Lysander closed his eyes tightly and opened them, certain he was dreaming.
Nothing had changed. He was still in this strange but beautiful cave, being watched by the god of the sea in his guise of a handsome young man, pale, with short dark hair and flashing bright eyes. The god smiled at him; a half-smile, and Lysander wondered whether this was it, this was when his punishment would come. The thoughts thronged in his head – what form would it take, and why had the god waited so long, and why had he prepared Lysander for divine retribution by . . . showering him with riches . . . and waiting for him to, at least partly, recover from his experiences. That didn't quite add up.
When he looked up again, Poseidon was shaking his head and smiling, more openly this time.
"I don't want to punish you, Lysander. Not unless that gives you pleasure," he continued, and his smile grew a little more wicked than before.
Poseidon knelt down next to him, grasped his shoulders, and before he knew it Lysander was being kissed by a god. He opened his mouth, reflexively, and Poseidon's tongue delved in his mouth, opening him up, and the pleasure was almost blinding. Lysander responded, losing himself in the kiss and the various caresses Poseidon gave him. As Poseidon's fingers passed over his ruined groin and his scarred face, Lysander tried to shy back, ashamed of his deformities.
"Shh," Poseidon whispered, gentling him. He grinned, looking sly. "Look what I can do!" He caressed Lysander all over, using sea water and sand to rub him gently, and wherever his fingers rested, Lysander could feel himself being healed. Finally Poseidon stroked his face, leaving cool fire in his fingers' wake, so that Lysander knew that the horrible scars were gone. He could feel his excitement rising, something he hadn't felt in over five years, and blushed at the thought of being so exposed to the god. Poseidon just laughed, and kissed him again, pulling him out of the shallow water towards a bed Lysander hadn't seen before. The sheets were warm, soft and smooth, and rubbed tantalizingly against his newly healed skin as Poseidon drove deep into his mouth with his tongue, and touched him intimately at the same time.
He flinched at this – he couldn't help it. Memories rushed back, of the monstrous men rutting in him as he screamed and begged, all those years ago. Poseidon's eyes filled with sadness, and he kissed Lysander's eyes, and mouth, and stopped his caresses.
Lysander rushed to apologize – he hadn't meant to offend, it was just-
"I understand – I can see it, all of it, and it was dreadful. Will you allow me to heal you there, too?"
Lysander was afraid, but he nodded, and when Poseidon entered him, it was nothing but pleasure, for hours, or days, Lysander never really could tell.
Poseidon realized Lysander needed food and drink, and so they paused, and the god would feed Lysander things sweet and savoury, wine and water, but could never keep his hands off Lysander for long before he started caressing him, a bit rougher now. Lysander had lost his fear though. He was drowning in pleasure, and the thought suddenly came to him that he would not be sad if he died like this.
"Oh, no. You're not getting away from me that fast." Poseidon spoke between kisses and caresses. Lysander laughed helplessly, and let himself be enveloped in the sea god's love.
"I don't understand – why me? Why spare my life, when so many died?" Lysander wants to stop himself from being so sharp with the powerful immortal who could crush him like an ant. He's not so sure that this dream accurately conveys what really happened in the cave. Perhaps it conveys what he was thinking, even as he lost himself in the bliss of the god's embrace, or the thoughts which would come to him afterwards, as he asked himself the same question. Nevertheless, in the dream Poseidon says nothing, just smiles enigmatically, and continues caressing Lysander, who gasps at every touch, knowing that this feeling, at least, mirrored reality. Lysander hears a sound behind him. Was that a . . . hiss? He turns, only to see three women bearing down on him, limbs entwined with snakes, and as the first woman's whip strikes him across the face, he wakes up.
Lysander woke up with a gasp. He touched his face, gingerly, but there was no lash-mark. It had been a dream, one which he still occasionally had, even though some years had passed since Lysander met the great god Poseidon in an underwater cave.
He had been awoken by Hipparchus tapping his shoulder, and as he looked out of the doorway he saw that it was a couple of hours before sunrise. Hipparchus was preparing some barley bread and a skin of diluted wine to take on the boat, and Lysander got up, glad that the dream had been interrupted before the goddesses took him apart.
In his waking hours Lysander remembered the specifics of his hours, or even days in the cave, but in dreams his fears took over and added nightmarish elements – the presence of the Erinyes being just one of several. Being awake always dissipated his fears, and he remembered instead the wonderful reality, in which he, Lysander, traitor and murderer, was loved and revered by a god. He remembered the passion with which Poseidon kissed him, the heights of ecstasy brought about by his touch, and the heat of their love-making, the memories of which still excited him.
At some point they had also talked. Lysander had mentioned that he'd been afraid of Poseidon's divine punishment, at which the god laughed, and proceeded to kiss him until his ears rang. Poseidon had tried to reassure him that no immortal beings were hunting him, even when Lysander revealed the chilling fear which had preoccupied him for a while, which he hadn't even wanted to admit to himself.
"In my old village, we often spoke of . . . the Kindly Ones . . ."
Lysander's voice had cracked at that point – he knew that he had done things which ensured their attention many times over. Their curse would follow him for the rest of his life, and nothing he did or said would appease them. Poseidon had shushed him, stroking his hair like he was a child, and he remembered wanting to hide in his arms, forever, if need be.
"Don't worry about them – they have so much retribution to seek, they will be glutted before they even think about you. Besides, you are atoning for your sins, here. Aren't you?"
Lysander thought about it. He supposed that the arrogance and pride of his previous life had been taken from him (in ways he didn't want to remember), and living a humble life might be regarded as a form of atonement. But would it be seen as such by three angry and vengeful goddesses? Not vengeful, he corrected himself hurriedly. They brought justice, that's what he'd meant. You never knew who might be listening.
"Besides, no-one may harm you."
Poseidon looked quite stern at this point.
"Do you know why?"
Lysander wasn't sure, not completely, but he decided to make a leap of faith.
"I belong to you. I am yours."
Poseidon's brilliant smile lit up the dim cave, and the rest of his words were spoken into Lysander's mouth. And so Lysander accepted these feelings, which had been alien to him in the past: of belonging, of being wanted, being treasured, being loved.
This strange bliss sustained Lysander through the dream-like voyage back through the sea to the fishing village, through the amazed and shocked reactions to his transformation, and was with him even now, as he prepared for the daily work that had become an intrinsic part of his life. It hadn't changed much, even after he had come back to the village superficially a new man. No-one except for Hipparchus knew that his facial wounds weren't the only ones that had been healed. He had been known for his modesty and shame, so he felt no impulse to change that now.
Unlike in his dreams, in which his idyll with Poseidon was cut short by his intrusive fears, the reality had been interrupted in a different way. He was still saddened when he remembered Poseidon telling him that he did not think they could meet again, in the near future.
"Lord Zeus is being . . . difficult. We can no longer interact with mortals as we once did."
Lysander smiled as he recalled deciding to take what he could in the time they had left, and pulling Poseidon's head down to his for a last kiss, which turned into many kisses, and more besides. He smiled again, sitting on the boat, mending his nets. Maybe one day he would see Poseidon again – until then, his memories would sustain him.
In the years that had passed, young men had started appearing in the village, after travelling market-traders had spread the word that there was a living to be made in a small village with many widows. The only drawback was that Lysander did not exactly fit in this picture, having no wife or family to call his own. Once his scars were gone, the young men only saw another rival, and at times it was hard for Lysander to persuade them that he had no interest in any woman, or man for that matter. Often it took two or three visits from the village elders to persuade the incomers that whatever mystery lay in Lysander's past (which was never talked about, no matter how insistent the incomers became) or present, the fact remained that the village had never been so prosperous in human memory. And that forcing Lysander to leave would be a very bad idea, for everyone.
Most of the young men had no objections to this situation. Soon, children of their own were born, strengthening their ties to the strange little village which had survived while so many others had been destroyed by the madness of King Hyperion. These men saw Lysander's kindness to Hipparchus, a frail old man who he treated like a father, they saw how he worked harder than anyone else, how he was courteous to everyone, and seemed in some way thankful; for what, in particular, it was never made clear. His only strangeness was his devotion to the old statue of the god in the inlet, which he visited every day, with sacrifices and prayers. And that was not so strange, in a fishing village. And so the incomers looked to their own families, deciding that one strange man in an entire village was not so terrible, after all.
One man, however, would not be persuaded.
Kopris felt that he had somehow been cheated of what he had been promised; by whom, he could not say. To him, his wife was not the most attractive in the village; her young son disliked him on sight, and worst of all, after a year, she had never quickened with his own child. To the others, Lysander among them, he just seemed as sullen as he had been since he first came to their village. He did not confide in his wife, as he was used to the company of men. He could not confide in the other men, his age mates, who were content with their lot. He could not talk to the village elders who, he had been made to understand, had suffered greatly in the past, and who would not be interested in his discontent. And so the feelings of frustration and resentment grew inside him until the day came once more when their fish was to be taken to market by mule-cart. The town was a few days from the village, but the fish would keep, having been dried or salted down. Kopris offered to make the journey, the first time he had done so, and even though she did not show it, his wife dared to hope that he was finally getting used to life in their village.
A week later, Lysander saw a young boy setting out for the hills, following the village goats, who knew the way to their favourite grazing ground, and were eager to get there. The boy could barely keep up with them, and as he hurried up the rocky path, he had a wave and a smile for Lysander, who waved back. As Lysander walked towards the quay, he saw the boy's mother standing in her doorway, looking anxiously after her son as he went in the direction she'd hoped her husband would be coming from. Lysander nodded at her and she seemed to need to make some form of conversation.
"His step-father should be back today."
She sounded worried. In fact, her husband was a few days overdue, and Lysander hoped that the other women had not filled her ears with gossip. The old men had been doing enough of that, with more than one remarking, in Lysander's earshot, that maybe Kopris had simply sold the fish instead of bartering and had walked away with their one mule and cart. He tried to smile in a reassuring manner, conscious of the fact that there were probably more eyes on him than he could see, whose owners would be all to happy to tell her husband, when he came back, that "handsome Lysander" had been smiling and chatting with his wife.
Even though he felt ungrateful when he had such thoughts, he sometimes wished Poseidon had left him his facial scarring. No-one besides Hipparchus really understood why he hadn't tried for a wife after his return from the cave, and perhaps Lysander didn't really understand it himself. Poseidon hadn't forbidden him a wife, or even a lover, but Lysander didn't want anyone else. Those hours in the cave had filled him with such contentment and joy that he only had to think back on them to feel happy again. And when the loneliness became too much, he tended to the statue and looked out to sea, hoping against hope to see a merry face looking back at him. He swam sometimes, when they weren't fishing, enjoying the feelings of buoyancy and freedom, and if he sometimes thought he heard a voice saying, "Wait for me", he wasn't telling anyone.
Lysander marshalled his thoughts.
"I'm sure he will be." He smiled again. "His delay is probably a result of his mastery of haggling, to get the most goods for our fish!"
Ianthe smiled back at him, happier now.
"I sent Eryx with the goats – maybe he will meet his st- his father on the way!"
She sounded so hopeful that Lysander just nodded and went on his way. He was careful to avoid showing his real thoughts – that if the boy Eryx met his step-father on the way home there would be no happy conversation, but only dark thoughts and sullen sniping. The elders were not happy with Kopris, but felt they could not interfere as nothing overt had occurred. Lysander wished he could take it on himself to tell the man to count his blessings, to adapt or leave, but who was he to take such an action? He had not been born in the village, and this simple fact would make him an incomer, a virtual stranger, for a very long time.
They would not go fishing that day – there were high clouds in the distance and being unsure of the weather, devoted the day to repairing their nets. Long afterwards, Lysander would believe that the god had been watching over him even then. For at about midday, hours before the boy should have returned from the pastureland, a strange commotion drew the fishermen to the other end of the village, where they witnessed a bizarre scene.
Lysander watched in horror as Eryx, carrying the lead goat in his arms, slipped and slid down the rocky path, with all the other goats bleating worriedly and following. He was out of breath, and struggled to speak, but one word was terrifyingly clear.
"Soldiers!"
Lysander felt a sudden jerk under his feet, as if the world had moved sideways and then righted itself again. He tried to speak, but his mouth felt dry, and he was afraid that if he opened his mouth again only a croak would come out. He looked around him, willing someone to take over, to take charge, but all eyes were on him, some accusatory, others pleading. Ianthe pushed her way through the crowd, and once again Lysander felt horrified, this time at the thought of common soldiers, and what they would do to women who walked unveiled in the street, with no shame or fear.
"Did you not meet your father on the way?"
The boy answered her with a defiant look.
"He is not my father!"
He relented at her pleading look and continued.
"He is with them, the soldiers, I mean. He is driving the cart, and he talks and laughs with them. I think-"
Here Eryx hesitated. He exchanged looks with Lysander, who gave him a little nod. The time for kind lies had passed. Kopris had betrayed them all, and if they were to survive the day, they would have to show a united front. Kopris was one of them no longer.
The boy cleared his throat.
"I think he brought them here. He pointed towards the wider path. I only arrived before them because I took the goat path. They are just behind that ridge."
Everyone turned to look in that direction, as if they hadn't seen the ridge every day of their lives. Lysander realised that he had to do something, or else they would all stand there, frozen like puppets, occasionally jerking from side to side, unable to act, until the soldiers rode down into the village. He noticed that Hypatia had hurried up to them, drawn by the commotion, and she must have heard the boy's words.
"Hypatia, Ianthe, gather the women and children, and take them to-"
He wasn't even sure what he was going to say next. Was there even time to get to the caves?
"We won't get to the caves in time," Hypatia interrupted.
"But will they be out of sight? I can try to keep their attention here, for a while. It's me they want, anyway." Lysander tried to keep any hint of self-pity out of his voice. These people did not deserve the wrath that was headed his way. He, on the other hand, did.
"They can't have you!"
Lysander sighed. Hipparchus had been ill, that winter, and had not fully recovered. He spent most of his days lying in the shade, looking out to sea, waiting for Lysander to return. He'd hoped Hipparchus had been sleeping so deeply that he hadn't noticed the commotion, but that was not to be. He noticed that Hypatia had taken the opportunity to run off, dragging a protesting Ianthe along, followed by Eryx, who was still carrying the lead goat. He hoped she'd know to take the hill-paths, behind the statue of the god. Even if the women and children didn't reach the caves by the time the soldiers arrived, they'd be out of sight.
Hipparchus was leaning heavily on the staff he'd started to use recently. All the other elders avoided his angry looks – they were clearly not prepared to sacrifice themselves for someone who was, essentially, a stranger to them. It would take more than the odd decade for Lysander to be part of the village, something he knew very well. The other young men milled around uncertainly. Separated from their wives and children, they were clearly unsure of what, if anything, they should contribute. Lysander had kept his eyes on the one who clearly felt he should lead, and who seemed to be working himself up to suggest that Lysander should be offered up to the soldiers. Seeing as that was Lysander's own intention, he just wanted to say it himself, as Hipparchus was clearly going to attack anyone who even hinted at this solution. As he'd been having coughing fits since his illness, something which had been worrying Lysander more than he cared to admit, he was afraid that any outburst would set Hipparchus off again.
"Hipparchus, you must let me speak with them."
Lysander took the old man by the shoulders and shook him, gently. Hipparchus had tears in his eyes, but blinked fiercely, unwilling to let them fall.
"They will kill you!"
"Am I not worth the village? Had I not come here, you wouldn't be in danger."
"Had you not come here, we would have starved to death that winter!"
Hipparchus still sounded angry, but he'd started to look resigned, too. Lysander knew he wasn't stupid or senile, and there was no other way this could go. He only hoped the soldiers would take him and leave the village untouched. He wasn't sure whether Kopris knew about the caves, though. It was as good a time as any to pray, and he wished he was closer to the sea, as he prayed desperately that Ianthe hadn't been so trusting as to tell her husband about the village's most important secret. Lysander himself did not trust in the good nature of soldiers. He should know, he'd been one once.
As though his very thoughts had called them into being, the first soldiers crested over the ridge. They were mostly infantry, with a mounted Regiment commander. One of the hoplites was walking the commander's spare horses, and the others were marching along Kopris's cart, chatting with him, happy of the slow pace. Lysander could not recognize the commander under his helmet, but he had no doubt he would. Why else would he bring fifty soldiers to a poor fishing village? This was someone whose brother, whose father he had wronged, and it was time to pay for his crimes.
Hipparchus tried one last time.
"Hide, Lysander – they have no reason to attack us!"
"They will have reason – you have given me refuge all these years. Best you tell them you knew nothing." Lysander sighed, struck by a sudden thought – he should have died during the battle. These people did not deserve such a punishment. He thought again of Poseidon, and wished he had a way of asking the god to protect his people, but there was no time. The soldiers had arrived.
Lysander took a few steps forward, trying to separate himself from the rest of the villagers. He noticed, from the corner of his eyes, that some of the men had brought rakes and scythes, hammers, chisels and other implements. He sighed, inwardly – the soldiers would mow them down within seconds. It must not come to this, he decided, and walked, trying to seem calm, towards the soldiers.
The regiment commander stopped in front of Lysander and dismounted, taking off his helmet. Lysander did not recognize the man, but it had been almost a decade. He swallowed, nervously.
"I am Lysander," he said.
"You betrayed your village. You brought soldiers there. You joined Hyperion's army."
"Yes."
Lysander could hear protesting begin behind him. The elders had changed their minds, it seemed, and were listing the things he had done for the village, the way he had helped them with no expectation of reward except food and a place to sleep. The hoplites started moving towards them and Lysander grew desperate.
"No! I am here, take me – they have done nothing, I deserve your wrath, but not them."
The commander gave him a contemptuous look, strode forward and delivered a backhand that sent Lysander to his knees on the stony ground. He grabbed Lysander by the hair and pulled his head back, studying his face.
"Where are Hyperion's marks? You are as I remember, only older. How is it that you are unblemished, while all the others that we killed had been turned into horrors?"
"Sorcery! Evil magics!"
Lysander wished, not for the first time, that they had turned Kopris away when he'd first come to their village.
The commander pushed him face down into the ground. Lysander's lip was bleeding, and as he lay there, staring at the sand which was soaking up his blood, it seemed to him that the last years had been a fever dream, and he was there again, at Hyperion's last battle, waiting for the Minotaurs to finish him off. When he tried to get up, a foot landed on his neck and kept him in place.
"You promised me! You promised I could have the pick of any woman." Would that son of a dog not be quiet, Lysander thought. It seemed the commander shared his opinion, if not enough to spare the villagers.
"Enough, cur! You will get your reward soon enough."
Lysander could hear scuffling close by, and a few slaps as the hoplites kept the villagers in check, but at least no-one had drawn swords. Yet, his treacherous mind supplied. Who knew what they would do to give Kopris his 'reward'?
And yet, he could feel something strange happening under him, pinned to the ground as he was. Had there been . . . a rumble? Movement?
"You two, tie his hands and put him in the cart."
Lysander stumbled as he was pulled upright and held firmly in between two hulking foot-soldiers. Kopris's protests were loud and immediate, and through the sand in his eyes he could see the contempt in the commander's face.
"Did you think you were going to stay here with her, whatever mangy bitch you chose? Go and pick your woman, fool."
"No!" Lysander knew he was just adding to the beating he was going to get very soon, but he couldn't stop himself. "They have done nothing wrong, spare them!"
The commander made a sign for the hoplites to hold him steady, and punched Lysander in the stomach. As he doubled over in pain, one of the men pulled his head up by the hair, and the commander elbowed him in the face. As he coughed and retched, more droplets of blood hit the sand.
"No one will be harmed, and whatever woman he chooses will soon become accustomed to her lot. Is it not a small price to pay for remaining unscathed after harbouring such a monster, one woman?"
Lysander could see the commander's smirk through the blurring in his eyes, even as he realised that he was the monster being referred to. It had been a long time since he thought of himself as a monster.
The commander moved closer and murmured into Lysander's ear.
"We still have those bulls your King used to discipline men in. Your last hours, maybe even days, will be spent in one of them. A fitting punishment, don't you think?"
Lysander looked past him, trying not to show the panic and horror caused by the commander's word, and found that he could see Kopris striding confidently into the village, sure, by his gait, that he would soon be dragging his reward out by the hair, if necessary.
Except Kopris stumbled. Which didn't seem strange to Lysander – the small stones on the path were tricky enough, even for the sure-footed. But then the other villagers started to move, as well as the cart, and Lysander, and the soldiers holding him back. The earth was shaking, and as if terrified by that fact, the commander's three horses lost their minds. The most magnificent one, a big grey, pulled free of the soldier holding the reins and reared up, lashing out madly with its hooves, landing a couple of blows that would surely have killed the soldier if not for his helmet.
"It is the god! You will all be punished for what you have done!"
Lysander was glad to hear that Hipparchus had not been in any way intimidated by the soldiers, even though a soldier immediately turned around and punched him to the ground. Lysander felt a sudden wave of rage crash over him, and he struggled like a madman.
"Leave him alone! He could be your grandfather!"
The ground had stopped rumbling, but the horses were still stamping, and the big grey kept everyone a fair distance away. Which was why everyone, except Lysander and the commander, missed the enormous figure striding out of the sea, wielding a trident many feet high, and bringing with him a wall of water which crashed over houses and men alike, but somehow only swept the soldiers off their feet, leaving the villagers unharmed.
The soldier who had hit Hipparchus landed badly on one arm, and even Lysander winced as he heard the crack. But all noise was drowned out when Poseidon spoke.
"WHO DARES? WHO DARES?"
The voice was so loud Lysander could feel it reverberate in his bones. The only soldiers still on their feet covered their ears and sank to the ground, in fear as well as pain. Kopris became mad with terror, and tried to run to his cart, but a wave lifted him bodily to a height of twenty feet and dashed him to the ground, where he lay still.
The commander stood his ground, Lysander gave him that. His grip on Lysander's arm tightened, and if he shook a little, Lysander understood that being faced with such power for the first time was a chastening experience. The huge head turned to him, and one enormous eye closed and opened again. Lysander had to stop himself from smiling back, but thankfully no-one else seemed to have noticed the furious sea-god winking at him.
"Lord, we did not know he was under your protection-" the commander began. His voice was as steady as could be expected, under the circumstances, but Poseidon was not mollified.
"RELEASE HIM!"
The words were so loud Lysander imagined they were written across the sky in huge granite blocks. The soldiers still on each side of him immediately let him go, even though their commander had given no such order.
"This village is under my protection! None shall harm whoever resides here! None shall harm what is MINE!"
The last word forced them to their knees again.
"But lord, he is a traitor, and a murderer!"
Lysander was starting to admire this commander, in spite of his intense desire to end his life. He wondered, sadly, which of the commander's relatives he'd betrayed.
The huge figure turned to them and said no more, but the commander seemed to hear something, as he winced, as if the sounds in his head were too loud to be borne. He looked at his men meaningfully, and they all started moving towards him, leaving the villagers where they stood, or lay. The horses had calmed down, and the commander quietly instructed some men to take their reins, except for the big grey, which he would ride.
About to swing himself into the saddle, the commander hesitated, as his hand gripped the horse's mane, and tightened convulsively. He looked up into Poseidon's face. The god inclined his head graciously, and Lysander didn't know what it meant, only that the commander understood and nodded. He swung himself into the saddle, patting the horse's neck. It suddenly dawned on Lysander that the commander had been asking whether a sacrifice was necessary – it obviously was not, and Lysander was glad of that. He wanted no living creature to die for his sake.
The soldiers left the village at a quick trot, and soon the only people in sight were the villagers, and Lysander. And of course Poseidon, legs like enormous tree-trunks, sea-weed entwined around his limbs, eyes staring into the distant horizon. Lysander looked up and that huge bearded face smiled down at him, an enormous hand reaching down, a thumb passing over his face and healing his cut lip, his grazed scalp.
A moan from the group of elders distracted him from Poseidon's hypnotic gaze, and he realized that they were clustered around the fallen figure of Hipparchus, who lay where he had fallen when the soldier punched him. Lysander raced to his side, and one of the other old men turned to him.
"I think a rib might be broken. Bastard didn't have to hit him that hard."
Before Lysander could do anything, the gasps from the crowd alerted him to Poseidon's approach. Well, not really an approach, he told himself. Poseidon only had to turn and reach down, and his hand passed gently over the old man's chest, healing as it went. As Lysander watched, the old man took one deep breath, and then another, with more confidence – he nodded at Lysander, who, for the first time that day, gave in to his emotions and crushed Hipparchus to his chest.
"Come, come," Hipparchus said, patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. "We are alive and well, no harm done." But his eyes shone too, and his hands shook.
Lysander helped him to his feet, and the villagers started moving away from him, muttering something about seeing to the nets, even though no-one had been fishing, that day. One of them glanced at Lysander and then looked upwards, as if to remind him of something he'd forgotten. Or someone. Oh, yes. Poseidon was still standing there, like a huge statue. Only his head moved, as he looked over the ridge where the soldiers could probably still be seen, from his vantage point. Poseidon looked down at him, and his eyes became kind again.
"Follow me. We need to converse."
Poseidon's voice did not boom so loud anymore – it was more like a rumble of distant thunder. His steps were huge as he strode towards his statue in the inlet, but he seemed to diminish with every step, until, waiting for Lysander in the small cove, was the merry youth who had greeted him in the cave.
Lysander had passed the villagers who were gathered in groups discussing what had happened, except for the young husbands who'd gone to the caves to tell the women the danger was over. They'd had to draw lots to decide who to leave behind to bury Kopris. It was not fair to leave such an onerous duty to his wife, who had been as much fooled and cast aside as the rest of them.
The elders were the only ones to greet Lysander and meet his eyes – he guessed it was because the younger men were eager to forget all that had occurred, and would simply remember that a lucky earthquake and high tide had saved them from destruction. They would sacrifice to Poseidon in thanks, but would prefer to forget about sixty-foot gods striding out of the sea. As he hurried towards the inlet, he had to run a gauntlet of backslapping and praise. One of the old men had had a couple of amphorae of wine hidden away, and a cup was pressed into his hand as he hurried along. He was glad of it – he hadn't liked the look in Poseidon's eyes as he stared after the soldiers and their commander, and maybe an offering of wine would placate him for a while. And also an offering of his body, though Lysander's honesty won out here – he'd missed the god, and after almost dying he wanted so badly to feel Poseidon's arms around him.
As he splashed into the inlet, he was immediately enveloped in Poseidon's embrace, the cup was taken from his nerveless fingers and put into a concave depression, and he was summarily stripped and kissed breathless.
"They would have killed you, they would have taken you from me . . ."
Lysander's ears rang from lack of breath, but he heard what Poseidon said between frantic kisses. He stroked the lustrous curls and kissed the god back.
"But you saved me – you saved everyone-"
"They dared touch you, touch this village," Poseidon interrupted, enraged again. His moods were as mercurial as the weather out at sea, Lysander thought. "I will curse them!"
"My love," Lysander answered, feeling very daring. "Please spare them." He knew he could not say 'no' to the sea-god, but perhaps a request would do.
"Why do you plead for them? " There was genuine puzzlement on Poseidon's features, and Lysander struggled to come up with a way to explain himself to such a powerful being. They are simple mortals, he wanted to say, they see injustice and think revenge will make them feel better. Yes, they wanted to kill me horribly, but these were the lessons Hyperion taught them – that mortals needed to make their own justice, and not rely on the gods anymore. That mortals could be as capricious and thoughtless as the gods, and cause as much pain. Though Lysander knew he could not utter the last thought. He did love Poseidon, after all.
"I am safe, in your arms." He punctuated his words with kisses, knowing that Poseidon would not resist him. "The village is safe. They will not return. And we will be more careful about who we admit in the future." Lysander was determined to accomplish this by involving himself with the elders, in the days to come. They would not have to go through this again, with different soldiers, and another commander that he'd wronged in his past.
"I was almost too late," Poseidon insisted.
Lysander smiled, fondly. "You would have been able to find me anywhere."
"Well, yes," he admitted. "But rage fills me when I think of their hands on you."
"How did you know, anyway?" Lysander was still puzzled about this. Poseidon looked shaken, as much as an immortal being could.
"Your blood hit the stones – the very bones of the earth called out to me, telling me to save my love."
Poseidon declaimed happily, and Lysander smiled at his joy. So dramatic, his divine lover.
"There is something you wish to ask me; I can see it in your eyes."
Lysander played for time by grasping the cup of wine and offering it to Poseidon. The god smiled at him wickedly, and poured the wine over his chest, where he proceeded to lick it off, paying special attention to Lysander's nipples, which were soon as erect as other parts of his body.
Between gasps of pleasure and deep kisses it was difficult to keep his question in mind, and soon Lysander was simply lost in ecstasy. At one point, he protested that surely the women and children would be able to see them as they came back from the caves.
"I will envelop us in a glamour," Poseidon said grandly, "and hide us from their sight." The deep kisses continued, and soon Poseidon was caressing him in more intimate ways.
"Will you really hide us?"
"No. They need to learn who you belong to."
The god smirked, and turned Lysander onto his stomach. He sighed, pillowing his head on his folded arms, and let himself be lost in pleasure.
Hours later, they were lying side by side on the warm rocks, which were still heated from the afternoon sun. The promised storm had not arrived, and the air was comfortable enough to dry them off. Lysander ached pleasantly from their exertions, and had almost forgotten the unpleasant events earlier that day.
Poseidon was dropping soft kisses on his neck, nipping gently at his lips from time to time, when he pulled back and stared into Lysander's eyes.
"Ask your question."
Lysander knew what he meant.
"What did you say to the commander, when he called me a traitor and a murderer?"
"How do you know I said anything?"
"He did not seem the kind of man to leave without an answer, even if he was being told to do so by a god."
Poseidon stroked Lysander's hair as he replied, perhaps to take the sharp edge off his words.
"I showed him your suffering. I showed what Hyperion did to you. I told him what would be your punishment here."
"Which is?"
Poseidon wouldn't meet his eyes at first, but then looked deep into them as he continued.
"You live here, far away from the citadels of power, in a small forgotten village, as a poor fisherman, who once was a soldier. There will be no great feats here, or quests, just daily hard labour until the day you die." Here Poseidon paused, and seemed to consider his words as he went on. "There will be no wife for you, no children, no sons. Your line ends with you. But . . . I did not tell him that you are my beloved, and that I will always be by your side."
Lysander grinned so wide his face was aching.
"My love," he gasped, and could not stop himself from grabbing the god's face and kissing him deeply. Poseidon laughed in between kisses, praising what he called Lysander's new found confidence.
"Where is that shy boy I seduced in an underwater cavern?" He laughed merrily, and pulled Lysander on top of him.
Lysander smiled and kissed his way down Poseidon's chest, and then up again to his lips.
"Will you truly be by my side till the day I die?" Lysander wondered at his own daring, asking such a thing of an immortal being.
Poseidon nibbled at his ear and whispered.
"And beyond, love. I will not let you go. Resign yourself to being mine, forever." And so Lysander did.
And one day, perhaps, after many years had passed, Lysander went to sleep for the last time, and woke up in a field of flowers with the sea shining in the distance, and a familiar figure waiting for him on the distant shore.
oOo
Notes
Sorry about the many edits: I saw some mistakes while reading it again this morning, and I thought I'd add some notes too.
The "Erinyes", which means The Kindly Ones, was what ancient Greeks called The Furies - the three goddesses of vengeance and retribution, punishing murderers in various ways. I belong to the school of thought which believes that they were called 'Kindly' as a form of self-defence - to call them by their true name would risk bringing their wrath down on you.
Poseidon, as well as being the god of the sea, was also the god of earthquakes. One of the animals associated with him was the horse.