Neither the punishments of Tartarus nor the delights of Elysium for the undistinguished dead, those men and women who were neither villains nor heroes. Our religion teaches that we receive neutral eternity in the fields of Hades, where we exist as shades. Our milquetoast fate serves only to embolden the living, sending them on to great heights so that they will be remembered in song and celebrated in the boozy, balmy lands of birdsong and boister. We suffer not, but we celebrate not.
But oh, we suffer. On the fringes of the underworld, beyond the heroes' light surrounding Hades' citadel and the horrific punishments encircling those, we work until our wraithly shells fracture and our essence seeps away. We work ourselves into nonexistence or face the overseers' vicious, three-headed whips. The dead need no sleep or meals, so there is no succor from the work. Still, there are moments when the overseers move away, and we whisper under the cover of the pickaxes' ringing strikes:
"He can't know," I say. My voice--something like a voice--hangs heavy with the weight of an overused refrain. "We are not to be punished. We petitioners--we are supposed to be nothing. Not the most-damned in all of Hades."
"He knows," my hollow-faced companion murmurs. "How could he not?"
"No," I say.
"Yes. All our lives we knew of his dominion over jewels, over riches--they are of the earth, so it was sense. But now, we see--it is slavery. He knows!" The mute overseer's whip punctuates the outburst. My friend stares at me with his eyes like opals, until the overseer moves to strike again and my companion turns to attack the earth with zeal. With each heave of his pickaxe, the three wounds that go from his scalp to his chin flex open, and essence wafts out like smoke. My own work slows as I watch it trail upward. My eyes light on the god's citadel.
"We are petitioners," I say.
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