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lisbeiSpoilers for Immortals (2011, Tarsem Singh).
In Immortals, Lysander, a selfish, cowardly young soldier who's presented as the mortal antagonist of Theseus, the movie's underdog hero, decided to betray his home and fellow soldiers to the monstrous King Hyperion, and got his testicles crushed with a hammer for his trouble. Also, a maniac in a bull's head mask (that's the Minotaur equivalent in the movie) used some kind of barbed wire to carve diagonal cuts into his face. Meanwhile, in Olympus, the Greek gods were acting . . . well, very unlike Greek gods. What if Lysander had decided he’d given up quite enough, thank you, and wasn’t prepared to hear Theseus’s ‘I told you so’ before he died? What if Poseidon decided that as Zeus’s brother, not his flunky, he was going to do what he damn well pleased? In this story, Poseidon isn’t in any way related to Theseus, and in fact has his eye on a confused young man who just needs some guidance to return to the path of, um, righteousness.
Chapter 1
Poseidon leaned heavily on his trident as he let Zeus’s words wash over him, choosing instead to concentrate on the horrendous mess the mortals had made of things, far below, but not far enough that he couldn’t hear the screaming and the frantic prayers, which Zeus had now decided would not be answered. By what authority, he wanted to ask. Had Zeus forgotten that they were brothers? So Poseidon had chosen the guise of a young man, rather than his usual appearance as a venerable old man – that didn’t make him any less powerful, any less what he was. So he had a favourite among the mortals – Zeus had Theseus, and he had this confused young mortal who had chosen the wrong path. Maybe he could nudge Lysander back towards the right one (yes, towards your bed, Zeus would say spitefully). This Theseus and Hyperion business was Zeus’s problem, he decided. He, Poseidon, had been too long away from his real home – the sea. Its people were his business, and if he led one troubled soldier away from certain death on a whim, well, he was a god. He asked for no-one's permission.
The sound of the waves hitting the shore and the smell of the sea woke Lysander from a fitful half-sleep, and he held his breath, cursing himself for having let down his guard, even for a few minutes.
But no-one was in the small tent with him. No-one had taken advantage of his inattention, and slowly, his heart-rate returned to normal, and his fists unclenched. Now he was annoyed that something had disturbed the only rest he was likely to have for a while, and he wondered what it had been. Not the sea, of course. King Hyperion’s camp was too far inland for that. He must have been dreaming. It had seemed so real, though. He could almost taste the salt spray on his lips, feel the cool water on his face . . . no matter. He must have been woken by some noise in the camp. One of the many noises – a scream, the sounds of sobbing, pleading for mercy. It was always so loud in the camp. Lysander scoffed at himself for that thought, as he turned the mask over and over in his hands. All are equal in Hyperion’s army, he thought, and his mental voice sounded derisive.
Yes, his previous camp had been loud too. He let himself wallow in the nostalgia for a few seconds, yearning after the groups of men drinking and exchanging tall tales of conquest, the camp followers washing their clothes and singing, and even some children, always getting underfoot.
A far cry from the noise here – barked orders, screams of agony from the bulls (always the fucking bulls, bull-head masks, metal bulls with fire underneath and the wailing always coming from the nostrils, along with the steam and the . . . smell) sobbing and wailing from anyone unfortunate enough to be left alive by the monstrous King. Yes, monstrous. He’d finally said it, even if it was in the privacy of his own head. In the other camp, he didn’t have to hide away in a corner in case some of the other warriors (the ones who still had balls, he added resentfully) would use the weaklings for sport. That’s what he was, now, a weakling, a eunuch. Lysander’s resentment boiled over. He was in constant pain from his crushed testicles, and a more recent addition was a persistent ache in his lower back from . . . other things that had been done to him the one time he was naive enough to let his guard down.
Lysander poked at the eye holes of the mask. Why had he come here? He was finding it hard to remember anything of his life before. What had led him to this place, this state? What had been so bad about his life that he’d thrown it away, and for this? In trying to retrace his steps he always got stuck at the mallet. Hyperion had taken one look at him, had judged him as useless, and had laughed when that creature had carved up his face. And the hammer. That had been his reward. For treason, for murder. It was what he deserved.
What had he thought, that they were going to put him out of his misery? Hadn’t he been prepared to snivel and beg for his life? He remembered now. He’d been afraid to die! That was it. The thought struck him as hilarious, now. If he’d died then, fighting this army of horrors, he’d probably have been worthy of the Elysian Fields. Now, the state he was in, not even Hades would want him.
He was so tired. He felt filthy, like the dirt was ingrained under his skin, and caked in it, at the same time. He couldn’t even sleep here. Hidden as he was he could hear sobs and protestations from the men and boys being dragged out and shared amongst the creatures, which was what Hyperion called the worst of his warriors, the ones who wore the bull-head mask. No-one dared touch the women who’d been captured – those belonged to Hyperion alone. Not the pregnant ones, those had been tortured and slaughtered by the King, personally. And the children . . . Lysander shuddered. He didn’t want to think about the children.
As Lysander sat, lost in his thoughts, the night passed, and soon the army started mustering towards the wall, towards the last defence. He got up and joined them, for where could he go, marked as he was? Still, as they started their march towards the gate, he found himself walking slower and slower, until the whole army had almost passed him by. He was possessed by an almost irresistible desire to turn back, to walk away. He’d never wanted this. He’d just been so afraid of death that he hadn’t considered that some things might be worse. He could go and throw himself on Theseus’s sword, of course. That would have been the honourable thing to do. But when had he ever been honourable? And he felt so dirty. How could he die like this, less than a man, covered with the filth of Hyperion’s very presence?
As he stumbled along, dragging his feet, he became conscious of eyes on him. Not the common foot-soldiers like himself, their very masks prevented peripheral vision. And maybe that had been one of the reasons they all wore them, he thought bitterly. No looking around for those in Hyperion’s army, always stare straight ahead, focussed on whatever Hyperion wanted. He couldn’t even look to the side to see who had seen his reluctance, but he could guess – one of the Minotaurs, who were tasked with maintaining discipline as well as torture, rape and slaughter. As if in a dream, he felt the swing of the hammer as it whistled towards his head and managed to turn a stumble into a headlong fall, and lay on the ground as the rest of the army passed by. People stepped onto his hands and his legs, but he didn’t move. He was sure that the Minotaur even kicked him a few times, but his performance must have been convincing, as eventually he was left alone.
Without moving his head, he could see though one of the eyeholes as he lay on the ground. Hundreds of feet disappeared into a huge dust cloud which seemed to have swallowed the world. When he heard the explosion signalling Hyperion’s use of the weapon of the gods, Lysander got up, and, after one last look towards the army, which by now was charging towards the wall, started a slow but steady plod in the other direction. He did not look back again, even when he heard a distant rumble and the ground started shaking so strongly he nearly lost his footing. Through some magic or optical illusion as he had heard was common in the desert, it seemed to him he could see the sea in the distance. He would reach it. And at least, maybe he would be clean when he died.
~
Lysander walked for days. How many exactly, he was never sure afterwards. Sometimes he slept during the night, at others, he slept during the day, so he quickly lost track of time. He used the cloth of his mask to gather up dew, and sucked off the scant moisture it offered. The sweat ran down his face and stung his barely healed wounds during the day, while his whole body shivered so hard during the cold desert nights that his legs started cramping, yet he never stopped his slow steady pace. Often he had terrible dreams, that the Minotaurs had found him, that Hyperion stood at his head as he woke. But they were just dreams. Each day, or night, he woke and he was alone, something he was thankful for. He never came across any houses or villages or farms, something which he was also glad for, though at times he felt as though he was the only man left alive in the world. He was always hungry, and occasionally he found insects and grubs to eat which looked terrible and tasted worse, but which at least gave him the strength to keep walking.
One day, just as the niggling thought came to him that his increasingly weak body could not take much more of this, he realised that he’d been hearing a strange sound for a while now. No, it wasn’t a strange sound. It was one he’d known, but had forgotten, the sound of waves hitting the shore and retreating. The air smelled different, of freshness and salt, rather than pure condensed heat. He tried to look up, but his eyes had long ago swelled up in reaction to the punishing desert sun and the dust raised by his sandals as he plodded along, so he saw nothing until he stumbled down a rocky incline and splashed into a shallow inlet. As dehydrated as he was, he managed to squeeze out a few tears of joy, which cleared his eyes even as they stung unbearably on his scarred face.
He was in a little cove, not enough sand to be called a beach, but pebbles and rocks, and a floor which seemed to slope off gradually, but which he knew would drop off in a few metres. He laughed in joy and threw away the horrid rag, all which remained of the mask which Hyperion had put over his face after turning him into a monster. Lysander splashed the cold sea water over his limbs, and waded in deeper. It was his imagination, he knew, but he could feel it scouring off the dirt and the horrors, all the things he’d done and all the things that had been done to him. As the cool, sparkling waters closed over his head, he laughed again, swallowing gratefully. He could die now. He was clean again.
Lysander had never expected to wake up again, alive. But alive he was, and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was on some rocks. He started retching helplessly, as all the sea water he’d swallowed came out of him. Then he sensed rather than saw that he wasn’t alone. He just had time to look up and see that three old fishermen had surrounded him, when something hard hit his head, and blackness washed over him once more.
In Immortals, Lysander, a selfish, cowardly young soldier who's presented as the mortal antagonist of Theseus, the movie's underdog hero, decided to betray his home and fellow soldiers to the monstrous King Hyperion, and got his testicles crushed with a hammer for his trouble. Also, a maniac in a bull's head mask (that's the Minotaur equivalent in the movie) used some kind of barbed wire to carve diagonal cuts into his face. Meanwhile, in Olympus, the Greek gods were acting . . . well, very unlike Greek gods. What if Lysander had decided he’d given up quite enough, thank you, and wasn’t prepared to hear Theseus’s ‘I told you so’ before he died? What if Poseidon decided that as Zeus’s brother, not his flunky, he was going to do what he damn well pleased? In this story, Poseidon isn’t in any way related to Theseus, and in fact has his eye on a confused young man who just needs some guidance to return to the path of, um, righteousness.
Chapter 1
Poseidon leaned heavily on his trident as he let Zeus’s words wash over him, choosing instead to concentrate on the horrendous mess the mortals had made of things, far below, but not far enough that he couldn’t hear the screaming and the frantic prayers, which Zeus had now decided would not be answered. By what authority, he wanted to ask. Had Zeus forgotten that they were brothers? So Poseidon had chosen the guise of a young man, rather than his usual appearance as a venerable old man – that didn’t make him any less powerful, any less what he was. So he had a favourite among the mortals – Zeus had Theseus, and he had this confused young mortal who had chosen the wrong path. Maybe he could nudge Lysander back towards the right one (yes, towards your bed, Zeus would say spitefully). This Theseus and Hyperion business was Zeus’s problem, he decided. He, Poseidon, had been too long away from his real home – the sea. Its people were his business, and if he led one troubled soldier away from certain death on a whim, well, he was a god. He asked for no-one's permission.
The sound of the waves hitting the shore and the smell of the sea woke Lysander from a fitful half-sleep, and he held his breath, cursing himself for having let down his guard, even for a few minutes.
But no-one was in the small tent with him. No-one had taken advantage of his inattention, and slowly, his heart-rate returned to normal, and his fists unclenched. Now he was annoyed that something had disturbed the only rest he was likely to have for a while, and he wondered what it had been. Not the sea, of course. King Hyperion’s camp was too far inland for that. He must have been dreaming. It had seemed so real, though. He could almost taste the salt spray on his lips, feel the cool water on his face . . . no matter. He must have been woken by some noise in the camp. One of the many noises – a scream, the sounds of sobbing, pleading for mercy. It was always so loud in the camp. Lysander scoffed at himself for that thought, as he turned the mask over and over in his hands. All are equal in Hyperion’s army, he thought, and his mental voice sounded derisive.
Yes, his previous camp had been loud too. He let himself wallow in the nostalgia for a few seconds, yearning after the groups of men drinking and exchanging tall tales of conquest, the camp followers washing their clothes and singing, and even some children, always getting underfoot.
A far cry from the noise here – barked orders, screams of agony from the bulls (always the fucking bulls, bull-head masks, metal bulls with fire underneath and the wailing always coming from the nostrils, along with the steam and the . . . smell) sobbing and wailing from anyone unfortunate enough to be left alive by the monstrous King. Yes, monstrous. He’d finally said it, even if it was in the privacy of his own head. In the other camp, he didn’t have to hide away in a corner in case some of the other warriors (the ones who still had balls, he added resentfully) would use the weaklings for sport. That’s what he was, now, a weakling, a eunuch. Lysander’s resentment boiled over. He was in constant pain from his crushed testicles, and a more recent addition was a persistent ache in his lower back from . . . other things that had been done to him the one time he was naive enough to let his guard down.
Lysander poked at the eye holes of the mask. Why had he come here? He was finding it hard to remember anything of his life before. What had led him to this place, this state? What had been so bad about his life that he’d thrown it away, and for this? In trying to retrace his steps he always got stuck at the mallet. Hyperion had taken one look at him, had judged him as useless, and had laughed when that creature had carved up his face. And the hammer. That had been his reward. For treason, for murder. It was what he deserved.
What had he thought, that they were going to put him out of his misery? Hadn’t he been prepared to snivel and beg for his life? He remembered now. He’d been afraid to die! That was it. The thought struck him as hilarious, now. If he’d died then, fighting this army of horrors, he’d probably have been worthy of the Elysian Fields. Now, the state he was in, not even Hades would want him.
He was so tired. He felt filthy, like the dirt was ingrained under his skin, and caked in it, at the same time. He couldn’t even sleep here. Hidden as he was he could hear sobs and protestations from the men and boys being dragged out and shared amongst the creatures, which was what Hyperion called the worst of his warriors, the ones who wore the bull-head mask. No-one dared touch the women who’d been captured – those belonged to Hyperion alone. Not the pregnant ones, those had been tortured and slaughtered by the King, personally. And the children . . . Lysander shuddered. He didn’t want to think about the children.
As Lysander sat, lost in his thoughts, the night passed, and soon the army started mustering towards the wall, towards the last defence. He got up and joined them, for where could he go, marked as he was? Still, as they started their march towards the gate, he found himself walking slower and slower, until the whole army had almost passed him by. He was possessed by an almost irresistible desire to turn back, to walk away. He’d never wanted this. He’d just been so afraid of death that he hadn’t considered that some things might be worse. He could go and throw himself on Theseus’s sword, of course. That would have been the honourable thing to do. But when had he ever been honourable? And he felt so dirty. How could he die like this, less than a man, covered with the filth of Hyperion’s very presence?
As he stumbled along, dragging his feet, he became conscious of eyes on him. Not the common foot-soldiers like himself, their very masks prevented peripheral vision. And maybe that had been one of the reasons they all wore them, he thought bitterly. No looking around for those in Hyperion’s army, always stare straight ahead, focussed on whatever Hyperion wanted. He couldn’t even look to the side to see who had seen his reluctance, but he could guess – one of the Minotaurs, who were tasked with maintaining discipline as well as torture, rape and slaughter. As if in a dream, he felt the swing of the hammer as it whistled towards his head and managed to turn a stumble into a headlong fall, and lay on the ground as the rest of the army passed by. People stepped onto his hands and his legs, but he didn’t move. He was sure that the Minotaur even kicked him a few times, but his performance must have been convincing, as eventually he was left alone.
Without moving his head, he could see though one of the eyeholes as he lay on the ground. Hundreds of feet disappeared into a huge dust cloud which seemed to have swallowed the world. When he heard the explosion signalling Hyperion’s use of the weapon of the gods, Lysander got up, and, after one last look towards the army, which by now was charging towards the wall, started a slow but steady plod in the other direction. He did not look back again, even when he heard a distant rumble and the ground started shaking so strongly he nearly lost his footing. Through some magic or optical illusion as he had heard was common in the desert, it seemed to him he could see the sea in the distance. He would reach it. And at least, maybe he would be clean when he died.
~
Lysander walked for days. How many exactly, he was never sure afterwards. Sometimes he slept during the night, at others, he slept during the day, so he quickly lost track of time. He used the cloth of his mask to gather up dew, and sucked off the scant moisture it offered. The sweat ran down his face and stung his barely healed wounds during the day, while his whole body shivered so hard during the cold desert nights that his legs started cramping, yet he never stopped his slow steady pace. Often he had terrible dreams, that the Minotaurs had found him, that Hyperion stood at his head as he woke. But they were just dreams. Each day, or night, he woke and he was alone, something he was thankful for. He never came across any houses or villages or farms, something which he was also glad for, though at times he felt as though he was the only man left alive in the world. He was always hungry, and occasionally he found insects and grubs to eat which looked terrible and tasted worse, but which at least gave him the strength to keep walking.
One day, just as the niggling thought came to him that his increasingly weak body could not take much more of this, he realised that he’d been hearing a strange sound for a while now. No, it wasn’t a strange sound. It was one he’d known, but had forgotten, the sound of waves hitting the shore and retreating. The air smelled different, of freshness and salt, rather than pure condensed heat. He tried to look up, but his eyes had long ago swelled up in reaction to the punishing desert sun and the dust raised by his sandals as he plodded along, so he saw nothing until he stumbled down a rocky incline and splashed into a shallow inlet. As dehydrated as he was, he managed to squeeze out a few tears of joy, which cleared his eyes even as they stung unbearably on his scarred face.
He was in a little cove, not enough sand to be called a beach, but pebbles and rocks, and a floor which seemed to slope off gradually, but which he knew would drop off in a few metres. He laughed in joy and threw away the horrid rag, all which remained of the mask which Hyperion had put over his face after turning him into a monster. Lysander splashed the cold sea water over his limbs, and waded in deeper. It was his imagination, he knew, but he could feel it scouring off the dirt and the horrors, all the things he’d done and all the things that had been done to him. As the cool, sparkling waters closed over his head, he laughed again, swallowing gratefully. He could die now. He was clean again.
Lysander had never expected to wake up again, alive. But alive he was, and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was on some rocks. He started retching helplessly, as all the sea water he’d swallowed came out of him. Then he sensed rather than saw that he wasn’t alone. He just had time to look up and see that three old fishermen had surrounded him, when something hard hit his head, and blackness washed over him once more.
