“You gonna poke me to death?” The man in front of him jeered, barking a laugh.
“Something like that,” he mused, rolling the arrow between his fingers. Odysseus turned his back to his hostage, crouching before the hearth in the room. “It’s funny.” he gingerly held the arrow by the shaft, pushing the tip of the head into the flames. “I’m not a fire guy myself. I much prefer the salt of the sea to the flames of a hearth, but…”
He waited until the arrow tip glowed red, turning back to the intruder. “It’s ever so handy to keep around.”
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t give the man a minute to prepare for the pain he was about to endure. The moment the red-hotarrow met his flesh, Odysseus’ face twisted into a feral grin. The man’s scream only making him want more.
The smell of burnt skin quickly filled the room. “Who sent you?” He asked, digging the tip of the arrow into the smoking patch of skin.
“I’d be more than inclined to answer,” his teeth were clenched, his breathing ragged. “If your wife showed her pretty tits.”
Odysseus felt something inside of him snap, something primal in him roared. He took the still smoldering arrow and jabbed it into the soft part of his shoulder, grinning wickedly as it pierced through the other side.
The man underneath him screamed, blood gargling in his throat as he did. “Who sent you?” his words were pointed, clipped.
The walls were closing in, the blood was choking the air from his lungs, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t back down, not when there was so much at stake. His whole life had led him here, had brought him back to her. He couldn’t protect her if he didn’t win.
The man didn’t answer. Perhaps he couldn’t. His chest heaved as he tried to fill his lungs. “You have until I walk over to this table and find another arrow to answer me, pig.”
“Sparta-”
“What?” Odysseus turned on him quickly, grabbing him by the tunic. “What did you say?” When he didn’t respond quick enough, he shook him.
“You,” The man’s words were thick with blood, every breath a ragged rasp as he struggled to stay conscious. “Angered Zeus. You disrespected his daughter.”
The king laughed, shaking his head as he tossed the man on the ground at his feet. “Menelaus is the one that disrespected Helen.” He drove his foot into his ribcage. “Zeus is angry thathe wouldn’t know marital devotion if it slapped him across the face.”
“He’s coming for her, Ithacan. What a pretty prize for the king of the gods.” The man wheezed. “He is angry for his daughter. Angry at you, for dragging her reputation through the mud. Angry at the underworld gods for bringing his kin to your level. You have made a grave mistake, allying yourself with Hades. He wants your wife.”
“He’ll have to get in fucking line.” Odysseus dropped to a knee, settling inside the pool of blood on the floor. “I will protect her until my dying breath. What are you going to do with yours?”
He unsheathed the dagger on his thigh, waiting for the man to answer, to respond. He just coughed, spitting up blood onto the king’s feet.
“Very well.”
The dagger connected with his skin, driven into his heart.
57
THE SUN WAS RISING BY THE TIME he had finished cleaning up the weapons room he had used to get his answers. Odysseus prayed she would understand that he hadn’t come for her.
His work was not complete. He still had one last point to make. To the people attending his son’s celebration, to the gods, to his family.
Odysseus, King of Ithaca, would not lay down and let the gods walk all over him.
Zeus’ threat did not end with the attack — would not end because Odysseus took one more mortal life. With each strike of his dagger, he wove a deeper, more complicated tapestry of anger with the gods.
He sat now, in his son’s seat of honor, waiting for the day to begin. His hands were bloodstained, his tunic stiff with the lingering gore.
They would be here at any moment. His son and his wife would walk through those doors. They would see the vengeful creature that he’d devolved into since seeing that man’s blade on his queen’s throat.
Truth be told, he’d become a vengeful man long before last night.
He used to be a man who made promises, who swore on the gods’ names that he would return to her, swore that nothing could snatch his kind heart and his good nature.
Now, he sat here on his son’s throne, covered in the blood of those who dared to threaten his family.
He was a shadow of the man he once was.
