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“There is a cyclops who resides here and eats my sheep,” the man said. “Kill him.”

“After she is better,” Dionysus said. “I will see my debt through.”

The man gave no other demands or acknowledgments, and before Dionysus could say more or even ask where they were, he vanished.

Alone, Dionysus carried Ariadne into the cottage.

He was surprised to find that the floor was covered in sheepskin rugs. There was also a cot and a small clay fireplace. A few pots and a kettle were stacked beside it.

It would be enough.

He lay Ariadne on the cot and covered her with one of the blankets. He smoothed her hair away from her face, letting his hand linger on her forehead, which was warm to the touch. Then he brushed his fingers over her heated cheeks.

This was fever.

He frowned and pulled the blanket back to look at the wound on her thigh. He would need to clean it before he could heal it.

He was still in Poseidon’s territory, stranded in the middle of the sea, and while he could not teleport, hecould call on his magic. The only danger was that the more he used, the more he faced the risk of drawing the god to them.

He spent a few more moments caressing Ariadne’s skin, reluctantly pulling away.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

He didn’t think she heard him at all, but it made him feel better to speak to her as if she could.

He left the cottage in search of firewood, herbs, and clean water.

Dionysus was familiar with the art of healing. He had been taught by Rhea, the mother goddess, who had cured him of Hera’s madness. The only thing that worked against him on this island was that he was not familiar with the environment. He had no idea where to find supplies or even if the wild would have what he needed.

He gathered wood first and then set water from the ocean to boil, offsetting the lid so he could collect the desalinated water. He checked on Ariadne before he left again to search for herbs, which was a far more tedious task. There was a variety he could use for fever—elderflowers, yarrow, echinacea, willow bark. The issue was finding one of them on this island wilderness.

It took him a while, but he finally located lemon balm and aloe, which he would use to disinfect her wound. By the time he returned to the cottage, anxiety tore at his chest, worsening when he checked on Ariadne, whose fever had spiked. Her skin was on fire.

He drew the blankets from her body and set about drying the lemon balm leaves over the fire and boiling the clean water he’d made. He studied the wound on herleg. It was a jagged cut that ran the length of her thigh, and the skin around it was red and angry. He guessed that she must have hit some kind of rock after they’d been swept out to sea.

Dionysus was disturbed that he could not recall what happened in the immediate aftermath of Poseidon’s yacht capsizing. He remembered holding on to Ariadne while she raged with madness, but at some point, he had lost consciousness, and so, it seemed, had she.

They were lucky they had managed to stay together.

He thought of Poseidon’s final words to him and his threat against Ariadne. He would be careful with how he used his magic and hope they could make it out of Poseidon’s realm before he realized either of them was alive.

Before he could clean her wound, he stripped her of her clothing, which was dry and stiff from salt water. There was nothing sexual about the process, and he hated having to do it without her knowledge.

When she was bare, he used hot water to clean her wound and then added a layer of aloe, leaving it uncovered. He would wait until tomorrow to heal it to ensure it was free of infection.

When the lemon balm leaves had dried, he crushed and boiled them to make a tea, and when it was cool enough, he propped Ariadne’s head into the crook of his elbow and brought the minty drink to her mouth.

“Come on, Ari,” he coaxed as he poured it into her mouth. He wasn’t sure how much actually made it down her throat, but it would have to do.

By the time he finished medicating her, night had fallen outside the cottage.

He washed her salt-encrusted clothes and lay them by the fire to dry. While he worked, he could hear thunder in the distance—there was another storm raging at sea, and as it hit land, it roared around the cottage, causing it to creak and groan.

Though he grew tired, he remained beside Ariadne, too afraid to leave her alone even if it was to sleep.

For a while, he did not speak, just stared at her face as color slowly crept back in. Finally, he spoke.

“You make me feel insane,” he said. “Like I’m struck with madness. I never thought I would want to feel that way again…but it’s different with you.”