Cardan in the books was never informed of Balekin's form of torture or any of the torture Jude went through. I like to think that maybe he would be less resentful of Balekin's death at her hand if he knew that he forced her to kiss him while she was pretending to be glamoured.
Had a dear friend ask me to write the ending where Garling Figarland gets you and fights WB, and curse her, it came out way cleaner. Oh well, here you go!
Sommers’ thumb pressed lightly beneath your chin, lifting your face just enough to force your gaze upward.
His grip was not tight.
That was the worst part.
It was confident. Casual. Possessive in the way of a man who had already decided your body belonged to him and was simply waiting for you to realize it too.
You jerked your head sideways and snapped your teeth inches from his fingers.
He laughed softly, delighted rather than offended. “Ah. Fire too. You truly are a Kuja.”
The vines responded instantly.
They tightened around your legs and torso, living restraints that reacted to your resistance like an animal correcting prey. Thorns bit into your calf, sharp enough to draw blood. You hissed despite yourself, the sound ripped from your throat before you could swallow it back.
Sommers noticed immediately.
His gaze dropped, slow and appreciative, as if he were admiring craftsmanship.
“Careful,” he murmured. “If you hurt yourself too badly, I will have to carry you. And then Manmeyer will complain that I am spoiling you.”
Behind him, Manmeyer clicked her tongue, irritation flashing across her bright features. “If you bruise her face, I will double the price.”
Sommers waved her off without looking away from you. “Relax. I am not an animal. I will pay what you want.”
The lie was so obvious it almost made you laugh.
Almost.
He leaned closer. Too close.
You could see the fine cracks in his glasses now. The flecks of dried blood at the edge of his collar. The way his pupils had blown wide, fixation eclipsing whatever restraint he pretended to have.
His voice softened, intimate and poisonous.
“You should stop fighting,” he said gently. “It will be much easier if you accept this.”
You lunged forward and snapped at him again, trying to bite his hand.
His fingers slid from your jaw to your throat.
He did not squeeze. He simply rested his hand there, feeling your pulse hammer beneath his skin. His smile deepened when he felt it, slow and satisfied.
Then his grip tightened.
Not enough to crush. Just enough to steal your breath.
“There it is,” he breathed. “Fear. You wear it beautifully.”
The panic hit you then, sudden and sharp. Your chest burned. Your vision narrowed. The world tunneled down to the pressure of his hand and the vines cutting into your skin.
And beneath that fear, something else stirred.
A pressure behind your eyes. A pull low in your chest.
A presence.
You did not call for it. You did not have time. It reached for you instead, drawn by terror the way a storm answers a rising tide.
Edward.
The name did not form in words. It arrived as a sensation. As weight. As heat. A vast, coiled awareness brushed against yours, tentative at first, then urgent. He flooded in as if he had been waiting, searching, desperate.
“Where are you?!?”
The voice was not sound. It was gravity. It pressed into your skull, wrapped around your thoughts, heavy with restrained violence.
You gasped, choking on air as Sommers’ hand loosened just enough to let you breathe again. The sudden rush of oxygen made your head spin.
Fear spiked higher. Your answer was less words and more images.
Smoke. Blood. Knights. Hands on you.
Something in the bond snapped fully open.
The presence surged, sharp now, no longer careful.
“Someone is touching you?!?”
Rage bled through the connection, white hot and seismic. You felt it like an earthquake rolling through your bones. The ground itself seemed to answer him, stone trembling beneath your feet.
You spat.
The glob of saliva struck Sommers square on the cheek.
The world froze.
Manmeyer sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh. You really did it now.”
Sommers’ smile vanished.
It did not shatter. It folded inward, collapsing into something colder and far worse.
His hand tightened again, just enough to remind you how easily he could end this.
“…How unfortunate,” he said quietly. “I was going to be kind.”
Edward’s presence roared.
The fury that answered through the bond was not loud. It was controlled. Focused. The kind of anger that broke islands instead of screaming.
“Stay where you are!”
Sommers’ fingers slid away from your throat, irritation sharpening his expression as his hand drifted lower. Deliberate. Unhurried. He caught your wrist this time, grip firm and proprietary, thumb digging in just enough to make the message clear.
“Time for a lesson,” he muttered, almost fondly.
His other hand lifted.
You braced.
He never finished the motion.
“Manmeyer. Sommers.”
The voice cut through the street like a blade.
You flinched and snapped your gaze up. Everyone froze mid-movement. Sommers released you with an irritated hiss, his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long before withdrawing.
A man stood at the shattered opening behind them.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Immaculate posture carved from arrogance and authority. Pale hair swept back from a severe face shaped into permanent displeasure. Dark eyes narrowed, sharp with irritation and expectation.
The moment your eyes landed on him, the presence inside your head shifted.
Edward’s anxiety grew even more alarmed.
Everything about the man screamed power. Not earned. Inherited.
To make the insult complete, his clothing was garishly colorful. Gold trim. Rich fabrics. Ceremonial layers that had no business on a battlefield soaked in smoke and blood. Like Sommers and Manmeyer, he dressed as though war were a stage built solely to frame him.
Shit.
Another God’s Knight.
And this one felt worse. Sharper. More competent.
“What,” he said sharply, anger held tight and vicious, “are you two doing?”
Edward’s attention narrowed with yours. The bond tightened, pressure building behind your eyes.
Knight.
His gaze cut between them, dismissive and razor precise.
“Have you forgotten,” he continued, voice rising, “that we are in the middle of a battle?”
Sommers straightened slowly, smoothing his coat as though fabric and posture could resurrect the dignity he had just squandered. As his hand withdrew, his fingers brushed your cheek, deliberate and lingering, a ghost of the strike that never landed.
Sommers shifted his body, angling himself in front of you. Not to protect. To block. To mark territory like a fence driven into the dirt.
You snarled softly at him, teeth bared, the sound dragged straight from instinct.
He did not even look at you.
“Garling,” Sommers said, jaw tight, voice wrapped in a veneer of respect that fooled no one, “I heard you went after Rocks. Lose already?”
The name hit the bond like a spark to oil.
Garling.
Edward’s fury deepened, coiling lower, heavier.
Garling’s eyes flicked between them again. The disgust that curled his lip was small, precise, and devastating, like a man discovering rot in something he believed he owned.
“And I heard,” Garling replied coldly, “that you had gone to retrieve the Grand Prize. I hear it did not take much to fold you, and that you were rather handsy before it escaped.”
The words landed heavily.
Manmeyer opened her mouth, then shut it again, sense finally catching up with ambition.
Sommers lifted a hand slightly, palm out in a lazy parody of surrender. “There was a complication,” he said smoothly. “The other Kuja woman did escape thanks to pirate interference, but we can find her again.”
That earned him another look of pure contempt.
“How convenient,” Garling snapped, irritation sharpening into something venomous, “for my prize to vanish and for you to be standing here dawdling, playing with while the real—”
He stopped.
Mid breath.
Mid rage.
Because you twisted.
Sommers’ bulk no longer hid you.
And the moment Garling’s eyes found you, the bond reacted violently.
Edward’s presence surged, raw and immediate.
Like a predator scenting something richer than the prey it had been chasing.
Garling’s gaze dragged over you with naked intent. The torn Kuja outfit clinging to your body. The blood smeared on your shapely leg. The way you still stood straight despite restraints and hands and fear. The rise and fall of your chest as you fought to breathe evenly.
Edward’s fury pulsed, seismic.
Then Garling’s attention reached your face.
And locked.
For you were not merely attractive. You were stunning, the kind of beauty that made men forget the noise of battle and remember only ownership and appetite. It struck him hard enough that his posture changed, shoulders settling, breath slowing, as if the world had finally offered him something worthy of his attention.
And he feasted upon what he found, the grace of your perfection, the plush of your lips panting, and your eyes that sparkled, despite your best effort not to cry.
You felt it like a violation. Like hands peeling back layers of skin and dignity without ever touching you. Not desire alone. Desire was too small for this.
God Valley burned around you all. Somewhere, Rocks and Roger tore the island apart, cannons thundered, and men screamed. But none of it seemed to reach this Garling, to shake him in the slightest. His entire focus had collapsed inward, fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach turn.
The moment stretched thin.
Garling feasted on what he saw. The set of your jaw. The fire you refused to extinguish. The way your eyes shone despite the threat of tears you would not let fall.
You felt it like a violation. Like hands stripping dignity without ever touching skin.
Edward felt it too.
His rage sharpened into intent so focused it frightened even you.
Sommers noticed instantly and swore under his breath, bitter and sharp. “Tch. Fucking called it.”
Garling stepped closer.
Each footfall was measured, unhurried. Rubble crunched beneath his boots. His eyes never left you, never softened, never blinked.
Up close, his scrutiny became worse, only separated thanks to Sommer’s, whose grip tightened, and whose thorns dug in.
He studied your face like a collector examining a relic he intended to lock away. The symmetry. The defiance in your eyes. The fury you refused to hide. Whatever he had expected from a Kuja, you surpassed it, and the realization pleased him in a way that made his mouth curve faintly.
Not a smile.
A decision.
“…So,” he said at last, voice low, thoughtful.
Judgment settled heavily in the air.
“This,” he continued, eyes flicking briefly toward Sommers before returning to you, “is what stopped you.”
Something dark and proprietary settled into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. The irritation he had arrived with curdled into approval, then into something far uglier. You saw it clearly, the moment your value replaced his anger.
Behind him, Manmeyer shifted, unease creeping into her posture. Sommers’ jaw clenched, resentment flickering hot and uncontrolled.
Edward’s rage was immediate, feral.
Garling did not look away from you as he spoke again, his voice calm in the way only cruel men ever managed.
“No wonder you lost focus.”
The words slid over you like oil.
You bristled under the scrutiny, spine straightening on instinct. If he expected fear, submission, or gratitude, he received none of it. You met his stare head-on, jaw set, eyes hard, already filing him away as just another self-important bastard wrapped in violet and crimson who thought authority made him untouchable.
Manmeyer shifted behind you, unease creeping into her posture. “I found her,” she said quickly. “I was going to bring her to you.”
Garling did not spare her a glance.
“Of course you were,” he replied coolly, eyes still fixed on you. “How fortunate, then, that I arrived before Sommers could con his way into a woman he does not deserve.”
Sommers’ composure cracked. He exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding through. “Come on, Garling, that’s unfair. Let’s talk this over and regroup—The other Kuja can’t be far. You and Manmeyer can go get her, but leave this one to me.”
Garling’s eyes sharpened, something venomous igniting behind them. The shift was subtle but unmistakable, like a blade sliding free of its sheath.
“Do not,” he said flatly, every syllable clipped and lethal, “reach for prizes you have failed to achieve.”
Sommers stiffened, lips thinning. Manmeyer went silent.
Garling finally turned his head just enough to acknowledge Sommers, contempt etched cleanly across his features. “You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m letting you run off with this creature. You will not insult my win by trying to trick me into chasing a lost woman while you make off with something even better.”
His gaze slid back to you, waving.
“This one is not a mere consolation,” he continued, voice low and assured. “She is an upgrade. Younger, more trainable. More years to bear children. More lush.”
The revulsion that surged through you was immediate and visceral, not because of what he said, but because of how certain he was that his judgment mattered.
Sommers’ fingers curled at his sides. “You can’t just take her! She wasn’t the Grand Prize, and I called dibs first.”
Garling’s mouth curved faintly, humorless and cold.
“I can,” he replied. “And I am.”
Sommers’ jaw clenched. “Just because you’re the commander doesn‘t mean you just get to claim what you want—”
“You were careless,” Garling snapped, cutting between you and Sommers, making the other man step back. “And now you are wasting time trying to compensate.” He stepped fully into Sommers’ space, presence crushing. “You do not get to claim prizes without winning them first. And before these pirates arrived, I was in the lead. I didn’t need my title to be superior to you.”
Then, without warning, his attention returned to you.
Slower this time. He studied your face with new intent, not irritation but calculation.
“This one is now mine,” Garling said quietly.
The words landed like a brand.
His smirk grew as he reached for your face, thumb pressing against your lower lip with proprietary familiarity. The touch was light. Testing. As if he were already accustomed to your mouth belonging beneath his hand.
The bond screamed.
You snarled and snapped forward, teeth grazing skin. He withdrew just in time, more amused than alarmed, studying you the way one might an unruly animal that still showed promise.
He huffed softly, almost fondly.
“Easy,” he murmured. “If you do not want to be punished, be good.” His gaze never left your face. “I can promise I am a much more reasonable master than Sommers.”
The word master echoed through the bond like an insult carved into stone.
Edward’s fury surged, hot and absolute, so strong it made your vision blur for half a second.
You growled low in your throat, every instinct screaming violence. There was no world in which you would ever bend to a man like this. Arrogant. Vain. Certain that the universe existed to reward him.
Even without the bond, even without Edward, you would rather die.
After another heartbeat, Garling straightened as though the matter were already settled. He turned back toward his subordinates, dismissing you with the same casual finality he might give a conquered territory.
“Get back to your posts,” he said coolly. “Both of you. Now.”
Manmeyer snapped to attention at once, saluted, and retreated without a word; whatever enthusiasm she once had burned clean away.
Sommers lingered.
His eyes slid back to you, resentment and hunger warring openly across his face. His jaw worked as if he wanted to argue, to reach for you one last time.
“Tch,” he muttered. “Asshole.”
Garling did not even look at him.
Sommers obeyed.
The vines unraveled at last, thorns retracting and sinking back into the ground, leaving you standing free. Truly free.
When the smoke swallowed them both, the battlefield rushed back into focus. Cannons thundered. Stone cracked. Men screamed somewhere beyond the haze.
You flexed your hand slowly, feeling blood return to your fingers, reassessing your options with ruthless clarity.
Garling turned back to you.
The way he looked at you now was not rushed. It was patient. Like a hunter who had already decided the chase would be short.
Edward’s presence loomed behind your thoughts, vast and coiled.
“So, pretty thing,” he said, adjusting his gloves, one hand resting casually on his sword hilt, “will you need to be dragged, or will you come willingly?”
His mouth curved into a lazy grin. Handsome, if one ignored the cruelty behind it.
“I know women like you,” he continued lightly. “You like to fight a little. To pretend you can change the inevitable.” His eyes flicked briefly to the ruined street around you. “But if you misbehave, I will simply breed you here instead of my bed.”
You squared your stance and did not look away.
Your legs still trembled. Your skin burned where vines and hands had pressed too long. Smoke stung your eyes, and blood slid warm down your calf. But you stood.
Edward’s presence pressed against your mind, vast and lethal, a storm barely leashed.
“Fight!”
The word anchored you. Not comfort. Command. The kind meant to keep you alive long enough for him to arrive.
Garling watched you with open interest.
The grin that spread across his face was slow, indulgent, and deeply wrong. It was the expression of a man who enjoyed resistance not because it challenged him, but because it justified what he intended to do next.
“Good,” he murmured. “I was hoping you would run.”
He moved.
Not fast.
Certain.
The world tilted as pressure slammed into you. His hand caught your arm before you could fully react, fingers like iron closing around your wrist. Pain flared as he twisted, forcing you to stumble. You struck at him with everything you had. Nails. Teeth. Elbow. Knee.
It did not matter.
Your blows landed. You felt them connect.
He didn’t even flinch.
Garling caught your second wrist easily, turning you and slamming you back against a shattered wall. Stone cracked behind your shoulders. The impact rattled your teeth. You gasped, breath driven from your lungs.
Edward’s presence roared.
Garling leaned in, his face close enough that you could smell smoke and steel and something sharp and clean beneath it all. He was smiling.
“Violent,” he observed pleasantly. “Good breeding. Kuja women always are.”
You thrashed. You fought like an animal with its leg in a trap. You kicked at his knees, raked your nails across his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
That earned you a laugh.
A short, delighted sound.
His grip tightened. Not frantic. Controlled. He forced your arms above your head with humiliating ease, pinning you there. His knee pressed between your thighs, not roughly, just enough to immobilize you.
You felt very small.
Very owned.
Edward’s fury shook the bond so violently that your vision blurred.
It was not loud. It was not wild. It was the kind of restrained, monumental rage that bent the world around it. You felt it like pressure on your lungs, like the ocean pulling back before a wave meant to erase coastlines.
Garling tilted his head, studying your face with mild, almost bored disappointment.
“You are going to ruin yourself fighting this,” he said calmly. “Then what use would you have?”
The words landed perfectly.
If every man you had ever met had gathered together with the sole intent of wounding you, they could not have chosen a sharper blade.
Use.
Not you. Not your will. Not your life.
Your usefulness.
It slid straight into every old fear you carried. Every lesson learned too young—every moment you had been praised for beauty before anything else. Every time softness had been mistaken for permission. Every time survival had depended on being desirable enough not to be discarded.
It hollowed you out.
Your heart began to pound so hard it hurt, each beat thudding painfully against your ribs. Tears spilled before you could stop them, hot and humiliating, cutting tracks through soot and blood on your cheeks.
Edward felt it all.
The bond strained, his presence surging forward with raw, aching desperation.
“You are not—”
Garling’s smile widened when he saw the tears.
Not softened. Not regretful.
Pleased.
That was the moment something in you broke clean through.
But his cruel words carried one small, unintended mercy.
They gave you an idea.
It arrived fully formed, sharp and terrible and beautiful in its finality. So painfully audacious that you almost laughed at it even as your chest seized with grief. A solution that would solve everything forever.
No more being hunted.
No more being evaluated.
No more being claimed.
It would also turn you into exactly what you had taught yourself to fear most.
Your gaze flicked sideways.
Fire.
A collapsed building burned nearby, flames licking hungrily at broken beams slick with spilled oil. Heat rolled off it in suffocating waves, drying the tears on your face almost instantly. Sparks leapt and danced through the smoke like cruel little stars.
It was close enough.
Close enough to end this.
Edward felt the thought form.
“No!”
Your breath hitched, chest tight with grief so deep it felt like mourning yourself. The girl you had been. The body you had learned to protect and hide and barter with the world. The part of you that had survived by being wanted.
Edward’s presence wrapped around you, frantic now, shaking for the first time.
“Please.”
The word hit you like a fist in the chest.
Garling followed your gaze. Understanding dawned instantly.
His smile sharpened.
“Oh,” he said softly. “That will not do.”
He shifted his weight to stop you.
You moved anyway.
You wrenched your arm free by tearing skin. Pain exploded white-hot up your side. You screamed and twisted, throwing your full weight sideways and backward.
Garling swore as his grip slipped.
You did not hesitate.
You ran.
Not away.
Toward the fire.
Edward’s presence slammed against your mind, raw panic tearing through the bond.
“Stop! Please!”
You leapt.
Heat engulfed you instantly. The world became pain and smoke and roaring sound. Fire kissed your skin, savage and unforgiving. Your hair caught first, the smell acrid and horrifying. Cloth ignited. You screamed as flames licked across your shoulder and down your side.
Agony tore through you, blinding and absolute.
You hit the ground hard and rolled, instinct screaming louder than thought.
Flames clung to you greedily. They licked along your hair, your shoulder, your side, hungry and alive. Heat swallowed you whole. Your hands flew up on reflex, and you beat at the fire, palms slapping frantically at burning cloth and skin. Blisters rose almost instantly, skin screaming as it split and curled. The smell was unbearable. Burned fabric. Burned flesh.
Your breath tore out of you in ragged sobs that barely sounded human.
You screamed until your throat shredded and the sound broke into wet, choking gasps. You rolled again and again across stone and debris, trying to smother the flames, trying to disappear inside the pain because it was the only thing louder than fear.
Hands seized you.
Garling dragged you free moments later, hauling you away from the fire with brutal strength. He did not cradle you. He did not hesitate. He ripped you from the flames like someone pulling refuse from a hearth and hurled you across the street.
You struck the stone hard.
Your body bounced once and collapsed.
Smoke poured off you in thick, choking waves. Your skin burned so badly it felt cold, numb at the edges, and screaming beneath. Your vision swam, blotched with black and red. Every inhale felt like broken glass dragged through your lungs.
Your beauty was gone.
Scorched.
Marred.
Ruined.
The realization settled with strange clarity.
And you laughed.
The sound clawed its way out of you, broken and hysterical, half sob and half scream, too loud and too raw to be sane. Tears streamed down your face, evaporating as they touched burned skin. Your chest shook with it, pain and relief tangling so tightly you could not tell them apart.
Edward’s presence crashed into you fully then.
Not a distant pressure. Not a restrained promise.
He hit the bond like a collapsing mountain.
Fury. Horror. Grief. Love so violent it hurt.
It slammed through you so hard your consciousness wavered, the world tilting as if the ground itself had dropped away beneath your feet.
Garling roared.
The sound was animal. Rage stripped bare.
“Why?” he bellowed. “Why, you stupid thing!”
Your thoughts barely held together. Pain chewed at the edges of everything. Your body felt shattered, wrong, no longer entirely yours.
But the answer burned bright and simple inside you, untouched by agony.
Because you would rather die.
Garling stared down at you.
For the first time since he had laid eyes on you, his expression was not indulgent.
It was furious.
His gaze dragged over the damage slowly, unwillingly. The burns crawling up your side. The blistered skin. The places where smooth lines had warped and split and blackened. The ruin of something he had already claimed in his mind.
His jaw tightened. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“You foolish, wasteful creature,” he snarled. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”
You dragged in a shaking breath. It scraped through you, pain screaming with every inch of air. Your vision swam again, but you forced it to clear.
You looked up at him through tears and smoke and blood.
And you smiled.
It hurt. Everything hurt. The movement cracked something inside your chest and sent fire racing through your nerves.
But you smiled anyway.
“Admire me still,” you rasped, your voice shredded and shaking, pain boiling over into something vicious. “Go ahead. Take me now.”
Your smile widened, feral and broken.
For a heartbeat, Garling only stared.
Something in his expression snapped.
Not desire. Not calculation.
Offense.
Your defiance did not frighten him. It enraged him. You had taken what he valued and destroyed it yourself. You had robbed him of ownership, of victory, of the satisfaction of breaking you on his terms.
And that, to a man like him, was unforgivable.
His face went cold.
“Disgusting,” he said quietly.
You barely had time to register the shift in his posture before steel flashed.
The impact came like thunder.
Not pain at first. Just force. A brutal, final pressure that drove the breath from your lungs and knocked the world sideways. You felt yourself lifted, pinned, suspended for a terrible, unreal moment.
Garling’s sword had gone straight through you.
Right through the place he had spoken of so casually, right through the future he had claimed as his to take.
Your body jerked once, reflexive and helpless.
Then everything slowed.
The battlefield noise dulled, as if cotton had been packed into your ears. Smoke drifted lazily overhead. Ash fell like snow. You could not feel your legs anymore. You could barely feel anything at all.
Garling leaned closer, his voice low and vicious.
“If I cannot have you,” he murmured, “then you are nothing.”
He wrenched the blade free.
Your body folded instantly, strength vanishing as if it had never existed. Stone rushed up to meet you. You struck the ground hard, the impact distant and dull, as if it happened to someone else.
The sky fractured into smoke and fire above you.
The bond did not strain.
It ruptured.
The world answered him.
Stone and debris exploded outward as Edward Newgate tore through the ruined street like a living calamity. The air cracked around him, pressure bowing the battlefield itself as if it recognized something older and far more dangerous had arrived.
Garling barely had time to turn.
Edward hit him.
The impact sounded like a mountain breaking.
Garling was driven backward through shattered stone, his body skidding violently across the ground. Edward was on him instantly, moving with terrifying speed for something so massive. His fist came down like judgment incarnate, splitting the street where Garling’s head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Steel rang as Garling barely brought his sword up in time.
The clash sent a shockwave ripping through the area, tossing rubble and bodies alike. Fire guttered. Smoke screamed skyward.
Edward did not speak.
He did not roar.
He advanced in absolute silence, his fury so complete it no longer needed sound.
Garling recovered quickly, rolling to his feet, teeth bared in something close to disbelief. He met Edward’s next strike head-on, blade flashing, power answering power. The ground beneath them shattered with every exchange, cracks racing outward like lightning.
Edward drove him back again and again.
Every blow carried one word through the bond, ragged and breaking.
“STAY!”
You did not see any of it.
Your vision had already begun to dim, edges darkening as the pain dulled into something far away. The sounds of battle blurred together, thunder muffled by distance and blood loss. Heat faded. Cold crept in.
Edward reached for you through the chaos, his presence frantic now, stripped bare of restraint.
“STAY AWAKE!”
Your body did not respond.
The last thing you felt was the ground trembling beneath you as Edward struck again, the island itself seeming to recoil from his rage.
Then the bond softened.
Not gone.
But fading.
Darkness closed gently over your vision, merciful and complete, as consciousness finally slipped away.
-X-
Consciousness returned to you in fragments.
First, pain.
It was everywhere, layered and distant, as if your body had been wrapped in fire and then submerged in ice. The burns throbbed in slow, nauseating pulses along your side and shoulder. Deeper than that, sharper and heavier, was the wound in your abdomen, a constant, aching pressure that made every breath feel measured and deliberate.
You realized dimly that it should hurt more.
That knowledge came with the taste of bitterness at the back of your tongue and the heavy fog in your head. Medicine. A lot of it. Enough to keep you from screaming.
The next thing you noticed was motion.
A gentle sway, rhythmic and familiar. Wood creaking softly. Canvas whispering somewhere above you.
A ship.
Your lashes fluttered. Light stabbed behind your eyes, and you winced, a weak sound slipping out before you could stop it.
“Easy.”
The voice was rough. Hoarse. Like it had been torn raw and never given time to heal. Like it was responding to your every whimper, and had given up expecting anything, but still trying to provide comfort.
Your eyes cracked open.
Edward was there.
He sat beside your bunk, massive frame folded inward in a way that looked wrong on him, shoulders hunched, elbows braced on his knees. He looked like he had not slept in days. Deep shadows hollowed his eyes. His hair was greasy and dull with salt and ash. His hands were bandaged, knuckles split and scabbed.
And his chest.
Your breath hitched painfully.
His coat hung open, forgotten, and beneath it his bare chest was wrapped in linen. Dark red had bled through in places, old and fresh layered together. A long, brutal scar cut across him beneath the bandages, still angry and new, a wound that had not yet decided how it wanted to heal.
Your gaze lingered there, horror blooming slowly through the haze.
Edward noticed.
He startled like a man woken from a nightmare.
His head snapped up. His entire body went rigid, breath catching hard enough that you could hear it. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you, eyes wide and unguarded, like he did not trust what he was seeing.
Then his chair scraped violently as he surged to his feet.
“You’re—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard and tried again. “You’re awake.”
One massive hand hovered over you, shaking, unsure where to land. He looked terrified of touching you, of hurting you again by accident. His jaw worked, teeth grinding together as he fought to keep himself steady.
“I thought—” He stopped himself sharply, breath shuddering. “The doctor said you might not for days. Maybe longer. Maye nev—”
He cut himself off with a sob.
The bond stirred weakly, a familiar presence pressing close, no longer raging, just aching. Exhaustion poured off him through it, thick and heavy. Fear still clung underneath, raw and unprocessed.
He looked down at you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked. Using more feeling than words, you asked your next question.
“Shakky’s safe,” he said, too quickly, the words tumbling over one another as if speed could keep them true. “On a ship, five days out of God Valley and… and no one will touch you again. I swear it.”
Your throat burned when you tried to answer him. The effort scraped raw against swollen flesh and bandages, and all that escaped was a thin, broken sound.
Edward noticed immediately.
“Hey. No.” He was at your side in an instant, panic flashing across his face before he mastered it. He slid an arm beneath your shoulders just enough to ease your breathing, moving with impossible care, as though you were made of glass and pain. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to.”
His hand settled over yours on the blanket at last. Warm. Trembling.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice thick and uneven. “I’ve got you. Just… just stay with me.”
Darkness pulled you under again, heavy and merciful.
The days that followed blurred together.
You surfaced and sank. Surfaced and sank again.
Sometimes you woke to pain, distant and dulled by medicine, your body aching in ways that made it feel foreign. Sometimes you woke to voices. The creak of the ship. The soft lap of waves against the hull.
Edward was always there.
Every time your eyes cracked open, he was close enough that you could feel him through the bond, an unyielding presence wrapped tight around you. Sometimes he sat beside your bed, massive hands folded together, eyes never leaving your face. Sometimes he leaned forward, forehead resting against the bedframe, breath slow and controlled like he was counting it.
It seemed like he slept in the chair, if at all.
Once, through the fog, you saw a flash of pale blond hair near the doorway and heard a low voice muttering something sharp and concerned. Another time, a woman’s voice followed, calm and steady, giving instructions, adjusting bandages, pressing a cool hand to your skin that smelled faintly of antiseptic and herbs.
Edward never moved far.
He only shifted enough to make room.
You drifted again.
When you finally woke properly, the world stayed.
The haze had thinned. The pain was still there, but it was no longer overwhelming, no longer threatening to drag you back under. Your head felt clearer. Heavy, but clearer.
You breathed in slowly.
The air smelled like salt and clean linen and medicine.
The cabin was brighter than before, sunlight slanting in through a small window. You turned your head carefully and took stock of yourself. Bandages wrapped your torso and side, thick and secure. Your burns were covered, tended, and no longer raw. The ache in your abdomen was still sharp, but it felt contained now, controlled.
You were alive.
“Look at that,” a cheerful voice said. “She’s actually looking at things instead of trying to die on us.”
You startled, then winced at the movement.
A blond man stood near the foot of the bunk, leaning casually against the wall. He had a broad smile, laugh lines carved deep into his face, and the relaxed posture of someone very comfortable on a ship that belonged to him. Beside him stood a woman with dark hair pulled back tightly, eyes sharp and assessing, hands folded loosely but ready.
“You’re awake!” the woman said, stepping closer.
Her voice was warm but practical, the tone of someone used to injured bodies and frightened people. She moved with easy confidence, not rushing you, not crowding your space. Up close, you noticed faint scars on her hands and the smell of clean herbs and antiseptic clinging to her clothes.
“Good,” she continued with a small nod of approval. “That’s very good. I’m Marlana.”
She tipped her chin toward the man lounging nearby.
“That’s Polo. Captain of this floating mess.”
Polo’s grin widened immediately, unabashed and bright. He spread his hands as if presenting the ship itself. “Polo Pirates, at your service. Though,” he added, glancing around the cabin with a crooked smile, “mostly we’ve been serving as an emergency hospital lately.”
Marlana shot him a look, then winked at you. “And doing a damn fine job of it, if I do say so myself.”
She leaned one hip against the edge of the bunk, lowering herself slightly so she was closer to eye level. Her gaze softened as she studied your face, careful and assessing without being invasive.
“We may have convinced your rather tall husband to come with us,” she said lightly, though there was an edge of seriousness beneath it. “We needed a clean ship and supplies to treat you properly. He did not argue much.”
Polo snorted. “That’s generous. He argued exactly once, and it wasn’t with words.”
Marlana chuckled. “True. But he came anyway. Seems like a good fellow to have on a ship.” Her smile tilted into something fond. “And he was about to lose his mind when we found both of you. You must have been right in the middle of the fight when it all went down.”
Memory shifted slowly into place.
Smoke. Fire. Steel. The God’s Knights. The blade. That terrible choice.
Edward.
Your chest tightened painfully as your thoughts brushed against his presence, still close, still vigilant, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
You swallowed. Your throat burned, but you forced the words out anyway, voice quiet and hoarse.
“Thank you.”
Marlana’s expression softened immediately, the professional distance giving way to something gentler.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “You scared us pretty good.”
Then she smiled, small and knowing.
“But you scared the big guy even worse.”
Polo’s grin turned downright mischievous. “Never seen a man that big cry before,” he added cheerfully. “Thought the ship might spring a leak just from him pacing.”
Marlana laughed under her breath. “He never left your side. Not once. Even when I threatened to sedate him.”
She did not need to say who.
You felt it anyway, the truth of it settling warm and heavy in your chest, threading through the pain and exhaustion with something dangerously close to comfort.
As if summoned by the thought, the door banged open.
Edward burst into the cabin.
He was shirtless, long blonde hair wet and dripping down his shoulders, skin still damp from a bath he very clearly had not finished. A towel hung half-forgotten around his neck. He froze mid-step the instant he saw your eyes open.
The bond flared.
Sharp. Bright. Relieved.
“You’re awake,” he breathed, the words tearing out of him like he had been holding them in for days.
He crossed the room in two long strides and then stopped himself just short of the bed, momentum arrested by sheer will. His hands hovered uselessly in the air, fingers flexing once, twice, like he was still afraid that touching you might somehow undo the fragile fact of you being here.
Polo snorted softly. “Didn’t even bother drying off,” he said, eyeing the water still dripping from Edward’s hair onto the floorboards. “You should take care of yourself, too, you know.”
Marlana shook her head, amused, arms folding loosely over her chest. “We can take care of your girl just fine. I told you not to run with soap still in your hair.”
Edward glanced down at himself, clearly only just realizing he was half-damp and faintly ridiculous. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.
Then it vanished.
Because his eyes were locked on you.
They were bright. Too bright. Ringed with exhaustion so deep it looked carved in. There was something fragile in his expression now, stretched tight beneath all that strength, like a fault line running through stone.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly.
Not a question. A confirmation he needed to hear out loud.
You nodded, the motion small and careful, pain flickering faintly through your side.
“Hi, Eddie.”
That did it.
His shoulders sagged as if someone had cut the strings holding him upright. He exhaled hard, the sound shuddering out of him, and dragged a hand down his face. Soap smeared across his cheek, white against weathered skin, and he did not even notice.
Polo clapped his hands together once, sharp and decisive. “All right. Reunions are great and all, but she’s stable, not invincible. We’ll give you two a minute, then I want her resting. Doctor’s orders.”
Marlana nodded firmly, already halfway into her professional voice. “No heroics. No emotional overload. And absolutely no moving her without help.”
Edward nodded immediately, the motion almost comically obedient for a man of his size. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”
Polo flashed you a grin as he ushered his wife toward the door. “Take it easy,” he said. “You really made one hell of a comeback.”
The door closed softly behind them, shutting out the world and leaving only the quiet creak of the ship and the steady rhythm of the sea.
Edward finally sat down beside you.
He did it carefully, deliberately, like every movement had been rehearsed a hundred times in his head. The bunk dipped slightly under his weight. He reached for your hand again, slower this time, giving you all the space in the world to pull away if you wanted.
When you did not, when your fingers shifted weakly to meet his, he laced them together gently, reverently, as if the contact itself were something sacred.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, a tentative, grounding motion, like he was reassuring himself that you were solid. Real.
He bowed his head a fraction, massive shoulders curling inward, posture collapsing into something painfully human. For a moment, he looked like a man in prayer. Or confession.
“I thought I lost you,” he said quietly. His voice was rough, stripped bare of bravado or strength. “I don’t think… I don’t think I could have lived with that.”
The bond hummed softly between you, no longer frantic or blazing, just present. Steady. A shared pulse. Proof of survival.
You swallowed, throat still raw, and shifted your fingers weakly in his grasp.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
The reaction was immediate.
Edward’s head snapped up, eyes sharp and wounded all at once.
“No,” he said at once, the word heavy and absolute. “Don’t. Don’t thank me.”
His grip tightened just enough to tremble. Not painful. Unsteady.
“I failed you,” he went on, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it even. “I was there. I was close. And still he touched you. Still, he hurt you.” His jaw clenched hard enough that you could hear his teeth grind. “I should have been faster. Stronger. I should have—”
“Eddie,” you murmured, trying to interrupt him.
He shook his head, eyes burning. “You almost died because I wasn’t fast enough.”
The guilt rolled off him through the bond in suffocating waves. Heavy. Crushing. Like he had been carrying it every second since God Valley, letting it hollow him out from the inside.
You drew in a careful breath, pain flaring, and then forced a weak, crooked smile.
“Well,” you said hoarsely, attempting lightness where there was none, “look on the bright side.”
He stilled, confusion flickering across his face.
“If I make it,” you continued, voice dry despite the tremor in it, “I’m going to be a real ragdoll. Burns here, scars there. Patchwork edition.”
You lifted your free hand slightly, as if gesturing vaguely to your body. “Very intimidating. Very… post-war aesthetic.”
For a heartbeat, he just stared at you.
Then something in him broke completely.
His face twisted, pain cracking straight through the control he had been clinging to by sheer will. A sound tore out of his chest, raw and broken, and suddenly he was sobbing.
Not quietly.
Not politely.
Great, heaving sobs that shook his entire frame.
Edward bent forward abruptly, one hand flying up to cover his face, shoulders trembling violently as years of restraint and terror finally spilled over. His other hand never let go of yours. It clutched you like an anchor, like the only thing keeping him from coming apart entirely.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words barely intelligible. “I’m so sorry. I should never have said what I did; I should have never been such an egotistical coward—I should have been honest, because then at least you wouldn’t have to joke about surviving. You shouldn’t have had to choose pain over being taken. You shouldn’t—”
He broke off again, breath hitching, forehead dropping until it pressed against the edge of the bunk.
“I should have never doubted how beautiful you are.”
The bond pulsed, aching and intimate, flooding you with everything he could not say.
The moment he found you, burned, bleeding, and not moving.
The terror of feeling you slip away through the bond, the way your presence had gone thin and fragile like mist at dawn. The blade flashing. The fire roaring. The certainty, over and over, that he was too late.
It all pressed into you at once.
You squeezed his hand as best you could, fingers weak but determined.
“I’m…” you whispered. Your voice was thin, scraped raw by pain and smoke and tears, but you forced it steady. “I’m not going to be beautiful. Not with these burns. But I chose it. It’s not—”
His sobs hitched violently.
“I’ll be okay,” you hurried, panic threading through your words now. “I really will. Still friends, okay?”
The word hung between you.
Friends.
Edward’s breath stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The bond went very still.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
His face was wrecked. Eyes red and swollen. Tears streaking unchecked down his cheeks. His mouth parted like he was trying to understand a language he had never heard before.
“…Friends?” he repeated hoarsely.
You nodded faintly, trying to smile through the pain. “You don’t have to feel bad. I get it. I won’t look the same. And you didn’t sign up for…” You gestured weakly at yourself. “All this. I just don’t want things to be awkward. I don’t want to lose you.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared.
Then something inside him broke in an entirely different way.
“No,” he said.
The word came out sharp. Immediate.
“No. Stop.”
He straightened abruptly, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand as if it offended him to be crying when something this important was happening. His voice shook, but there was heat in it now. Urgency.
“You think I care only about your face?” he demanded softly, incredulous. “You think that was it?”
He laughed once, short and broken, and the sound cracked straight through your chest.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning closer, careful of your injuries but fierce all the same. His big hands trembled as he held yours. “I loved the way you stood in front of monsters like you were daring them to try. I loved the way you argued with me, even when you were scared. I loved the way you chose your own damn ending when a man tried to make you property.”
His voice thickened again.
“I loved you when you were covered in ash and blood and still looked him in the eye and smiled,” he said. “And I love you now. Right now. Burned, hurting, alive.”
The bond surged, fierce and undeniable.
“But…” you whispered, confusion and grief tangling together. “I thought you’d… I thought you’d see me and—”
“I see you,” he said immediately. “And that’s the problem.”
His voice dropped.
“Because now I can see how much you gave. How much you endured. How much you were willing to lose to respect yourself!”
He swallowed hard.
“And I don’t deserve someone so beautiful.”
The admission hit harder than any declaration.
He bowed his head again, but this time it was not from guilt alone. It was reverence. Shame. Awe.
“I messed up. So much so that you thought I only came because you were beautiful, and that would stop loving you because you got hurt,” he said quietly. “But all I can see is that you loved yourself enough to choose freedom, and I didn’t love you enough to see everything until it was almost too late.”
His grip tightened around your hand, careful but desperate.
“You don’t owe me beauty,” he said. “You don’t owe me softness. You don’t owe anyone your beauty, especially not me.”
His voice broke again.
“But I owe you, because you always saw my worth, even when it hurt you. And you chose to protect my feelings over forcing them, and left to do so.”
The bond settled, heavy and warm, no longer screaming. Just truth, laid bare between you. And for the first time since you woke up, the pain in your chest was not from the burns.
It was from being seen.
“Eddie…”
Slowly, carefully, Edward leaned closer, resting his forehead against your knuckles, tears soaking into the blanket. His breath shuddered again and again, grief and love tangled so tightly they were indistinguishable.
“I swear,” he whispered, broken and incandescent with it, “no one will ever make you choose like that again. Not as long as I breathe.”
The bond answered with quiet certainty.
And for the first time since the fire, since the blade, since everything shattered, you finally believed him.
I need like a sickfic of Athena and a teenaged Ody where Athena makes in train in the rain or something and he gets sick from it.
Ohhhhmygod you are speaking MY language. You are so right.
Ksssshhh…
Athena knew the importance of rain. Life-giving, crop-watering, so on and so forth. She would never curse or delay it. But when it came to war, to training?
It was a nuisance, all things considered. It limited visibility, made mortals sluggish and hesitant to act.
And yet, it was inevitable, including in times of war. So warriors in training had to learn to handle it.
Odysseus stood before her, and Athena would be lying if she said the image of her protege looking like a wet cat didn’t bring her some amusement.
“Tilt your head so the rain does not blind you,” she reminded, suddenly sweeping her staff towards Odysseus to test his grip. It just barely stayed in his hands as he clutched it tighter.
Athena watched him shake the hair out of his eyes- she wasn’t sure why that was necessary, he had rather short hair right now, it couldn’t be bothering him that much. Athena’s long braid was not actually wet, but it wasn’t dry either- with her divinity chasing away the indignity and impracticality of being soaked.
“Guard up. Let’s try this again.”
Athena lunged forward and swept at his feet, which Odysseus nimbly dodged- only for his foot to get sucked in by a patch of mud he should have known to avoid. She did not give him time to free himself, only advancing.
Odysseus ducked under her next swing, and lashed his own across her calves- he managed to graze her, and the smallest glimmer of gold dripped from her left ankle before it sealed up again. But for a mortal, that was a decent wound to distract and harm, perhaps cripple if pushed a bit deeper. Not quite efficient when the goal was to guide Atropos’ scissors to the thread of your enemy, but effective as far as non-lethal blows went.
Odysseus yanked his foot out of the mud patch and advanced on her- and it was in that slight pause of indecision that Athena noticed the small tremble of his chest. A small irregularity in breathing.
“Control your breaths,” she reminded him sharply, as she aimed another jab at his midsection. He was slower to respond, jerkily evading the blow like a puppet with its strings yanked backwards.
The match went on for a while, until Athena finally trapped him over that same patch- really, Odysseus- and his weapon sank into the mud itself. Odysseus raised his hands in surrender. As his chest heaved, Athena noticed that the rise and fall were still uneven.
If Odysseus noticed this, which she was sure he did, he did not betray it- but his tone was strained as he pushed out, “Water break?”
Athena didn’t know why he would need one with all this water around, but she’d learned not so long ago that it was better to allow a short break, at least once an hour, and more on hot days. “Yes, quickly.”
Odysseus wasted no time darting off towards the grove of trees nearby where he kept his waterskin, snatching it up and guzzling half the contents. He choked on it halfway through, sputtering through a cough. Water dripped down his face from the rain and from the corners of his mouth; he looked like a wet dog.
Rustling in the nearby foliage turned Athena’s head.
Two other teenage boys- as if dealing with one wasn't enough- the steady beat of the rain echoed off the large shield Eurylochus was using to keep somewhat dry. Polites, as well, was sharing in the protection by staying close. Odd, because Athena had assumed that they only came to join in on Odysseus’ training or watch when it was convenient to them. But this downpour made everything far from convenient. She quietly watched them from between the branches.
Odysseus didn’t seem to notice that the others had entered, now holding his waterskin out under the steady stream of a leaf deflecting the rain to refill it. His shoulders were hunched, and as Athena focused her hearing over the rain, she could discern that it was still raspy.
“Ody!” Polites left the safety of the shield to come to his side. Odysseus finally looked up; Athena silently tsked at his slip of inattentiveness.
“Guys! What-” Odysseus started to rise, only to stumble halfway through the motion. Polites pressed a hand to his chest to steady him, and it drew an ugly, hoarse sound out of Odysseus’ throat.
“Woah,” Polites murmured, patting her warrior on the back. “Athena really has you training in this, how long have you been out here?”
Eurylochus caught up to the two and nudged Polites as Odysseus shook his head. “Sunrise.”
“It’s been raining since before that! And it’s almost noon,” Eurylochus murmured, lowering his voice like he thought Athena wouldn't hear. The boy had a carrying voice, unfortunately for him. It might be good for giving orders someday.
Odysseus shrugged as he rubbed at his chest, hardly protesting as Polites pushed him into his spot under the shield and started wiping and wringing excess water from him, like that would help anything. Then he paused and felt the back of Odysseus’ neck- which did draw a reaction, a sharp inhale that turned into a sigh, into another cough.
“Ody, you’re cold as ice,” Polites murmured, leaning into Odysseus’ view over his shoulder. “And I don’t like the sound of that cough. Is the training over?”
Odysseus looked miserable as he shook his head.
Athena brushed off the image as easily as a raindrop and stepped forward into the little grove of trees; Eurylochus immediately blanched, but Polites did not move where he was nearly pressed to Odysseus’ back. Odysseus’ head, bowed to his chest, did not move.
“Pallas Athena,” Polites spoke respectfully, and she knew right away she wouldn’t like what he had to say. The boy had not even let go of his shoulder at the sight of Athena, clearly lacking respect. “Is it possible that Ody’s training could end early today? Exertion while cold and wet is rarely conducive for health.”
Athena looked over Odysseus. He was shivering, yes. He was cold, he was wet, he was utterly pathetic-looking. And he had been moving slower the past hour, his breath slower to catch. But generals of war pushed through little ailments and discomforts, and Athena was sure she hadn’t mistaken him as one. She was not being stubborn, she was preparing him for his future as a warrior of the mind, not a slave to his body. She shook her head. “He must learn to tolerate that. Release him; Odysseus does not need your assistance.” He could finish this fight by himself.
Polites opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by Odysseus’ shaky inhale. “N-no- it’s fine. I’m-”
He didn’t get much more out before his knees weakened and he sagged against Polites into his open arms, and Eurylochus dropped the shield to the side to help steady the prince. Athena thought for a moment that Odysseus had found himself friends to match his dramatics at inappropriate times, until she noticed that he seemed to actually be gasping for breath that wasn’t as heavy and thick with rain as the entire island’s air.
Athena stepped into the little grove as Odysseus collapsed against Polites’ chest and was in turn pulled against Eurylochus’ to better shelter him. With a flick of her wrist, she cast the same enchantment over him that shielded her from the rain’s deep-reaching chill. His clothes lightened, his hair lifted so it wasn’t flat against his scalp. And yet, Odysseus still shivered. Eurylochus and Polites stared at the sudden changes, and then turned their gaze to Athena.
Unconsciously, Athena found herself turning her head away. “Fine, if he’s determined not to be of use. Take him back to the palace.” It was fine for him to have proper reinforcements, on occasion. The strongest general could not turn the tide of the battle without resources or soldiers.
At her bid, Eurylochus hefted their fallen friend into his arms, and Polites took the shield with a grunt. With a bare-boned bow, they hurried off through the tree.
Long after they were gone, Athena noticed the waterskin had been left behind.
Nghah!
Sweating and shaking, Odysseus jerked half-up in bed, too fatigued and weak to fully jolt upright. A few gasps steadied his raspy breathing, but not the tremble of his body after the vivid, confusing dreams- something about warm blood and cold rain and a faint, woodsy scent.
Odysseus groaned and buried as deeply back into the sheets as he could make himself burrow, and let his eyes wander over his bedroom. The light was dawning on a new day, but he still felt as shit as he had yesterday; he could faintly recall the hazy pain and embarrassment of being carried home by Eurylochus, gods bless him- with Polites bobbing around and offering warm encouragement as warm as Eurylochus’ arms. He recalled nothing after the blurry view of the palace gates, so he must have fallen asleep.
Hwfoosh.
Odysseus startled, and interest lent him the strength to lift his boulder of a head again. The window of his bedroom had been opened, and there was something dark sitting on the windowsill that he did not recognize.
Ugh….
He would have loved to relax and forget about it, have whoever would inevitably check on him soon bring it to him to discover what it was.
But gods, the curiosity in him burned deep and stubborn.
Odysseus did not bother to stifle his groans of exhaustion as he painstakingly pulled himself out of bed, and wobbled his way to the window. The dark, blurry object gradually became clearer, until he realized he was looking at his waterskin.
Eh?
Odysseus last remembered drinking from it while training, and his throat itched just thinking of it- had that been yesterday, or last week’s drills? He didn’t remember bringing it back, but perhaps Polites or Eurylochus had picked it up for him and set it here.
Something brushed against the inside. Odysseus paused, shook it again. No, he’d heard that right. Not sloshing- something small and dense being rattled around inside. He unscrewed the thick top with trembling fingers and turned it over.
A small brown root fell into his palm. Odysseus puzzled over it for a moment, his sluggish mind thoroughly baffled. What was the purpose of this root, and how did this get in here? The top had been screwed on tight. And what was the sound he had-
Odysseus belatedly noticed the small brown feather sitting on the windowsill.
Athena?
Odysseus looked out of the window. He saw nothing, but the cool breeze on his face refreshed his thoughts.
Athena loved her clues and puzzles. He didn’t recognize this root, but it had been intentionally placed in his waterskin- meaning it was something to be drank. Brewed into a tea? Perhaps it was medicinal? Perhaps it was even a divine remedy?
Perhaps Athena felt guilty for Odysseus’ ailment.
Odysseus smiled dryly as he turned back towards his bed. I suppose I’ll see soon.
