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The pain of his wounds paled in comparison to th
e anguish he felt. He knew what had saved him and his men. She had saved them… she had… His hands fisted and he bit back the cry as his mind and heart fought the truth.
For two days he’d tried to break through the ships that had circled him. For two days he’d pleaded with the Gods, begged for mercy, threatened his men and exhausted those at the oars.
But fate was against him. A Persian ship had caught them. And he’d had to fight.
Now the sun burst from behind the clouds, casting the blood-soaked deck in brilliant light. The sun’s rays poured over his skin and chased the chill from the air, but he began to shiver uncontrollably.
She’d sacrificed too much – for him. For the Gods. His lungs constricted.
His agony was unbearable. He’d failed her, leaving her alone with no protection.
Forgive me, lady.
Poseidon was not merciful. He deserved no tributes. He deserved nothing but the wrath of these men, earned by the God’s selfishness.
Anger surged through him. He stood tall, bracing himself on the ships rail as his fury stoked strength he thought he’d exhausted.
“Ariston?” Pamphilos said hesitantly, regarding him with unconcealed concern. “You fought more fiercely than any I’ve ever seen. I am honored to be at your side.”
Ariston stared at his second in confusion. Pamphilos could do little but stare at him, his chest. Ariston glanced down. His chest was grave indeed. The skin was flayed from his collar bone, his muscles split wide from the jagged teeth of the Persian’s blade. Blood seeped, sluggish and red.
He closed his eyes and cursed the Gods anew.
“I will not die, Pamphilos.” His face was resolved as he regarded his second. “There is too much left to be done.” His words were rough and unsteady, taxing him with the simple effort of speaking.
He would not die. The battle was far from over. He must make it back to his lady. He’d given his word.
A queer coldness flowed over him, lessening his pain. He gazed over the ships, relieved to see the Persians had turned away from Athens’ shore.
“Send me Chariton. He will stitch me up.” He could not bear the feel of Pamphilos’ hand upon his arm, offering support. He blinked, his sight blurring momentarily. “Take us back to Athens, Pamphilos.”
Pamphilos nodded, staring at his wounds. “Find your bed, for you can barely stand. I will send Chariton to you.”
Ariston nodded, moving slowly toward his sleeping quarters on the ship. He was shivering in earnest when he reached it. His hand, cold and numb, found his chlamys by his mat. He lay slowly, feeling heavy and oddly numb. He covered the wound on his chest, pressing against it with weakening limbs.
Though the words were garbled and his eyes fell closed, he heard his second speak. Pamphilos’ words reached him, a familiar soldier’s farewell. “May you find glory in Elysium, Ariston.”
Elysium must wait, Ariston thought before his eyes closed.
###
Medusa searched the ground, fighting tears. She was freezing, even covered as she was. But that mattered little. Her necklace was gone.
He’d pulled it from her neck.
The crescent moon was high, but its slight light did nothing to aid in her search. Instead, it cast long shadows across the ground –as if even Selene was scorning her.
She could not stop shivering, or catch the soft moan that slipped from her throat as her search became frantic. Every part of her throbbed, her body and soul ached.
“Medusa?” Stheno stood, a wraith-like visage illuminated by the glow of the lamp she held aloft. “We’ve searched these two days, to bring you home.”
She couldn’t speak, so she nodded.
“What ails you, sister?” Euryale moved closer, holding her lantern high above them.
The two stood, regarding her from the depths of their veils.
