His Worth, an atlantis fanfic

Title:: His Worth

Author:: AislinCeivun

Fandom:: Atlantis (BBC)

Characters:: Dion/Critias, Pythagoras, Hercules, Jason

Rated:: PG-13

Word count:: 9 500

Disclaimer:: Sad as it is, I don't own anything from the show and make no profit from playing around with its characters.

Genre:: Action, Drama, Gen or Pre-Slash

Warnings:: episode tag, episode recap, spoilers for 2x02, missing scenes, canon compliant, battlefield, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, self-esteem issues, slash if you squint (actually gen but Critias develops a massive crush on Dion)

A/N:: My most sincere thanks go to the lovely deinonychus_1 for going through the story with superhuman speed. You're amazing, thank you so much^^

This started out as a short Ditias 2x02 coda… and turned into a full-on character study with a Ditias subplot. Also, I went from liking the character to full-on felling for him. (I still love Dion more but uhhhh. Critias, baby. Uhhhh)

I should stop getting so attached to side characters with whom there is a huge chance of never seeing them again. *bangs head against a wall*

That being said, I enjoyed writing this tremendously^^

Summary::

Sometimes, it's only by struggling your way through the dark that you can find the light within yourself.

His Worth

Critias doesn't want to save anybody.

He cares about one person only, and that person is himself. He's not cut out for fighting, after all – he's not a soldier, not a warrior, not even a casual trouble maker.

Well… fine, he is a trouble maker. But the kind who always sneaks away like a rat sensing a storm the moment it seems like fighting is on the table. His lean physique certainly doesn't match that of the usual tavern folk's (although at least he's got his sharp mind to make up for it) so whenever he recognises the first signs of an angry fist itching to fly towards him, Critias gathers his winnings and flees. That's the way it works.

He's a gambler. A fraud. A self-centred, shameless cheat.

A man without worth, really.

So when instead of saving his own skin like he had planned to – crawling out of his hiding place the moment it was safe to do so and leaving Atlantis in such a hurry the road would be dusting up behind him – Critias grabs a weapon and saves someone else's life with it, he is rather surprised at himself.

For a few seconds, he isn't quite sure what had possessed him to do that.

Then he looks down at the man and realises that it really doesn't matter.

He wants to tell himself that he didn't save the guy because he had seen him taking on four Colchean soldiers all by himself just so a couple of citizens could run past them and get away from imminent danger. He wants to tell himself he didn't save the guy because some part of him recognised the noble warrior for what he is and didn't want to witness his demise. He desperately tells himself that he didn't do it as an ill-timed attempt to do the right thing. Critias never does the right thing.

Still, he reaches down for the man and yanks him up from the ground, holding onto his arm tight. Blood is pounding crazy in his ears but he does his best to ignore it.

"We must see to your wound," he urges.

The poor sod is drenched in blood; he can barely stand and favours one leg, not to mention the deep cut on his arm that weeps crimson steadily – and yet what he grunts out is, "I can't leave my men."

My men. One of the captains, then. Or maybe even a general.

"You are no use to them dead!"

Critias pulls the man away from the fight and toward one of the taverns he knows is appointed as an impromptu place for healers to tend to the wounded. If he has already done this much, he's going to make sure that the man is attended to properly before he goes back to battle.

"I'm not that hurt," the soldier forces out through gritted teeth. He is obviously in much pain. Critias nearly rolls his eyes. "And there are dozens of wounded who need a healer's care much more than I do."

"You won't be able to use your sword arm properly if that injury is not dressed. You'll lose too much blood," Critias points out. "What will your men do if you fall on your face when they need you?"

As suspected, this kind of reasoning sits a lot more well with the man. He still doesn't nod in agreement but at least stops actively protesting. That counts for something.

Critias pants from the effort of dragging the half-dead weight over the streets. The air is hot and smoky; it makes his mouth taste like ash, his lungs burn painfully with every intake of breath. Fire blazes everywhere – he can see flames licking into the sky even through his closed eyelids – and the cries and shouts and clang of swords serve as a constant reminder of the ongoing battle.

The man reeks of sweat and blood. Combined with the smoke, the smell makes Critias dry-heave but he bites his tongue and swallows hard to get it under control.

When they finally reach the safe house (though for how long it will be safe, Critias doesn't know) and see just how full it is, the soldier shakes his head again and pulls away from Critias. His eyes follow the handful of healers going back and forth between patients, and the untrained citizens who volunteered to help.

"There are not nearly enough physicians. I will not take their time away from those who are in severe need of their care."

"Will you at least let me dress your wound?" Critias barks out, losing his patience. "I'm no trained healer but I know my way with injuries. If you let me get some salve and bandage on it, you don't have to worry about dizziness or bleeding out. I won't stop you from returning to your comrades after that."

The man's gaze comes to rest on him. His eyes are a really light shade of blue, Critias notices. It makes stark contrast with the dark red smear that covers half his face.

"You couldn't stop me returning to them if you tried." Critias shoots him a dark look at that, but before he could come up with a retort, the soldier sits down on the nearest bench. "Fine. Just make it quick, please."

Critias doesn't waste time. Within moments, he returns to the man with a damp cloth, a small jar of oily salve and linen rags. Sitting down next to the soldier, he cleans the area the best he can, then carefully applies the salve over it. The man doesn't even flinch, though it must hurt.

"It's deep," Critias observes. "It probably won't close properly, at least not as long as you are holding your sword with it. Honey would help to avoid infection but…" There's not much honey left in the building. Critias had a suspicion the man wouldn't want to use it so he didn't gather any.

"It will have to make do." The man raises his eyes. "You do know your way."

Critias shrugs, hoping that he will drop the question. He doesn't want to talk about how living the life of a cheating gambler has brought him far too many injuries. He was kind of forced to learn a trick or two along the way. There has never been anyone to patch him up, after all.

Well. There were those few months in Nemea when he had paired up with a guy who had managed to best him in a card game. Arcas. They were nearly of the same age and got on quite well, so they have spent some time together as gambling-brothers-in-arms, relieving people of their money. After three or four months however, Critias wanted to try his luck in Atlantis but Arcas refused to come with him, so they separated. On good terms, though.

Since Arcas, there hasn't been anyone he could have called a friend. Critias doesn't regret his decision, however. Atlantis is the best home he's ever had. He feels content here.

Critias forces his eyes to stay on the wounded arm as he wraps the linen tightly around it and starts tying it up. The man turns away and stares into nothing, hard and grim. His mind is already back on the battlefield, that much is obvious. He is a dedicated person. Critias wishes that this kind of dedication would be enough to save their home from the attackers. He loves Atlantis. He doesn't want to see it fall to the former Queen.

But he long stopped believing that if he wished for something hard enough, the gods would listen.

"You should rest," he says quietly.

He knows it's stupid; there's no way the man would rest. But risking irritating him is still preferable to silence, because as long as they speak, Critias has something to focus on instead of his rapidly darkening thoughts and worries.

The soldier's reply is not a surprise at all. "I must return to the battlements."

What he next says, however, is a shock.

"We will need more men like you if we are to survive this."

Critias doesn't look up but feels the blue eyes on him. The man is watching him, studying him. It burns more than he can say, and his throat tightens painfully, his chest now too narrow for his lungs.

He should hold his tongue and let the man think that he is right, that Critias is a good person worthy of this kind of praise… but he finds that he can't.

"I'm a coward," he says, shaking his head. His eyes flicker up only for a second before he drops them again. "I thought about leaving you and saving myself."

"But you didn't."

There is so much conviction in those three little words that Critias does look up then. He locks his eyes with the soldier. Stares – and the man stares right back.

This man believes in him.

That's a first.

The blue eyes flicker down for a second, the soldier murmurs a solemn, "May the Gods be with us all"… and with that, he's gone.

Critias stays frozen in place, gazing in front of himself but not seeing a damn thing.

What? What has just happened? He is not sure, but he knows that it has shaken him to the core.

As if his body was moving on his own, Critias stands up and staggers absently toward the door where the soldier disappeared… but an injured man walks right into him. Critias steadies him, taking over from a volunteer, and walks him back to the bench.

He never tells anyone that he didn't actually came here as a help. He cleans wound after wound, tending to one man after the other. It gives him something to concentrate on, and that is something he finds he desperately needs.

He can't really meet the gaze of anyone with pale blue eyes without missing a heartbeat.

"The Colcheans have breached the walls."

Ice-cold fear… and something like rage washes over Critias at the words. The man storms into the tavern grim-faced, his hands fisted at his sides. Critias can't swallow around the lump in his throat.

The soldier (He must be a general, Critias thinks absently. He has that commanding air of authority) makes a wide gesture with his hand, his voice hard as he barks the order, "Get all these wounded into the citadel."

More soldiers are already coming inside to help transferring the wounded. Critias stays frozen in his place when the man steps in front of him.

He regards Critias with hard expression. "Save yourself."

From that, Critias understands that the battle is as good as lost. The siege will not end well. The Colcheans have already breached the lower city, they are pushing and pushing… it won't be long before they reach the upper city as well. He doesn't doubt that the Atlantean army does its utmost best, but if the former Queen takes the city for herself…

A heavy weight sinks into his stomach.

"They're slaughtering everyone in their path," the general continues grimly.

Fuck it. Fuck it!

"This is our city," Critias snarls, grabbing a sword from the table. "I will not see it fall to these Colchean savages!"

He catches only a glimpse of surprise (and pride?) on the man's face before he swings past him to get to the street. Blood is boiling hot in his veins, his skin feels prickly and heated. Oh gods, what is he doing? He is not a warrior. He is not a soldier. He is not a respectable man who would lay down his life for a good cause.

But in that second, Critias feels like he is.

That doesn't stop him from tensing up the moment he's out and sees the unfolding fights right in front of himself. His hold on the hilt of the sword tightens. He is familiar with the weapon but that doesn't exactly make him a swordsman. There is a good chance he'll be slaughtered within a second.

"Stay close," he hears a rough voice right behind him. He turns back and sees the general. "Trust your instincts!" And then he's gone, throwing himself back into battle.

Critias swallows hard.

Last chance to back out. He is not this kind of guy, after all. He is nothing but a despicable fraud who only cares about himself.

But the man seems convinced that Critias will follow him.

Fuck it. He can be this guy. For his home, he will.

Critias raises his sword and launches forward.

Within moments, he has the Colchean the general was fighting backed up to a wall, his blade seated deep within the writhing body. Warm blood pulses out and coats Critias' hand. He yanks the blade out and follows on the general's heels without a word, blood still dripping from his fingers.

The Colcheans retreat at daylight.

Critias wishes this would be the end of it but he's not that naïve. He has no doubts that Pasiphae will order another attack tonight. And with the drastically lessened number of Atlanteans, Critias can't predict a positive outcome for them.

The entire population is crammed together in the upper city. Critias is sitting on the ground in the citadel between two soldiers, panting harsh and pressing his palm to the wound on his thigh. It's not particularly deep, though it still oozes liquid, but he knows he has got off cheap. The soldier on his right side lost his left arm, but had the stump cauterised so he can continue fighting.

A girl stops in front of them, offering water. Critias swallows so greedily a bit of it dribbles down his chin.

"For someone untrained, you're not half bad, kid," the maimed soldier says. "We could use more people like you."

Again, a praise he doesn't deserve. Not really. Critias feels squirmy heat burn in his chest.

"I love Atlantis," is all he says.

The other soldier snorts. "Well, you should start bidding goodbye to it, then. Atlantis won't survive another night of attack. We won't survive."

Critias doesn't say anything. He is well aware of that.

"There's no use talking like that," the maimed one says. "We have to fight until our last breath, and pray that a miracle happens."

"Yeah, well. I don't believe in miracles." The gruff man turns his head but they can hear his murmur. "We should get out while we still can."

"You want to desert like the rest of those cowards?!"

"I want to live!"

The man on Critias' right makes a disgusted face and spits, "You are despicable. I hope the Queen executes all the deserters that have been caught. You don't deserve to call yourself a soldier of Atlantis."

"The Queen doesn't wish to make an example of the caught deserters," a new voice says above them. They all look up to see that general regarding them with a dark expression on his face. "If you want to leave, Maloras, do it now and not on the battlefield where others are counting on you. But do so with the knowledge that you have disgraced everything we stand for."

Without waiting for an answer, he turns around and walks away.

Maloras swallows visibly. He gets up from the floor and leaves.

Critias is surprised by the vile disgust he feels for the man. He's surprised, because last night, he was planning on fleeing too. He shouldn't be judging the man that harshly. But… he does.

"He should have left his armour for you. You're far too defenceless, kid."

"Critias," he corrects. "And there are many citizens who fight without armour, carrying anything they can use as weapon."

"True. Barak, by the way."

Critias rests his head against the wall and looks around until he catches glimpse of the general. The man seems to be in a serious discussion with three men, probably other officers. He wonders, and that makes him realise that he is in the company of someone who has answers.

"The man who was here. Who is he?" he asks, trying not to sound too interested. "And how come he has been talking to the Queen directly?"

Barak shoots him a surprised look.

"You have been fighting by his side all night – yes, I saw you – and you don't even know who he is?" At Critias' unimpressed face, he shakes his head with a small smile. "His name is Dion. He's a general, but not just any; he's the leader of the entire army. And he serves as a chief advisor to Queen Ariadne, hence why he was consulting with her."

Critias gapes. He can't help it.

He gathered that the man (Dion, he thinks with a fluttering rush of warmth) must be a high ranking officer, but the idea that he's the highest ranking officer has never crossed his mind. Somehow, it makes him feel embarrassed, though logically he knows he has no reason to.

His strange admiration of the man suddenly seems equally validated and ridiculous.

"General Dion is a great man," Barak says with conviction. "I would follow him to the end of the world."

Critias wonders if it's too strange of him to already share the sentiment.

The day passes by in a blur. Critias rests for a few hours along with some soldiers and self-appointed defenders of the city, but he dreams of nothing and wakes up just as exhausted as he was at dawn. He fears what night will bring so he busies himself by assisting healers. There are so many wounded – soldiers and innocent citizens alike – that most of the day rushes by and they still have many to tend to.

All the while, the dead are gathered and put to final rest just behind the citadel. The air is filled with the scent of decay and burning flesh, but Critias' nose is so used to it by now that he doesn't even gag anymore.

He only catches sight of Dion twice and he's crossing through the courtyard in both cases – first to leave and then to go back into the palace. He seems more grim-faced than ever.

When the sun starts setting, Critias leaves the healers to find Barak. The man pats him on the shoulder amicably but there is no warmth in his face.

"Any news?" Critias asks him. "I heard several gossips."

"I'm sure," Barak nods grimly. "Pasiphae had asked the Queen to surrender but she refused. And thank the gods she did! I would end my own life rather than to serve that traitor Pasiphae again." Barak snarls and clenches his one hand in fist. "Also, the Queen's guest Lord Sarpedon has been exposed as the traitor. He confessed, apparently having a change of heart. I'm not sure about what happened then… I hear they had some kind of plan to use him to end Pasiphae but that plan failed. The fight will go on."

Chill runs through Critias' body, settling low in his spine. Some part of him still urges him to turn his back right away and flee while he can. He travelled around the world before. He could make himself another life.

But he wouldn't ever wash off his shame, and that is something he now, miraculously, cares about.

Nobody has ever believed in him before. He was a worthless nobody. But there are people now who see something worthy in him. And more importantly… he sees something worthy in himself.

He will stay and fight.

When the Queen holds the Palladium high so everyone can see it, cheers and whoops erupt in a loud rumble like the earth was splitting. The crowd moves as one: people throw their fists in the air and roar until their throats hurt, as if they are adamant on letting the enemy know of their joy. The Queen doesn't mention names but tells them that some of her trusted and loyal men retrieved the Palladium on her orders. The protection of the gods is once again with Atlantis.

Critias wonders if it isn't too late.

Maybe it is; the numbers are in the Colcheans' favour and the Atlantean army has been reduced to barely a third of its original size. But still, the return of the sacred artifact brings back their hope. And hope is something they need more than anything if they want to survive.

Night has fallen; men – soldier and common citizen alike – arm themselves.

Critias distributes swords among the city folk before moving to get something for himself. He chooses the bow and arrow. He's always been a competent archer and he prefers it to the close-range fight blades require. Still, just in case, he takes a sword as well.

"Aah," he hears a familiar voice drawling from behind, "There he is. The cheat."

Critias turns back to find the man he was playing against many nights ago – Hercules, his mind supplies belatedly – standing right behind him with one of his friends.

Irritation and shame wash over Critias. Cheat. Yes, that is what he is. A cheat.

He spent only one day fighting side by side with honourable soldiers, and he has already forgotten about who he really is. Dion's approving gaze, Barak's praise, the occasional pat to his shoulders from the other soldiers and the grateful thank you whispers of the wounded have filled Critias' head up to the brim and made him believe that he actually deserves those praises. That he's not just a shameless, egoistic scum like it was spat in his face so many times over the years that he had lost count of it.

It was not long ago that Critias tricked Hercules out of his money. Without care. Without remorse.

He doesn't feel remorse now – not exactly. He is angry that the man reminded him of the truth, promptly popping the bubble of his delusion that he is worth anything.

Probably that is the reason why Critias' eyebrow shot up when Hercules makes a face and says, "Seeing as we are all probably going to die today, I suppose I better forgive you."

Critias eyes the man warily. That isn't supposed to happen. Nobody forgives him for being a lying cheat.

But Hercules said the truth. Palladium or not, chances are high that they are going to die today. Painfully so, if those savages have their way. It makes sense to make sure that nobody dies while holding petty grudges. Who knows – maybe they will end up in a situation where they will hold each other's lives in their hands.

So Critias steps forward and sticks his hand out in a peace offer.

Hercules not only accepts but even squeezes for good measure. Critias finds himself sharing a small smile with the two men.

All the Atlanteans line themselves up behind the barricades, weapons held ready. The silence is so profound that Critias can hear the crazy pounding of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, making his skin itch but he doesn't move an inch.

He ends up being positioned right behind Hercules and his two friends (Pythagoras and Jason, as he learns from their conversations) and Critias almost regrets his decision to make peace with them because they Won't. Shut. Up. Critias wants to bang their heads with the hilt of his sword and stomp on their feet to get them to stop talking.

"It's the waiting I hate," Hercules is saying now. Critias rolls his eyes and sees another man near them doing the same. "Why can't they just attack and have done with it?"

"You'll get your wish soon enough."

Critias can't help it if his heart makes a louder thump at the sound of that voice. He snaps his head to the right to stare at Dion.

The general doesn't say anything else before leaving to assume his position. But he catches Critias' eyes for a second and gives him the tiniest nod, touching his back fleetingly as he walks past behind him. Critias follows him with his eyes.

The stupid trio continues bantering as if their lives weren't at stake here, but with his focus on Dion, Critias is doing a fairly good job at filtering their voices. Still, he listens more closely to them again when Jason mentions being optimistic about the return of the deserters.

It's almost too good to be true, but it makes sense. The Palladium is back, so maybe the deserters will return as well. It would help their numbers and maybe… maybe they would have a chance at surviving.

But then the witty blond has to open his mouth.

"Mathematically, your optimism is entirely misplaced. The odds suggest we will all be slaughtered."

Somebody please shoot them, Critias groans mentally. Surely we can spare a few arrows.

Suddenly, there it is. The noise. The chanting of the approaching enemy. And with that, dead silence falls on the Atlantean army.

Everybody goes rigid. They straighten themselves and tighten their hold on their weapons. Critias can feel the blood pulsing deafeningly in his ears, and he would swear that there are stones settling huge and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

"Archers!" Dion's voice reverberates long in the eerie quiet.

Critias' palm is sweaty as he draws his bow. He fixes his eyes on the dark alleyway in front of the line. Waits.

"Hold…" Dion's steady voice grounds him, even though his fingers are itching to let the arrow shot out. He takes a deep breath, and another, and feels the worst of the panic subside. "Hold…"

You aren't supposed to be here, an ugly voice drawls in the back of his mind. You're just a dirty wastrel. Why are you playing the hero?

Critias grits his teeth and shoves the memory ghost away, locks it in a chest deep inside his consciousness and destroys the key. He is not going to listen to that voice again. Never.

He is not a hero; that much is true.

But he can be a good guy.

"FIRE!"

At the general's battle cry, the army roars up as one. Arrows rain down on the first approaching Colcheans, causing many of them to fall onto the ground instantly.

Then the noise of swords clanking together joins the cries of men as the opposing sides meet and crash at the middle of the street… and all hell breaks loose.

Fighting is every bit as exhausting as it was the previous night.

Critias never had to focus with so much intensity for so long. He takes a risk every time he blinks; one wrong movement could mean the end of his life. It's a terrifying thought and yet he can't allow himself to be terrified. Not unless he wants to be sliced open.

The world around him is reduced to deafening noise and blurry patches. He runs out of arrows far too soon, and now his sweaty palm can't hold the sword properly. He heaves for breath, snarls and grits his teeth, forcing his body to not tremble, his mind to not stop and realise what a mess he had gotten himself into.

Hercules and his friends are usually not far from him. They had been positioned together after all, and there's not enough space for them to really spread out. But that is just as well: their main priority right now is to prevent the Colcheans from getting past them and reaching the citadel.

The problem is, the Colcheans are numerous. They don't need to get past the defenders – they are pushing them back.

"This line won't hold!"

Critias hears Dion shout from nearby. He plunges his sword into an attacker and looks around. Seeing how this attempt at holding the enemy back has failed, the general will no doubt give new orders.

He sees Dion barking urgently at Jason. He can't really hear them over all the shouting but he catches the word "queen" and can guess the rest. Dion wants Jason to get the Queen to leave the city.

Dion doesn't believe that it's possible for them to win.

Critias has long stopped believing, but Dion's resignation still makes him ache.

Resignation doesn't mean that the general has given up, however; if anything, it only fuels him to fight harder. He runs his blade through enemy after enemy, snarling and growling like a fierce animal. Critias turns his head to catch a glimpse at him whenever he can – just to see that he is still safe, still standing – even though he knows he can't afford such a distraction.

They all fight to the best of their abilities, but the Colchean army presses and presses. Far too soon, they have left the upper city behind and the siege culminates at the courtyard of the citadel. The palace doesn't look majestic in the silvery moonlight as usual. Tonight, it's grim and ominous as it looks down on the small Atlantean army trying to take on the hoard of brute Colcheans.

At some point, Critias loses his sword. He hears it clatter away, and ice-cold dread runs through him at the sound.

Now he's as good as dead.

Naturally, it doesn't escape the enemy's notice. One second later, one of the Colcheans is approaching him, sword held ready to strike him. Critias tries to hold him back with his bare hands but he falls to his knees. The blade slices one of his palms as he does his best to stop it from licking into his body.

Shit, shit shit! His mind screams, heart jumping into his throat. I don't want to die!

In a last desperate attempt, Critias turns his head to the side, a half-formed cry frozen in his mouth. Is anyone watching? Will someone help? Will someone notice when the Colchean slices his throat and leaves him to bleed out onto the dirt?

His eyes widen when he sees Dion running towards them.

The general crashes straight into the Colchean and knocks him off his feet with his shield. Critias falls on his arse from the abrupt impact, but he couldn't care less.

His fingers scratch at the dirt as he pushes himself up right away to stare up at his saviour. Dion shoves his shield in the Colchean's face again, swiftly runs his blade through the man's abdomen… and with that, he's on his way.

Pulse beating madly, Critias crawls up from the ground and tries to will his legs into functioning normally again. He staggers toward Dion, coming to stand behind the man as he shouts, retreating, "Fall back! Fall back!"

The Atlanteans try to form a line to stop the Colcheans from advancing but it's as good as trying to make a flowing river stay still. No matter what they do, the enemy progresses.

"We're finished!" Dion cries. It shows just how great of a leader he is that his face or voice doesn't falter from the weight of their loss. "To the citadel! Save the Queen!"

So Queen Ariadne refused to leave the palace. It's another reason to validate Critias' choice to stay and fight. He barely knows anything about her, but what he knows is enough to make him feel like dying for her is right.

He catches sight of a sword on the ground and makes a lunge for it immediately. As soon as he has the blade in his hand, he uses it to slay down a Colchean. Hot blood spurts out to paint the front of his tunic crimson, but he hardly cares.

He feels pride. Atlantis might not have been his home for long but he is willing to die for it. Dear gods, with every moment he spends fighting this losing battle, he is dying for it.

He still fears death, but it's not like what he felt when he was seconds away from getting his throat cut open. This death comes slow but steady. He can see it coming. And he is choosing to meet with it.

In the last couple of days, Critias has been another person. A better person. Someone he had always been told he couldn't become.

There are people who have faith in him, and to have that is such a precious feeling that he is willing to die for it rather than to live but have it shatter. He will die, but he will do so as that better person.

For the first time in long years, Critias is proud of himself.

The roar of the crowd suddenly intensifies.

Critias looks around and his eyes widen. A small, disbelieving huff of air rushes out of his mouth when he sees dozens of Atlantean soldiers pouring into the place from every alleyway. They take the Colchean army by surprise and manage to trap most of them.

He hears Jason's joyous whoop from nearby, "The deserters, they've returned!"

Critias squeezes his sword as he pushes forward, almost knocking Hercules off of his feet by accident. He sees Dion standing right before the main gates of the citadel, illuminated by the orange lights of the torches dancing behind him.

"ON ME!"

His thunderous battle cry is echoed by dozens and dozens of mouths, Critias included. He cries until his throat feels raw and burning, he cries until there is no air left in his lungs. He is giddy from the sudden rush of pure hope that courses through his veins like crackling fire.

The Atlantean army launches at the shocked Colcheans as one wrathful creature, and Critias loses himself to the battle.

The first daylight finds Atlantis ravaged from the siege, its people exhausted, victorious and mournful in equal measure. The Queen opens the gates for the wounded so they are scattered all over the royal palace and the courtyard of the citadel. Woman and unscathed citizens make rounds, giving food and water, dressing wounds or helping out the handful of healers and physicians.

Critias survived the siege with only a few bruises and minor cuts. He is so tired that part of him feels like he's going to fall over any second now, but he doesn't rest. At first he helps gathering and taking the bodies of fallen Atlanteans behind the citadel, and when his arms can't take more of that heavy lifting, he joins the group collecting the weapons that had gotten scattered around during the night.

The sun is already high up on the sky when Critias settles down in the shade of a corner, wipes dirt and sweat away from his forehead and lets his body rest for a while. He gets some bread from a girl and devours it like a wolf, never having realised just how hungry he had become.

When he starts his second round, he spots Barak sitting on the huge staircase leading to the palace and relief floods him at the sight. He quickens his steps to get to the older man.

"Critias." Barak greets him with a wide, pleased smile. "Thank the gods. I prayed that you lived so we can have a drink tonight to celebrate our victory."

Critias laughs. It almost feels alien. It has only been a few days, yet he feels like he hadn't laughed in years.

"Praying is not my forte… but I, too, have hoped for your survival, friend." He hops down beside the man and smiles at him, but then knits his brows when he notices the angry red wound on Barak's right shoulder that runs down onto his back. "You're injured! Haven't you got it treated yet?"

"A woman washed my back and cleaned the wound. She said it would be good to have a physician look at it but they are all so busy, I don't want to distract them with this. It's not hurting that bad anyway."

"You should at least get it dressed properly." Critias stands up. "I'll be right back."

Thanks to his volunteering at the tavern on the first night of the attack, Critias knows quite a lot of healers by sight. When he spots one of them he goes to him and gets the necessary salves and some linen clothes.

"Take off your tunic; I'll dress it for you," he says to Barak when he goes back to him. "But make sure that a healer does look at it later, all right?"

"Will do. Thank you."

Critias applies the salve and puts on the bandages the best he can. He also looks at the stump of Barak's left arm but thankfully, that doesn't seem to be infected. He is busy rewrapping the cloth on the stump when a voice calls for him.

"Critias?"'

He turns back and sees Pythagoras watching him with a somewhat surprised expression which quickly turns thoughtful.

"Yeah?"

"You put on those bandages quite neatly. Do you have experience?"

"Just some practical," he states quickly before the blond man gets the wrong ideas. "I'm no healer."

"Well, my theoretical knowledge is vast but my technical experience is rather limited. I had trouble making a proper pressure bandage, and I'm too slow for how many injured would need care." He colours slightly at the admission, but it's gone in a second. "Come, assist me."

That's how Critias finds himself tagging along with Pythagoras for the next couple of hours. They leave the seriously injured people for the actual physicians (although Pythagoras claims to know how to cauterise wounds) but tend to all the others. In a short while, they develop a routine: Critias is always one step ahead of Pythagoras, helping the next person out of their clothes when necessary, washing the blood away and carefully cleaning the injured area while the blond man discusses with them what they feel exactly. Pythagoras then examines the wounds, applies the necessary salves or ointments and even makes stitches a couple of times.

He then leaves it to Critias to redress the wounds while he tells the patients how to care for them.

"I thought you were a mathematics scholar," Critias remarks at one point while Pythagoras fills up their jars with more salve, "but you have as much knowledge of caring for injuries as any physician I know."

"There are many subjects that interest me," Pythagoras answers with a shrug. "I am, before anything else, a mathematician. I don't think there is anything more fascinating than geometric shapes. But I'm also interested in philosophy and am fond legends and myths. And healing… well, I have studied the usage of different herbs for a long time but hadn't been particularly well-versed in the act of healing until becoming friends with Hercules. And Jason." He snorts, but there is a smile tugging at his lips. "You would be surprised at how many times they need patching up. We would never have enough money to buy food if we had to go to the physician every time one of us gets injured."

"It was you guys, wasn't it?" Critias finds himself asking in a rush. "The 'trusted and loyal men' the Queen was talking about. You brought back the Palladium."

The beat of surprise lasts only for half a second. "Yes."

"She sent you on a secret mission?"

"Obviously. We had to steal it back from under Pasiphae's nose."

Critias' eyebrows shot up. No way!

Pythagoras clearly reads the disbelief on his face.

"Oh yes. It was rather daring. We succeeded in retrieving the Palladium but then she trapped us in a cave – with a Cyclops!" Pythagoras shudders from the memory. "We almost didn't make it. And Jason got injured. He held himself together well during the siege but I know he's terribly exhausted and still in pain, just too stubborn to admit it. I… I might have given him tonic made from valerian to get him to sleep," he confesses sheepishly.

Critias would smirk at the man but he is too shocked from all the new information. To know that the trio actually experienced such an adventure and lived to tell it… But then again, they were the ones who had slain the Minotaur, too. Well, mostly Jason, as Critias had heard.

They are the true heroes, his mind whispers. Consider that. This is what a true hero is like.

But Pythagoras doesn't give off the aura of a hero. He's just a meek young man – scrawny and lean, even more so than Critias. And his passion isn't in fighting but in studying. How can a scholar be a hero? How can he have so much courage?

"Critias?"

Crap. He hasn't realised how deep he's gotten in his thoughts. "Sorry. I was just thinking… Um. I can't believe I'm saying this but… you guys are kind of amazing."

Instead of taking the compliment, Pythagoras just smiles brightly at him and shakes his head.

"Don't exclude yourself. You stayed and fought for what you believe in. You are just as amazing as the rest of us. As everyone who fought here last night."

Something pulls Critias' chest tight. Heat swirls in his chest, eventually creeping up to his face. Gods, no, he will not blush, he will not. He forces the heat to subside.

"You are a good man, Critias. Bit of a troublemaker, but still good. You kind of remind me of my brother, actually." Pythagoras' smile curls higher. "He's a crafty gambler like you, with a gentle but well-guarded heart. I think you would get along."

Critias shrugs and scratches his jaw absently. "Have you filled up the jars yet?"

Pythagoras recognises the attempt for what it is and lets the topic subside. They gather the jars and make another round of the courtyard.

By now only those have remained whose injuries are less pressing and those who need to get their wounds checked or redressed. Pythagoras and Critias are in the middle of examining the stitches on a young man's upper arm when Pythagoras suddenly fixes his gaze somewhere behind Critias and shouts.

"General! You are soaked through."

Critias turns his head so fast he can feel it crack. Not far from them, near the top of the staircase stands Dion, halted in mid-step. At first the man frowns in confusion, but when he moves a bit and looks down, he notices what Critias too can see now: there is a growing patch of red on his left hip where a bandage soaked through.

He didn't even know that Dion suffered an injury during the final battle.

He doesn't understand why the discovery matters so much to him. But it does.

"It is of no importance," Dion says with a wave of hand. "It will stop eventually."

"Don't be ridiculous." How Pyhagoras can sound so respectful and chiding at the same time, Critias has no idea. "If you could wait a few moments, I would make a new bandage for you. I will be done soon."

"No, you just take care of the wounded. In any case, I am to join the Queen soon. She is going to make a public speech and my place is by her side."

"I'll do it." Critias is already standing by the time the words leave his mouth. Before Dion could open his mouth, he turns to Pythagoras. "It's just changing bandages anyway. Take your time with…"

"Saulos," the man supplies.

Pythagoras' eyes didn't seem so piercing before. He tilts his head to the side and frowns up at Critias… and then something like realisation dawns on his face. Critias doesn't like what his expression implies, so he turns around and shouts when he sees Dion now on the top of the stairs. The idiot is getting away.

"Dion, stop! I'll redress your wound and Pythagoras can keep on working. Okay?"

For a long moment, Dion just regards Critias with an unreadable expression on his face… but then he nods, turns around and sits down on the stairs. By the time Critias grabs some clean linens, wets a piece of cloth and walks up to Dion, the man already has his tunic creasing around his waist.

Seeing him without his armour was strange enough, but now that he is bare-chested, Critias' cheeks flare up with so much heat even his ears start burning. He turns his face away to not let Dion see his reaction and settles down behind him.

"When was it bandaged first?" he asks to get himself something to focus on. He unties the knot at the small of Dion's back and starts unfolding the linen.

"Around mid-morning."

"It should have closed by now, then. Unless… I'm guessing you have been walking all over the citadel since the battle ended and didn't take one moment to rest, did you?"

A huff of amused breath makes Critias' skin tingle. This is the first time Dion is something other than grim and solemn around him. It's a shame that he can't see it from his position.

"I am the leader of the army and one of the Queen's advisors. We have just repulsed a siege. What do you think?"

"Fair enough." Critias makes a face when it becomes evident that the lower layers of the bandage had stuck into the wound on his left hip. Dion doesn't so much as hiss when Critias accidentally tugs at the sodden cloth, but his shoulders tense up a bit. "Sorry. I'll try dampening it up."

Critias presses the other, damp rag against the blood-red patch of linen and waits. Stares absently at Dion's back. Watches the way it rises and falls. Studies the colourful bruises, the map of fresh cuts and old scars. It's the back of a warrior – muscular and scarred – and his fingers itch to reach up and touch it.

He digs them into his own thigh.

"I saw you today," Dion says suddenly. "You helped a lot of people."

"It's just dressing wounds. Pythagoras helped more with actually treating them. I didn't do anything special."

"I saw you before that, too. You helped gathering the bodies of our fallen brothers, then joined the weapon-collectors. And after that, you started assisting Pythagoras." Dion looks back over his shoulder and Critias is too stunned to avert his eyes. "You are not used to battle situation; I'm sure you are terribly exhausted. Yet you have been here all day. You really have no right to scold me for not resting."

Critias isn't sure what to make of the fact that Dion was paying this much attention to him. He tells himself it's nothing special, that it's not enough reason to start… hoping or anything… but his heart-rate picks up and he has to swallow around the lump in his throat.

"I don't know what kind of life you have been leading before," Dion starts slowly, shifting so he can face Critias properly, "but from what I have seen, I can already tell that you are an honourable man."

Critias' lips part a few times, but it takes him some time to get the words out.

"It's… a rather new development. A weekd ago I wasn't like this. I was…" He can't bring himself to admit his shameful ways to Dion. That he made a living of tricking people out of their money. But he doesn't want to take the compliment, not like this, so he settles for, "You wouldn't say these things if you knew me back then."

"I know you now. That is enough."

Dion's eyes hold a warmth that makes Critias' heart throb near painfully.

How is he supposed to react to this? Is it normal to feel like having an entire day's worth of sunlight gleaming inside his chest? Feeling like he has been stripped naked? Torn apart and scattered around by a fragrant wind?

For the first time since they have known each other, the general is clean of blood and dirt, and the daylight makes it possible for Critias to study his face properly. There are crinkles at the corners of those pale blue eyes, and the life he leads has edged deep lines into his face – but otherwise, he's got rather handsome features. Critias swallows again and runs the tip of his tongue over his dry lips.

Dion's gaze follows the movement. Just for half a second, and then he's back to staring at Critias' eyes, but that doesn't stop the younger man from having his belly consumed by a sudden flare of heat.

He drops his head and tries to focus in the damp cloth in his hand. He puts it away and starts uncoiling the rest of the linen from around the general's hip, but he barely pays attention to it. His mind is a mess of thoughts.

Shit, his fingers are trembling as he puts away the soaked cloth. Is it too naïve to hope that Dion doesn't see it?

When the bandage comes away to reveal a smoky black scar, he gasps in surprise.

"You were stabbed," he notes needlessly. The puncture point has been cauterised to shut the wound, the skin around it is an angry shade of red. There's a smaller cut right above the stab wound, oozing blood. That's what got the dressing soaked through.

He hears Dion sigh. "Right when their leader ordered their retreat. Relief made me lower my guard, I suppose, and one of the Colcheans used it to his advantage. It was irresponsible of me."

"Everybody makes mistakes. I'm just glad you could get it treated in time. It seems deep enough that it could have made you bleed out. You could have died." The thought is really upsetting.

"So could you," Dion points out. "But neither of us did."

"I owe that to you." Critias reaches for the cooling salve and scoops some up with his fingers. "Thank you for saving my life."

Dion's mouth curls upwards. "And I owe you mine. You saved me first."

The conversation feels entirely too heavy for Critias' comfort. He is hot all over and something swirls madly in stomach, coiling and lashing out like a wild snake. Dion, on the other hand, seems unaffected by the crackling charge in the air. Maybe it's all just in Critias' head. It wouldn't be the first time.

Critias drops his gaze again and focuses on what he's supposed to be doing. He puts pressure on the cut until it stops bleeding, and them smears salve over it. Gently, with the tip of his fingers, he also applies some salve to the edge of the burnt puncture wound. It must be really sensitive because Dion holds his breath. After a while, Critias realises that he's mimicking him and forces himself to breathe out.

His right hand tingles warmly from the contact with Dion's skin, even after he pulls away and starts redressing the wound.

As soon as he's done, Dion pulls the tunic back up and ties the laces at his chest. Critias stands up and flattens out the creases of his own clothing. He must be filthy; he only washed his hands after the battle and now he wishes he cleaned up a bit more.

"Well, make sure that a physician looks at you later," he says as a set-up for goodbye. "Cauterised wounds are of a high risk of getting infected."

"Will do." Dion gets up from the stairs, too. "Thank you."

Critias nods. Not wanting this to become more awkward, he turns to look around for Pythagoras and spots him immediately at the other end of the courtyard. There are only a dozen or so of patients left, and two women are still here, tending to them just like Pythagoras and Critias.

He turns back toward Dion to say goodbye but the word gets stuck on his tongue.

Dion looks… embarrassed?

"Before you go," the general starts – and yes, that definitely is embarrassment. My! "I've been meaning to ask your name. I feel like I know you, and yet I don't even know your name. I wasn't sure it wouldn't be rude to bring it up now. But…"

It's not rude at all. Critias wouldn't know his name either if he didn't ask Barak about it.

He feels kind of happy that Dion wants to know his.

"Critias." He offers a smile. "I'm Critias."

Dion nods and returns the gesture. It looks surprisingly good on his face.

"Well then." He pats Critias' shoulder amicably. "See your around, Critias."

Critias is still smiling brightly when he makes his way back to Pythagoras (who is adjusting the bandage around an older soldier's head), but the happy feeling passes way too soon. This is stupid. He only met the man two days ago. If it was purely physical attraction, that he wouldn't be bothered by at all. He could go to a pleasure house and get it out of his system. He appreciates carnal pleasures of any kind, after all.

But he knows it's not just that, and this knowledge makes him uneasy beyond words.

He can feel Pythagoras studying him curiously but he doesn't offer anything. They finish this soldier and move onto the next. It's a butcher who came back because his wound has started oozing pus.

Pythagoras doesn't look at Critias as he asks, quietly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Alright."

They work in silence after that. Pythagoras treats the wound now and advises the man to drop by his house later so he can give him a better suited salve. Critias wraps a clean cloth around his leg and knots it tightly.

It's not until two patients later that Pythagoras speaks again. "Find me if you ever change your mind."

Another two patients later, Critias swallows thickly.

"Okay."

Queen Ariadne is beautiful and majestic. She greets her people and thanks each and every one of them for making this victory possible. She warns them that Pasiphae will not resign to her fate and they all have to be prepared for future attack – but for now, they have shown the enemy that Atlantis truly enjoys the protection of the gods and they won't let their great city fall into the hands of a traitorous tyrant. She asks the people to mourn the fallen but celebrate their victory tonight.

Critias, who is standing in the second row next to Barak, applauds and cheers just as loud as everyone else. He is proud to have served his Queen. Barak told him that she had refused to flee the city even when the situation was most hopeless, fully determined to fall with Atlantis and the soldiers. Critias respects that. He thinks that despite her young age, Queen Ariadne has the potential to be a ruler so much better than her father could ever be.

He sees Dion standing right behind the Queen. It's not surprising: his place is there. The general is on an entirely different level, after all: he is a fantastic leader, a courageous soldier, a great man. Probably of a noble family. Maybe he even has a family of his own; a wife and children he fought so hard to protect. Critias doesn't know, and it's not his place to know.

For someone like him – wastrel, gambler, fraud, cheat… a man without worth – Dion is unreachable.

Except… in the midst of battle, Critias found a light in himself that is worth something. And others have seen it too.

Maybe he shouldn't sell himself so short.

Critias stands with the crowd on the courtyard, far away from the Queen and her entourage, so he doesn't even dare to hope about Dion noticing him. This is the reason why his heart skips a beat when the general's eyes suddenly stop roaming the crowd and stays turned toward where Critias stands. Breath catching in his throat, Critias stares back and tries to convince himself that Dion just happens to be looking his way by pure chance.

But then he sees the man give a tiny nod and a smile. Dion is smiling, he's sure of it, and Critias wants to smile back – except he can't, he can't, because he is suddenly so full of warmth and tingles and fear and want and admiration that he chokes on the emotions and feels them splitting him up from the inside. Oh gods, I'm in big, big trouble, he thinks in panic.

By the time he recomposes himself, Dion is looking forward again, head held high and proud like the leader he is. He looks just as majestic as the Queen.

Barak snorts in amusement and pushes his elbow into Critias' side.

"Join the queue, kid," he murmurs with a knowing smirk. "I know of more than half a dozen soldiers who wouldn't mind warming his bed. And don't even get me started on the ladies."

Critias shoots him a dark look but doesn't react otherwise.

The Queen finishes her speech and her entourage escorts her back to the palace. The crowd cheers one more time before leaving the citadel's courtyard and scattering around.

Barak throws his one arm around Critias' shoulders.

"Now, my friend, what do you say to that celebratory drink we've talked about?"

Critias bites on his lip. Is it wrong to be grateful for the siege? It was terrible and cost the lives of many… but it has brought him something. Or maybe it just forced Critias into a situation where he had to find it in himself. Either way, he is grateful.

He smiles quietly to himself before raising his head. High. Proud.

"After these past couple of days? A drink is something I definitely wouldn't say no to."

A/N: Now, if we don't see Critias ever again, I'm going to sulk forever.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it~ And remember, feedback is love :3

PS to Square readers: I'm sorry for the detour but these guys inspired me so much I had to pause everything I was doing to write this. Rest assured that I'm back to working on the Square finale and will get it ready to share as soon as I can. ;)