Page 61 of Crown of Serpents (Curse of Olympus #1)

CHAPTER SIXTY

Thunder crackled and boomed as Perseus trudged along the muddy path to his childhood home. Ominous storm clouds choked the sky, and the howling wind whipped and tore at his black tunic. Seriphos had never experienced such ferocious autumn storms as in the past days, forcing most fishing boats to remain anchored in the harbour. Perseus had barely encountered a soul on his walk to the fishing hut above the cliff.

It was a silent journey. His chest ached with every step, the pain of where Poseidon’s trident had pierced his skin lingering, but Perseus pressed on. He needed to bring his father to rest.

Perseus carried a wooden stretcher on his shoulders. It was the only way they could carry Dictys’s lifeless body back to the cottage he had built for Perseus and Danae. The roads were impassable quagmires for chariots due to the constant rain of the past days. Still, Perseus had insisted on burying Dictys beneath the cypress tree in their backyard rather than being burned on a pyre with the other fallen men .

Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, and Zotikos. Those were the names of the men who had lost their lives because they had chosen to follow him. The gruesome images of their bodies scattered on the marble floor still haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Elias’s and Meliton’s mangled corpses, their hands outstretched, reaching in vain for each other. Nine men had died for him. Even more were dead because of him. He did not even know the names of the fallen epetae that night. Still, they had burned their bodies side by side with the sailors they had slaughtered. Perseus had forced himself to stay and watch until nothing but ashes and glowing embers were left of them, reciting the names in his head. Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, and Zotikos.

Yet, he had refused to bury Dictys in the same manner. He had not died a hero or in line of service like the guards. The old man had died in the dank, suffocating dungeon of the palace that was once his. He had perished from the countless wounds his torturers had dealt him in the name of his brother. Dictys had died alone, not knowing whether his family had made it out. Perseus would make sure that he would not be alone in his death. His body would rest in the home he had built for them so he might stay with Danae and Perseus forever.

Behind Perseus, somebody yelped, and Perseus turned just in time to see Medusa steadying Danae as she slipped in the mud. The stretcher tilted dangerously, but Perseus’s hand instinctively shot up to steady it.

This procession was nothing like the ceremony they had held in the palace. Only he, Danae, and Medusa walked the treacherous, rain-soaked path to the far end of Seriphos. They alone carried Dictys to his burial site. Not even Andromeda had come.

The former princess of Joppa had refused to leave the palace. She had refused to leave Kleos’s bedside. She did not drink or eat unless Medusa brought her a plate to the small room where Kleos’s unconscious body rested. He had not woken since.

Andromeda worked tirelessly to heal the burned skin on his back, arms, and face. She kept his body wrapped in bandages saturated with a balsam made of herbs, honey, and some plant she called aloe vera. Perseus had sent for the best healers in Seriphos so they might help her restore Kleos’s skin or what was left of it, but she had refused to let anyone else touch him. When Perseus had asked when his friend would wake, only one healer had dared to answer. Only the fates could decide if Kleos would wake.

Grief and anger crashed over him, making his knees buckle. Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, Zotikos, and Kleos. Too many lives weighed on his conscience.

They reached the top of the rolling foothill, and Perseus paused. The small stone cottage still looked the same, the crooked roof he had just fixed with Dictys, the pine forest in the distance. Only the lemon tree on the front porch looked different, its bare branches bending in the rhythm of the howling wind. Perseus swallowed a tear at the sight of his former home, knowing he could not return to live in it. He would not be able to return to his simple life as a fisherman now. Even if Dictys had survived and reclaimed the throne of Seriphos, he could not have returned — not after having executed the king of Seriphos, not after Medusa had openly challenged the gods to save his life. He shoved the thoughts of the empty throne to the back of his mind. That was a problem for another day.

Perseus stopped in the backyard of the stone cottage. Carefully, they set the stretcher into the sodden grass and began digging. Even though no one spoke, Perseus was grateful that Medusa stayed close to his side as they shovelled the dirt. Their progress was slow, the tree routes and rocky ground making digging arduous. No one complained, even as Danae’s arms began quivering from exhaustion. His mother was pale with deep shadows beneath her hollow eyes. Still, he did not insult her by offering to take a break or finish the grave without her.

When the grave was finally deep enough, they gently placed Dictys’s wrapped body in the hole. It was customary to leave the body of the deceased uncovered so their loved ones could gaze upon them when saying their final words. However, neither Danae nor he could stand to see his face frozen and lifeless. He could not imagine what Dictys would look like without his eyes crinkling in amusement or the small, thin-lipped smiles he had shared with them. That was how he wanted to remember the man who had raised him. They covered the empty shell left of Dictys with soil with their bare hands to seal him beneath the earth forever. When they were done, Perseus was covered in mud, but he didn’t mind.

Above them, the clouds burst open, pouring down sheets of icy rain, as he knelt next to his mother on the ground. It was as if the skies were mourning their loss as well … or trying to wash them away. With trembling hands, Danae pulled an asphodel wreath free from her soggy cloak and placed it on the small hill of dirt beneath which Dictys now lay. Perseus took her hand as they silently watched the rain drench the delicate white flowers, a puddle slowly forming around them.

He felt the pressure of a gentle hand on his shoulder as Medusa whispered: “I will let you two say your goodbyes.”

His goodbyes. What was he supposed to say to the man who had raised him as his own ever since they had washed up in a wooden barrel on Seriphos? He, who had shown him how to read the wind and raise a sail. He, who had helped him catch his first fish. He, who never refused to help whenever Perseus asked. Perseus’s head was suddenly empty as if the rain had washed away all thoughts. There was no way he could articulate the gratitude he felt toward the old man who had died to protect his mother. Medusa had told him what his last words had been before she had left him in the dungeon. Tell Perseus I’m sorry that I could not protect her. His chest ached again, this time not from the phantom pain of Poseidon’s trident. He felt a painful void inside.

Perseus unsheathed the sword his father had given him. It was not the adamantine blade crafted for the gods but the rusty weapon Dictys had handed him before he had left. It had been his last gift to Perseus. He raised the cold metal to his lips and pressed a kiss on it before he placed the blade on the wet ground next to his mother’s flower wreath.

…

Medusa’s emerald hair billowed in the wind as she looked over the ocean. Perseus stepped next to her, their fingers intertwining. They stood on the cliff’s edge, the wind tearing on their mourning clothes.

She turned toward him, her eyes searching his. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Perseus shook his head, squeezed her icy hand, and turned his gaze toward the lightning storm rolling toward them from the horizon. The power in his blood thrummed in response, but he ignored the sensation.

“Do you think they will come for Seriphos? Punish the entire island for what we have done?” Medusa asked.

“Yes.”

If there was anything he knew with absolute certainty, then it was that there would be a reckoning. The Olympians’s wrath was as endless as they were immortal. There was no way they would ignore what he and Medusa had done — even if she had not threatened to chase Athena from Olympus. She had defeated and humiliated Poseidon, had taken his trident from him, and had almost killed him. They would not allow her to walk free after what she had done.

“Would you have chosen differently had you known what sparing me would mean? That I would condemn your home to … to become cursed by the gods?”

Her eyes were wide with apprehension as her question hung heavy between them.

Perseus took her face in his palms, gently bringing his forehead to hers. The sight of her made his breath hitch. Her eyes were so breathtakingly beautiful. If they had been the last thing he saw, Perseus would not have minded had he died on that cold marble floor of the megaron.

“No,” Perseus breathed. “I could never bring myself to kill you … even if that was the only way to save my home. That was true then, and it is true now. I will always choose you.”

He wrapped an arm around her trembling body, but her brows knitted in doubt.

“Your crew would not be dead had you simply killed me in that cave. ”

“My crew would have died in Joppa had you not saved us all.”

Disbelief still clouded her beautiful eyes, so he brushed a feather-light kiss against her lips, tilting her head.

“I will always choose you, Medusa. Even if they had lived, had you not been, I still would have chosen you.”

Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, Zotikos, and Kleos. Their names reverberated in his head as guilt gnawed at his gut. Still, his voice had been unwavering when he had spoken. He would shoulder the weight of his decisions … for her .

“Even after you had to stop me from butchering the remaining king’s guard? After seeing what I did to the men in the hallway and the dungeon?”

“I will choose you no matter what you do or where you go. I would follow you to the ends of the world.”

Perseus tugged a strand of hair behind her ear and held her gaze so she might see the truth in his eyes. There was nothing she could do to deter him from loving her. No matter how many men she ripped apart or turned to stone, every fibre of his heart and body was hers. He might not worship the gods, but Perseus did believe in her. He would trust Medusa with his life … and the lives of the people he was now responsible for. She might be ruthless, lethal, and wild, but Perseus knew with absolute certainty that she would never use her power to prey on the weak or innocent.

A weak smile spread on Medusa’s lips as if she had finally accepted his response. “You would follow me anywhere.”

“I would follow you anywhere.”

She leaned into his touch, bringing them closer. Their breaths mingled between them as the lingering warmth of their bodies merged.

Her voice was barely a whisper, but fierce green flames danced in her eyes when she spoke: “What if I wanted to burn Olympus to the ground for what they have done to me.” He met her gaze, his own eyes reflecting the storm brewing both within her and in the heavens above. “Would you still follow me then?”

Thunder cracked, a jagged scar across the sky. Perseus didn't flinch at the green fire blazing in her unforgiving eyes. His hand tightened around hers. “I would follow you anywhere,” he said, his voice a vow. “And if you want to see Olympus consumed by flames, I will gladly hand you the torch.”