Thea's Fate, A Loves Of Olympus Novella
Page 2
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Spiridion remembered the hoot of an owl. Not an unusual sound in the black of night. But there was something more to it, some earnest desperation, which had pulled Spiridion from his sun-filled dreams. He sat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and peered around the shadowy interior of the small cabin.
The Gorgons slept. Eurythene’s snores all but shook the cabin, regular and even. She lay by his sleeping sister, her bony hand extended to rest along the mat’s crude edges. Kore had no idea she was to fear the woman at her side. In fact, Kore loved the monstrous woman as she had loved their mother—before the Persians came.
Stheno leaned awkwardly, spilling out of her chair, but still sleeping.
Where was Medusa?
The owl called again, pulling Spiridion from his blankets on the floor.
He blinked again, confused by the sight that greeted him.
Medusa stood, staring up into one of the gnarled trees. Her companions, dozens of serpents that erupted from her head, snapped and stretched upwards—into the tree.
Medusa pushed them back, pulling the cloak tighter about her head. The serpents worked together, pulling the threadbare garment from her hands and letting it fall to the dusty ground at her bare feet.
He could not hear her, though her lips were moving.
With a final glance at his sleeping sister and their Gorgon protectors, he slipped from their tiny home. It was easy enough to creep closer. The small clearing was lined with broken boulders, prickly shrubs, and stunted trees—a perfect shield for a boy his size.
“Take care of them,” Medusa spoke. “You know my heart, Thea. Spiridion is strong and young. Kore is but a babe. They will forget… As it should be. I leave to keep them safe.”
Leave? Spiridion frowned, sliding forward to listen.
“But Ariston… He must never know. My love, my husband...” Spiridion heard Medusa’s voice waver, saw her shoulders shake as she sobbed. “I cannot weep… He lives. He lives…” She wiped her face. “In time, I pray he will learn to forget as well.”
The owl clicked, hissing once.
Medusa laughed. “You argue with me, little one?”
The owl, Thea, cooed at Medusa.
“You find fault with me? To wish him happiness? I would... I do. If he must forget the hours we had, I would have him forget. Better to forget… For there is little left of me now.” She was shaking as she spoke. “Do not follow me, Thea. I have one more request, little one. Stay here, with them, I beseech you. They need you.” She took a deep breath. “Stay… I cannot bear for you to see what I must do… My fate has been decided. I will it through to keep those I love safe.”
He could make no sense of Medusa’s words. Perhaps he was dreaming? Perhaps his mind was too weary? Thea cooed again, the noise akin to Kore’s exhausted tears.
“If only you could tell him…” She shook her head. “I shall love him until this life is over. I suspect I shall love him even then.”
Medusa stooped picking up the discarded chlamys and wrapping it about her shoulders. “You will look out for them? Promise me.”
He should speak, say something…
The owl hooted, in question.
“Please,” Medusa tried again.
There was no sound. Thea, it seemed, was done arguing with her mistress.
Spiridion watched her, a panic building inside him. In his time with her, she’d offered him nothing but a loving gaze and encouraging words. She could never hold him, for fear her companions would strike him, but she offered him comfort nonetheless.
This night, he would offer it to her in turn.
She stared up at the moon. Her eyes were massive in her thin face, so large he thought the moon might be smaller. Her gentle face twisted... giving him pause. He’d seen pain, the war had offered plenty of it. His years did not reflect that of his soul. It was his soul, this battle-weary version of his self, which recognized his lady’s defeat.
“Hera, keep them close,” she murmured, turning toward the path that led to the beach far below.
He shifted from foot to foot, uncertain. Should he stop her departure? Perhaps she did so every night. He knew the sun was torture on her eyes, and those of her companions. If she took respite in such a way, he shouldn’t interrupt her. She had such little peace.
But her words beheld a finality to them.
As her head disappeared from view, he sat, his lungs emptying and his heart thumping.
He waited, wrapping his arms around his knees as the wind picked up—buffeting him back into the boulder he rested against. He rested his chin on his arms, staring after her… She would come back. She would return…
But with the wind came a terrible noise. A noise he knew well. A man screaming is an altogether different noise than a man’s battle cry. And what sent Spiridion running, terrified, back into the cabin—were the screams of a dozen or so men from the beach below.