Page 112 of The Villains of Winter

“Thank you for being there for me, Elliott.” James wiped his eyes with his sleeve and if Elliott had thought to look for it, he would’ve noticed there were no tears. His auditory senses picked up the breaking of James’s voice and alerted the mind that James had cried even without evidence of it. “Thank you for helping him out. That means a hell of a lot to me.”

“I tried my best. I’m sorry again for not telling you about the banquet and for everything that happened there.” Elliott promised he’d be there for Finch’s recovery every step of the way. James gave him a weakened smile of appreciation.

James rose to a stand afterward. “Do you want a hot chocolate? I think the vending machine has some hot chocolate packets. People add hot water in the cup, I believe.”

“No, you sit. I’ll get you another coffee so it’s fresh for you.”

James melted his expression. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it.”

James left the waiting room without a single word further.

​​ CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

FINCH WAS PRONOUNCED DEAD BEFORE the dawn lit the earth.

The physician and the medical examiner announced the death to Finch’s parents first, and Elliott heard a mournful cry like a foal had been struck in the woods. A low bellow resounded through the hallways as though a bison had been wounded, and James tensed.

The rest of the thespians had long fettered out, plying James with heartfelt platitudes and well wishes for several minutes earlier, until it was deemed acceptable to hail for a taxi and be rid of the stench of the townsmen.

Elliott, despairingly struck with devastation and refusal, hadn’t felt the tears on his own face when he’d heard it. Belatedly, he thought the words had been spoken in a half dream. A horrific sleep paralysis that stunned his lifeless body still. He partly recovered, increment by increment, when James came apart with raw grief beside him.

“Don’t. Please.” James’s voice was a distressed whisper. “It should’ve been me. Please, don’t take him. Mesmo quando eu andar por um vale de trevas e morte, não temerei perigo algum, pois tu estás comigo; a tua vara e o teu cajado me protegem. Protect him.”

Elliott didn’t know what James was mumbling in his sleepless murmurs and prayers. He was speaking in Portuguese half of the night. For years, James had been regarded as though he had ichor coursing through his veins instead of blood, how powerful he appeared. In that moment, despite his height and stature, his face was a young boy again. Fractured.

“E não nos deixes cair em tentação, mas livra-nos do mal, porque teu é o Reino, o poder e a glória para sempre. Amém.”

The hurt of losing his mother was still fresh after all these years. He couldn’t hear himself without hearing her. James almost never spoke Portuguese without her. That hour, though, he rumbled through every prayer of hers he knew as though it could bring Finch back.

“Porque Deus amou o mundo de tal maneira que deu o seu Filho unigênito, para que todo aquele que nele crê não pereça, mas tenha a vida eterna. Please let him rest with You for eternity. Please have mercy upon him.”

James’s soul was beleaguered in the throes of disbelief and tragedy. How could this have happened? How could he have let her take him from the earth?

How could James not have shielded him?

Piercing through the moil and strain of sorrow, the travail of rue, Árēs spoke unto him. Árēs who urged forward Achilles in warfare. Árēs whose battlelust never wavered. He knew what needed to be done. The ferocity of his fire dried the tears of his young son’s eyes like the hand of a father armored with a desolating sword of combat and formidable shield of comfort. Although it was Homer’s words which birthed him in new life, it was the war drums of Árēs that answered his cry of prayers.

‘Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh,

hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies –

off on the cliffs, ripping apart some big antlered stag

they gorge on the kill till all their jaws drip red with blood,

then down in a pack they lope to a pooling, dark spring,

their lean sharp tongues lapping the water’s surface,

belching bloody meat, but the fury, never shaken,

builds inside their chests though their glutted bellies burst –

so wild the Myrmidon captains, Myrmidon field commanders

swarming round Achilles’ dauntless friend-in-arms.

And there in the midst Achilles stood like the god of war,