serpentine limbs, her lower half blending seamlessly into the jagged stone.

The first strike came without warning. One of her heads darted down, snapping up a man in a single motion. His scream was cut short as she retreated back into the shadows, her prize writhing in her jaws. The remaining men raised their torches, the flames casting flickering light across the cliffs, but it did little to deter her. She struck again and again, each movement lightning-fast, her heads weaving and darting with a predator's precision.

I stood by the mast, watching it all unfold. There was a savage elegance to her movements, a grim beauty in the way she hunted. Mortals would call it horrifying, and they would be right—but to me, it was art. The interplay of light and shadow, the raw power of her strikes, the way the men fought to maintain their course even as their numbers dwindled—it was a testament to the chaos and resilience of mortal life.

Six men were lost by the time we cleared the cliffs, their torches extinguished, their voices silenced. The survivors slumped in exhaustion, their faces pale and drawn as they stared at the water where their comrades had disappeared. Odysseus stood at the helm, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He said nothing, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel.

As the cliffs receded into the distance and the sea opened up before us once more, I leaned against the mast, my gaze drifting to the horizon as I vanished from the ship. The journey was starting to get boring, I'll probably return later to check in on them.