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Styx was not a Goddess to cross.
Oh, certainly she was mostly bound to the river, but there were a few exceptions. A few important exceptions.
Oaths were something she resided over, though most prevalently oaths made in her name, in the name of her river. Those oaths she was very firm about enforcing. Those oaths, if you broke, she would make you pay.
There was a rule for when the Gods broke that oath, it was only supposed to be made by the Gods after all. But in recent years it had been too risky to enforce it in the proper way, so much going on that required their attention.
It meant that people had forgotten.
They’d forgotten the Styx who stripped Gods of their status, who ripped them from Olympus and banished them to the mortal world, who held ambrosia and nectar from them with iron determination.
They’d forgotten the Styx whose name few dared whisper, for fear of drawing her hateful gaze upon them.
They’d forgotten that she bound the oath taker, not results of broken oaths, and thus viewed misfortune as her punishment.
Misfortune was no punishment, that was balance. Misfortune and fortune danced to the tune of Nemesis, not to the currents of the Styx.
Styx was hate. Styx was Oaths. Styx was Binding.
The Styx… she was final.
Oaths were not alone in their position of granting her exceptions, granting her a hand in the world beyond, in the living and the dead alike. No, there was another.
It was rare, oh so rare, for one to hold it. It was a blessing, a blessing granted upon those who survived her waters. This was not always so, no once upon a time her river granted nothing and held all.
But then the Romans came along, and things changed. Now her river symbolized something More.
If you survived her waters which took and took and took, her waters of raw hate and hate and hate, her waters of oaths broke and kept, then you would be safe. Her waters would burn away your mortality until only a single point held you back.
The Styx would grant you life anew, she would build up brick by brick and watch with glee as you ripped apart your foes with iron in your skin crafted of the blood of all who had broken.
The Styx was renewal, she was the end, she would place into the hands of a mortal immortal might. She would make a man a monster in mortal clothing, would unleash them upon the world and delight in all they would do.
Those mortals, those precious precious few who lived. The ones who faced her currents of hate and hate and broken oaths and shattered promises and lost dreams and pain pain pain and came out alive and whole. The ones who faced the worst there was and remembered the good, the peace, the promises kept, the love. The ones who looked beyond the pain and pain and pain and remembered euphoria.
They rose up, from underneath her waters, ballads and songs twining through the air, through their hair, over their skin, honoring who they were, who they are, who they will be.
The world would wait and watch for them to fall, but Styx would always welcome them back to her, back to her waters, back to her arms.
These precious mortals were hers. They bore her blessing. They were just one step from immortality and it was her doing. They could never be taken from her. Not in Life nor Death.
Until that filthy little shrimp of a river spirit dared to wash away the blessing from her newest and youngest blessed mortal.
The Styx was hate incarnate, she was all the hate that has ever been, she was the currents of hate that swept you away and away until you saw red and your fist rose and you screamed until your throat ached and tore and you demanded your rage be heard. She was the hate that would rend the world apart, leaving it asunder. She was the hate that broke nations, the hate that shaped nations, that shaped vengeance, that shaped justice. She was the hand on the gun that fire, the hand on the sword that swung, the hand on the bow that released. She was hate, she was all of hate, she was all that came from it.
And this tiny little itty bitty baby river spirit had washed away her blessing like twas dirt on his skin.
Styx was quite tired of her hate being forgotten. She hated all who acted like she wasn’t present, like her blessings didn’t hold weight.
They held the blessing of hate, the blessing of binding vows. The blessing was itself a vow, an oath, a promise. They gave up their mortality, a large portion of it, and in turn she blessed them. She cradled their forms in her waters and watched them be reborn.
And oh, she hated and hated and hated. She hated the fools that watched without care, that gaped at the one who was hers. She hated the gorgons for leading him into the water by necessity. She hated Juno for forcing him into the water out of spite. And she hated hated hated the damned river.
That river, it dared-
Styx’s water churned and churned, waves washing at Karon’s ship and upsetting the spirits. She was angry. She was furious.
This would not stand.
What was hers could not be taken away, she would not allow it.
She opened eyes, reached her hands out and dragged her mortal back to her. Her blessing dripped like gossamer over his skin once more, washing away the false mortality that had torn at his iron and oath drunk flesh.
The river ahead roiled, it raged, Juno spoke and the camp went silent.
Styx did not care.
Lightning flashed in tune with her false false false breaths, her eyes caught on the quicksilver form rising from the river ahead, and she snarled.
She hated.
She hated and hated and hated.
She was hate and it was high time they remembered.
“You cannot!”
“I can,” she snarled, cutting through the voice of the pathetic little waterbug. Juno spoke and spoke and demanded and ordered and Styx bristled and wrapped currents over her mortal.
“He is mine,” she hissed. “He holds my blessing, my gaze, my mercy and wrath and hate and-“
“I washed it away, you cannot interfere-“
“You. Have. No. Right.”
Silence reigned as the brat recoiled.
“He is mine, You have no right to take my blessing from him.”
“It isn’t-“
“I have every right to act for mine,” Styx hissed. “I blessed him. He laid in my waters and clung to what was his, to what was alive, and peace, and joy, and love. He kept his oaths and bound himself to me in blood and water and pain.”
“That-“
“And you do not get to take that! That was a sacrifice! He gave his mortality to me in exchange for the strength to do what he must and you think you can take it away?”
Her words were fast, hate and fury and you can’t you can’t you can’t dripping from them, shrieking from them, filling the air and wrapping around the necks of every person who listened.
“My Mortal! My Blessing! Mine! You do NOT get to take it!”
Her mortal, who had been reborn in her waters. Her blessing, which had filled him inside and out as he’d breathed her waters in. Hers.
“Thank you?” the boy, her mortal, whispered. “I’m sorry, I don’t- I don’t remember what you’re talking about.”
Styx raged and raged, she hated Juno dearly for stripping all that he was from him in this time. Twas the only reason the weak pathetic waters could pull her blessing from him, he held no memory of it, and memory was important to keeping a power alive.
“You stepped into my waters,” Styx decreed. “You stepped into my waters and breathed them in and accepted the pain and the hate and the fury all to bring peace and hope and love back to yours. You burned away your very soul in order to save people. With your love in your back, and your hope in your heart.”
“Oh… I… I’m sorry for forgetting?”
The child truly was, and Styx bubbled with light curls, soft currents, she wrapped those waters around him in a welcome embrace, a sweep of her tributaries and he was safe. Her eyes remained unblinking on the form of the fool river, even as she spoke to her child, her chosen, in her waters.
“Twas not you who broke the oath. And your blessing is returned, for it should never have been taken.”
She bared her teeth when Juno and tiny bitty river Goddess glared back.
“What is mine is mine,” she hissed. “And I dare you to try and take it again. If you should try, I Vow on my own waters and on the primordial Khaos themself that you will regret it.”
The message was received, her Oath bound and locked, and even Juno would think twice before challenging such a Vow.
She lingered, for a long moment, on her blessed mortal. She lingered and wrapped her waters over him as gentle silk, a cloak of hate and oaths broken and kept, a blanket of memories and regrets, a shield of iron.
With one last dark look at the waterbug before her she released her blessed mortal, and let her waters return beneath the Earth. Beneath the living grass and soul filled soil, beneath the preserved lifeforms and the shattered souls, and finally deep within the dark mists of Erebos, by the gates of Haides.
Her mortal was back in place, her blessing confirmed once more. And now he remembered her, it would not be stripped again.
Styx’s waters gleamed in the hateful glee that rose with ripples of rage.
She was not to be crossed, and it was about time they remembered.