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Pirithous
Twelve days. Pirithous snapped a branch from the tree, wishing for an axe. How could he build a proper temple without an axe? The edge on his sword would dull before he started, and the bronze blade was too brittle for the work of splitting wood in his state. He’d be more likely to break it than anything, and he could not hunt centaurs with only a knife.
Not that he need bother hunting them if Thalia was leaving. Let them roam. Let them come for him. He had no life here. Everyone he loved, everything he knew was dead. If they killed him, he would only return to Hades, and there was nothing more that the gods could do to him there that was worse than the chair. He could feast with the dead as a shade. Theseus would no doubt be pleased to see him after all this time. Perhaps Helen’s pale spirit would grant him forgiveness.
Twelve days! And she would go off to another land, leaving him with what? Strange bottles of odd-tasting water and dried strips of meat? He had spoken to her of marriage, and she had let him, knowing all along that she would leave. Witch. She had trapped him with the warmth of her eyes, and the slick heat of her body wrapped around his. He should have known. He should have realized she meant nothing by it. But how could he? She had been close to panic with concern for him twice-over. Why would she show such concern if she did not care for him as he did her?
He would have made her his queen. A thousand times over, he would have chosen her. He had thought she understood his intentions. That she came to him willingly, knowing and consenting. She had never refused him when he spoke of it. She had admitted that she liked him, in spite of herself, and a night and a day in her bed gave proof enough she desired him. He had given her as much pleasure as she had given him, offered her comfort when she wept. What more could she want? Did she expect him to beg for her? To follow after her without invitation, like some lovesick whelp? He would not do it. He was a king! He had already made fool enough of himself for her pleasure.
Aphrodite, save me. I do not understand her heart.
More likely the goddess had cursed him, still leading him upon the same doomed chase that had brought him to Hades seeking Persephone’s hand. The punishment of the gods, for breaking faith when he helped Theseus steal Helen. And more again, for turning Theseus against the gods as well.
For twelve days, he might have Thalia. For twelve days, he might know the love of her body, even if she would refuse him her heart. And then he would spend the rest of his life aching for her touch, dreaming of the warmth in her brown eyes and her teasing smile.
Ignorance or malice. He should have learned the truth before he let her seduce him into her bed. Did she only play with him?
No. He snapped another branch from the tree, working off his anger. Thalia may not be innocent, but she was not cruel. Even if she did not love him, she would not knowingly cause him pain. She did not want him to suffer. She did not want him hurt. She simply lived without thought for the future. That was why her brother protected her, why Nikki worried for her safety. That was all.
And he had known it from the start.
Pirithous stared at the branches he’d torn from the tree, jagged and broken. He had meant to split the wood and use them for an altar, but he did not have the tools even for that. He needed a sharp stone with a blunt end and some sort of club, at the least. He closed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Let her go, then. Let her go, where she could not be hurt by the centaurs or cursed by the gods for his sins. Let her go, before he loved her, and the gods took her from him out of spite. It would be safer that way, less painful for both of them.
Forgive me.
He did not know which god he prayed to, perhaps to all of them, but he hoped they listened. He hoped they would grant him that much.
***
THE STONE HE FOUND for a wedge was rough and the branch he used for a sledge even rougher, but he had managed to split the wood, taking comfort in the scrape of the bark against the cut on his palm and the sting of the blisters rising from the work. His body was soft from the years he had spent in Hades, and if he poured his blood into the altar, it would only strengthen his pledge to Persephone.
But the crack of the wood breaking wasn’t the only sound echoing through the trees. He paused, listening. A snap of twigs behind him. The stamp of a hoof. He reached for his sword, drawing it silently from its scabbard. A deer would not come so near with all the noise he was making.
The centaur bellowed, the sound answered by another, shriller cry. He spun and the centaur reared, forelegs snapping branches from the trees. Its pelt was matted and patchy, bark and leaves sticking in its mane. The beast landed with a thud, and Pirithous caught sight of his face for the first time.
One he knew even better than his own, so many times he had seen it in his nightmares. A scar ran across his cheek, from forelock to jaw, straight through to the shoulder. The result of a mortal wound, which Pirithous had given him, cleaving through the centaur’s skull in order to protect Hippodamia and his people—and that was one memory that had not been at all false, though the chair had twisted it, making Cyllarus’s death and Hippodamia’s attempted abduction all part of one gruesome battle. His blood hummed in his ears, and his eyes burned with fury.
“Cyllarus.” He crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet, sword in one hand and the crude sledge in the other. The filthy beast would not lay a hand on Thalia.
The centaur snorted, a shudder running through its body. “Butcher!”
And then he charged, swinging a club as large as any Heracles had ever wielded. But Pirithous stood strong, waiting with bent knees for the right moment. He could not hope to outrun the horse, but he could outmaneuver the man.
The beat of hooves against earth at his back made him glance behind, just for a moment, and he realized suddenly that he had not accounted for the answering cry. Another centaur, a female, raced toward them. Pirithous cursed, wishing for Theseus at his back even as he ducked beneath Cyllarus’s cudgel, his own blade slicing through the thick muscle of the foreleg. Cyllarus howled, stumbling but unable to stop his charge.
Father, protect me.
The female shrieked and Pirithous dodged behind a tree, a heartbeat too slow. White fire stung the point of his shoulder and a second arrow struck deep into the trunk. He leaned out just far enough to see where Cyllarus had landed in the deadfall and a third arrow scraped the skin off his nose.
“I will rip the heart from your chest, butcher!” He couldn’t see her, but he heard the beat of her hooves as she cantered from left to right, guarding her mate. “And your woman will not be fit even for the dogs before I am through with her. I will peel the hair from her head, just as your men collected ours! I will hunt her until my dying breath, that you might feel the pain you gave me at Cyllarus’s death.”
“Lay a hand upon her, and I will send you back to Hades in pieces!”
Cyllarus grunted; the crack of branches and rustle of leaves told him the other centaur had risen. Pirithous could only hope he would be lame in that front leg for some time. If he’d had a bow of his own, he might have finished them both and been done with it. Even if it had been Cyllarus alone, he could have killed at least one centaur today.
“Strong words for a man who hides even now behind a tree,” the female taunted. “But I would leave you living, so you might hear the girl’s screams as we skin her alive.”
He launched himself from behind the tree with a roar, the sledge raised for a shield as he charged toward the female. She reared, whether in surprise or fury mattered little to Pirithous, for it kept her from loosing her arrows, and then he was upon her, leaping up to bring his sword down in a slash that would cleave her from neck to navel.
“No!” Cyllarus threw himself in the path of the sword, knocking the female away. Pirithous’s blade lodged deep in the club, and Cyllarus swung it two handed, sending him into a tree hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Go, Hylonome!”
Pirithous tore his sword free, thanking Zeus he hadn’t lost his grip, and Cyllarus swung the club again. But they were both staggering now, Pirithous because the tree had knocked the breath from him, and Cyllarus lame in one leg. Pirithous ducked and brought his sword slicing upwards against the centaur’s human abdomen. The horse danced back, turning a mortal wound into a shallow scrape, and an arrow whistled past Pirithous’s ear.
He swore, and dove behind another tree. The next arrow caught him square in the shoulder before he found cover, and he was certain it had been aimed at his heart. The sledge dropped from his nerveless fingers as the pain struck. One-armed, he could not win. Not with arrows flying, and no shield.
“Come, Cyllarus! Quickly!” It was the female, calling to her mate, and Pirithous leaned around the trunk to see their retreat. Northwest.
Cyllarus could not do better than an awkward canter, but Hylonome guarded his hindquarters. A fleeing centaur had no defense for his backside, though standing still, a kick from that end could kill a man. Pirithous slumped down behind the tree.
Apollo, let these arrows be clean. Centaurs had a nasty habit of poison, but he did not know what poison they would have found in these woods, nor what he might use for a remedy if they had concocted some potion. He leaned out again, but saw only the hint of movement. The centaurs were gone, and Cyllarus would need time to heal. Perhaps it would be enough.
Pirithous collected what arrows he could find, resisting the urge to snap the one still in his shoulder. The less he need make for himself, the better, now. As it was, he would have to ask Thalia for her help until he healed.
Please, Apollo, let Cyllarus’s wound fester and protect me from fever.
He stumbled back through the trees toward the house. Thalia would not have heard the noise from inside. She would not be expecting him yet, but she would be hoping. That was her way. He smiled to himself, remembering the sight of her, eyes closed, her face pressed to the linens he’d slept in, desire swirling through her mind. Her mouth had tasted of wine when she kissed him, but not enough to turn her passion into regret. Just enough that she did not mention that it could not last, between them.
Hot blood trickled from around the arrow. But not too much. Nothing that would not heal, provided the wound was clean. He picked his pace up to a jog, though it jarred his shoulder. The sooner he reached Thalia, the sooner she could pull the shaft from his flesh and he might begin to heal. It would go fast, then, one way or the other. Faster than Cyllarus, thanks to his father’s blood.
Lord Apollo, grant me your blessing. Let me heal quickly.
Twelve days. That was all he needed. If the gods wished to take him after that, he would go consenting.