Who am I?
The steady beep of the heart monitor keeps time with machine-like precision. Each peak and valley coincides with her hope and despair. Although she knows that as long as the beeps are steady hope is sustained, it does nothing to soothe her pain. Nor does it absolve her of the guilt that clouds her ageless blue eyes.
I have searched the faces of the gods for answers but their ways are closed. Not even my patron deigns to commune with me.
She takes a deep breath and holds it until her lungs feel like they are going to burst, and then lets it out slowly, quietly, so as not to disturb him. Her left hand reflexively squeezes his right hand. It is a gentle, loving squeeze and she feels the faint beat of his pulse, and that is more real than any electronic noise the machine makes. Though his pulse is faint, hers quickens with hope. She can sense him fighting and her hope is tempered with helplessness for she knows there is nothing more she can do for him except remain strong.
I should never have come here. I should never have taken this fool's errand. Had I stayed where I belonged none of this would have happened and you would not be at Hades' gates.
Her thumb strokes the back of his hand, brushing the IV.
I'm sorry.
Her right hand reaches up and gently strokes his cheek, lingering on the black-blue-purple bruise that is but one reminder of his ordeal. She tries to keep her eyes on the bruise but they move of their own volition to the apparatus covering his nose and mouth, and the tube running down his throat. She cannot understand how he can still breathe, and her throat clutches as her gag reflex activates at the thought of one of those tubes shoved down her own throat.
Never.
Her eyes continue their trek to his swollen shut left eye and broken cheekbone, then to his head, which has been shaved so the doctors could alleviate the swelling of his brain and sew up his wounds. His other arm is in a cast that hides the steel pins holding the shattered bone together. The rest of his injuries are hidden beneath the sterile white covers of the hospital bed. She inhales, and the stench of the too-clean hospital fills her nostrils. She swallows and fights the urge to vomit. For a place of healing, the stink of death is everywhere.
A nurse comes into her peripheral vision on her left. She is young, perhaps early twenties, with honey blonde hair and deeply tanned skin. Her eyes are frightened and her steps hesitant, not wanting to disturb either the patient or his silent watcher. She checks the IV drip, makes a few adjustments, and then hesitantly meets her eyes. She knows the nurse wants to look away, wants to bolt like the hind, and she releases her after a short eternity, leaving the nurse to stutter-step out of the room and into the hallway where several others are waiting. She has ignored them until now.
"Well?" the doctor asks.
"No change," the nurse replies breathlessly. "He's still in a coma."
"What about her?" His voice drops to a whisper, but she still hears it as though he was standing right next to her.
"She's barely moved a muscle. She gives me the creeps, doctor."
"Yeah," another woman says. "She's been in there for three days. I haven't seen her move, eat or sleep."
"Isn't there anything we can do?"
"I'm afraid not," the doctor replies, and she tastes the resignation in his voice.
"Doctor!"
"All right. I'll do this." She hears him walk towards the room, rubber soles clicking on the tile. He stops in the doorway and clears his throat in an effort to make himself more official. She does not even spare him a glance.
"Ma'am?" he asks. "You've, ah, been here for three days. Would you…don't you think you should get some rest? I mean there's really nothing more you can do. We predict no significant improvements in the near future." He takes a deep breath. "I honestly think the best thing you can do is to go home and get some rest. If you'd like you can leave your phone number and name and we can let you know if there is any improvement."
She waits a long time before responding.
"I don't have a home. Not anymore." Her voice is soft, but he takes a step back anyway. "But it is clear that I am no longer welcome here. I will leave you. Just be sure that he is well looked after."
"We have the best looking after him," he replies, and the relief is evident in his tone.
Her right hand gently brushes his cheek again and she whispers, "No you don't."
Tears roll down her cheeks as she gazes at him for a long moment. Then she stands and without another word walks past the stunned doctor and into the hallway. Her footsteps echo with purpose and she ignores the stares of the hospital staff.
The freezing air leaves her unfazed when she steps outside. All is quiet, muffled by the steady snowfall. The clouds are purple, reflecting the city lights. She looks up at them; eyes defiant, damning and the tears freeze on her cheeks.
A pox on all of you. You abandoned me in my hour of greatest need, turned your faces away when I needed you the most. Is my mission that trivial that it is not worth salvaging? Is my sacrifice not worth your time? I abandoned home and hearth for you because I believed in this. I still believe in this. Damn you and your petty games. I no longer have need of you.
She hurls her thoughts at the uncaring sky, not knowing of caring if the gods hear her or not.
Is this the end of all hope? The end of innocence? She does not know.
The only difference between hope and despair is a good night's sleep. His voice echoes in her mind, and fresh tears flow down her cheeks. She wipes them away, then straightens her shoulders and walks into the night in search or redemption or revenge, and leaves a piece of her with him, the best part of her so that when she returns she can become whole again and possibly find new meaning.
"It would appear, sister, that your champion has lost her way."
She waits several moments before responding. Her gray eyes watch the hooded figure walk slowly down the deserted, snow-covered street. Gone is the serenity, replaced by resolve not seen since the heroes of antiquity walked the earth thousands of years ago. Her eyes narrow as she realizes that nothing has changed. Gods still meddle where they have no right to, and mortals still pay the price.
"No, Ares," she says. Her turns to regard him and notes with satisfaction that he takes a step back. "She has lost our way and struck out in her own." She waves her right hand and the image dissolves. "Know this, brother-mine: should you hinder or affect her course in any way not even our esteemed father shall be able to save you." And without further word she walks from him down the starlit corridors of Olympus to ponder he own moves in the ongoing chess match her family insists on playing.
He watches her go, righteous Athena, and feels the knot in his chest loosen. For a split second he expected her to strike him down where he stood, never mind that it would have upset Father to no end. He finds it ironic that his sister was born from a headache and continues to be one millennia on. However, he also knows that she, if provoked, will not hesitate to defend her champions. With a wave of his hand he conjures another image and eyes the young man lying on the hospital bed, and smiles. He can almost see the thread of life stretched above the young man, waiting to be cut by the Fates. His eyes close and suddenly he is there.
Times stops when he appears in the room and stands over the man that his sister's champion has just left. The heart monitor is frozen at a peak. He frowns then leans in close.
"My sister's champion feels something for you," he whispers. "Though I know you cannot hear me, know this. You survive only because my sister wills it and I fear her reprisal more than anything. However, that does not mean that you are out of the woods." He places his right hand on the young man's left shoulder and squeezes. When he removes his hand a blackened sickle is visible on the exposed skin.
"You have been marked and no matter what you do, you life will be anything but easy." His eyes glow crimson and he vanishes as suddenly as he appeared. The sickle fades before the heart monitor completes another cycle. A nurse enters the room to make sure everything is in order. She shivers when she passes through the space where the Olympian stood a moment before, hesitates, then walks out without another thought, turning off the lights as she goes.