The young woman had plagued his mind, his very dreams ever since he had seen her that day on the rock. Hiding in the mountains that were near the Lacedaemonian capital, Sully watched. Since he was not certain as to why he was there to begin with, he merely observed the lives before him, silent when the young men ran by and quietly spying when he dared at night within the city walls. He had hoped to see her again, but for the week she had not returned and he was starting to wonder if she hadn't been an illusion.

There was a lion lurking around the last day or so. Hungry, tired. He once heard an oracle say that some day, all the lions in the Peloponnesus would be gone after a great civilisation. One from the west. Most people had scuffed at the prospect, but he wondered if it wasn't true. He had avoided the creature, for it did no harm to him. The evening campfire ensured that it remained far away from his form as he slept and he figured that the training would eventually scare the creature off.

After a week, Sully was growing anxious. Every day he watched the training before him, every day he waited. The Ephors were still up to their tricks, nothing new was there. But he waited. Something had to happen. Then he had heard the lion move.

The sound of a rushing human had distracted the hungry creature, which of course took Sully's interest. Would the Spartan kill the animal? Claim him as a prize? It would hardly surprise him.

But he had been surprised. There she was. The young woman from before. Her collapsed form caused him to jump when he realised that the hungry creature had found something in which to satiate it's long denied appetite. He did not recall attacking the creature, or killing it. The fact that he was injured was hardly cause for concern. Picking up the woman, he carried her to his hiding place and set her down as her breathing attempted to return to normal in her unconscious state. He found the animal skin that gave him warmth and covered her body with it before reaching for the gourd of water and pouring some of the cool liquid into his hand. He rubbed it on her forehead, figuring that it would help make her feel better. Or hoped it would. Falling onto a rock nearby, he vaguely became aware of the pain, watching her. Soon he released that the wounds went deep in places and the warmth of his chest was blood.

She struggled against her unconscious state and when she felt the water upon her head, she wondered if she wasn't on the boat to death. Had the lion killed her and given her a sweet death? The blue eyed being had been the one to take her away to Hades? But the reminder of her weakened heart burned against her chest as she stirred and knew that there was still mortality to be faced. Opening the unique, multicoloured eyes, she coughed and looked at the person who stared so intently at her.

"You're hurt," was the first thing she said, her throat hoarse with the reminder of her physical failure.

"I am fine," he contested, becoming more aware of the blood that dripped down his chest and stained his simple clothing. "You need to rest."

"I'll be fine," she replied stubbornly, moving to assist him. "I'll rest after I bind your wounds. Do you have any other cloth?"

He shook his head in response, watching her curiously. She did not demand an explanation. She demanded nothing, as he would have expected a Spartan woman. He noticed her hair. Full, beautiful, long. She had not yet been a bride, forced to shave her head the day that her husband took her. Was she a priestess, then? But she did not bear the marks or jewellery of a priestess. Unable to properly speak, he merely watched her as she tore at her dress to procure several long strips of cloth. Being Spartan, she would have had no modesty, but he was amazed by the fact that she did not defiantly wait for him to inquire. Instead, she was focused completely at the task at hand, possessed by a goddess to heal him.

Her hand moved to the fire and she looked for something. Every time his eyes blinked, she felt it for her body was spared the penetrating gaze. When she tore at her skirt, it gave her something to completely focus on, but she could still feel him. She felt no shame for the fact that more of her legs were shown. She had trained in the nude. But she still felt revealed, as if she was compensating for the fact that he had seen her in her weakness. She hated it when people saw her collapsed and vulnerable. That was why she trained alone.

"Why did you save my life?" She asked, her eyes searching for metal so she could cauterise the wound, but also to avoid looking at him. She found some mud and scooped it onto a rock and placed it near him.

"What?" he was shaken out of his reverie, looking at her in a confused state. How could he not save her?

"Why did you save my life?" She finally looked at him, and the silence passed as though mere seconds to hours while they sought the unspoken answers to the unarticulated questions in their eyes.

He moved slightly and was forced to drop his gaze in a flinch, wincing at the pain. He watched as she shook her head and found his short blade, placing it over the fire to warm. "Once it is hot enough, I'll tend to the wound," she whispered, ashamed at her bold gaze, even for a Spartan woman. She was frantically moving things around, as if to avoid what had happened.

Reaching down, he grasped her hands and held them in the cool air. His touch was warm and she stopped, sitting back on her heels and closing her eyes. "Thank you. For saving my life."

"You're welcome." It was soft, a caress of words. It was only with these that she found the courage to reach into the water and wet the bit of cloth to wash his wound.

Aphrodite. That damned goddess! It was her fault! She never felt anything for men, except what was necessary. And now? Now him? This man that she did not know nor could ever comprehend knowing? He was not a Spartan soldier; whoever he was, he did not wear the red. She reached for the cloth once again and placed it over the deepest part of his wounds and he hissed at the feel of her fingers over his skin. He closed his eyes as she looked up to steal a glance, and she let her fingers linger over his tight skin a little longer than necessary. His skin was injured in different ways. Not with wounds of battle but something different. Small scars here and there, his hands calloused different from the soldiers. They made her curious and she regarded them with a gentle inquiry while he opened his eyes once more.

"Working," he said, reading her mind.

"Excuse me?"

He indicated to the scars and his strangely calloused hands. "They are from working, instead of the fighting scars you are used to. No stab wounds; they are different."

The sword was hot enough and she reached for the blade with one hand while the other pushed away the shoulder wrap of his tunic to reveal more of his chest. She was shocked by his muscular appearance and tried not to stare. Giving him a bit of wood, she indicated that he put it in his mouth. She could stare later, while dressing the wound. "To bite down upon."

He quickly complied and he groaned as the blade was placed against the top of wound, where it was deepest. Pulling it away, she poured the wine over the wound, trying not to think of the sounds of pain that he tried to hide. Once she was done, she pulled the stick away from his mouth and drew his body down.

"You have never had a wound sealed in such a way, have you?" He answered with the shake of his head. "It is hard the first time. But you did well." She gave him the wine and bade him to drink, his hair splayed out over her lap as his head warmed her thighs. She could not make a proper poultice for him now, as she was reluctant to leave him, but she would tomorrow. For now, what she had would work and after he had fallen to sleep she would worry about it. The mud was scooped up into her fingers and she placed it over his wounds before taking the strips from her skirt and carefully binding his arm and chest. She guided his head back to her thighs and she wrapped him and herself up in the blanket as best she could.

"Do all men who kill a lion receive such treatment?" he asked, cheekily.

"Only men foolish enough to be harmed in the process," she retorted, knowing that his own exhaustion was plaguing in. She wondered when the last time he slept was. The bags under his brilliant eyes gave way to his humanity and she knew that he was not a demigod. And yet, that made her heart beat even harder for him. She saw his back horse and assumed a traveller. A foreigner. If her stepfather knew, she would be beaten.

Caressing his head, she smiled. His hair fascinated her, for some reason. "Do you go around saving women all the time?"

"Only the women foolish enough to find themselves needing to be saved." He grinned, the feeling of her hands in his hair lulling him into a sense of security.

She couldn't suppress a grin at that, though she would get him back for it later.

"You ought to rest," she commented softly.

"So should you."

"I will. Don't worry."

What if I open my eyes and she's not here? He thought to himself.

But she answered his question.

"I will check your wounds when you waken."

With that, he permitted himself to fall into a comfortable sleep.