Page 4

4

Poseidon

The last thing I expected upon arriving home to check on the prisoner was to find Polyphemus straddling him, a knife in his hand and covered in blood. Later, I’ll berate myself for misjudging one of my people so thoroughly, for not noticing how grief had turned his moral compass flexible in a way that I don’t fully understand. Later, I’ll worry about how angry I was and how close to fully losing control. Right now, I have an unconscious Icarus in my arms, and my hands are covered in blood.

The sensation is sticky and makes me want to scour my skin with sandpaper, but I muscle past the response as I shoulder my way into the bathroom and carefully lay Icarus in the tub.

He’s too pale, his light-brown skin gone waxy and his beautiful face standing out in stark lines. Like this, I can clearly see the dark circles beneath his eyes that suggest he’s had more than a few sleepless nights in his past.

That matters less than the cuts streaming blood. Panic threatens to derail my logical thought process, but again I muscle it down. One does not work in a shipyard without knowing how to deal with wounds in a crisis. Granted, I’m not particularly familiar with knife wounds, but the premise remains the same.

I hurry to the cupboards under the sink that house a first aid kit. But, even in the midst of all this, I can’t help pausing to scrub the blood from my hands. I know it’s a lost cause, but the compulsion is too overwhelming. I have to give in once in order to release the pressure enough for me to be able to think. To help him.

If I were going to let him die, I would have done it on the docks. He’s under my protection, which means it’s my responsibility to get him back into fighting shape. Or at least back into consciousness.

It takes longer than I would like to clean his wounds. Long enough that they have mostly stopped bleeding by the time I’m done. There are a dozen long cuts, but none of them are deep enough to require stitches. It means Polyphemus intended pain and not death; I don’t know if that’s better or worse.

I’m going to have to deal with him .

Except…it feels wrong to leave Icarus in the tub like this. He needs rest to recover, and he’s not going to get that here, sticky and shivering. I can’t very well take him out when his lounge pants are soaked in blood—and there’re the sheets and mattress to attend to. There’s so much fucking blood.

I grip the edge of the tub and force myself to take several steady breaths. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. On the third round of this, I feel slightly more in control. Slightly.

The pants have to come off. I can wrap him in a clean blanket to keep him warm while I deal with the bed. That is the sequence of events that makes the most sense.

It sounds great in theory until I have my fingers on the band of his pants and the reality of sliding them down his body hits me. He’s not wearing anything underneath them. Even if he were, I’d have to take those off, too. There is something inherently wrong with seeing him naked while he’s not conscious and aware. I recognize that nurses do it all the time, but I’m hardly a medical professional. And he’s so damn pretty.

Frustrated with myself for wasting time, I still grab a towel and drape it over his hips. It’s awkward business working his drying pants down his body and keeping the towel in place, but I manage to do it. Barely. I try very hard not to notice how smooth his skin is. I’m mostly successful.

Next is the blanket. I find a spare, unblemished one in the closet and take the time to tuck it around him, angling his body so it’s between him and the cool porcelain of the tub. Through it all, he doesn’t make a sound.

Am I wrong about the severity of the wounds? They’ve bled a lot, but they’re not bleeding anymore. Surely he just passed out from shock. Surely he isn’t…dead.

Panic threatens to override everything. I place my hand to the side of his throat, measuring the slow beat of his heart. Possibly too slow, but it’s there nonetheless. I’m not a doctor. I know slightly more than basic first aid but… “Damn it.” I know better than to panic in a crisis, and yet here I am, forgetting the important and vital step to getting him on the mend.

The motions of stripping the mattress of its sheets and muscling it out the door are comforting in their simplicity. I don’t have to worry about accidentally exposing a mattress to my eyes. As I shove it through the door and out into the hallway, I nearly smother Orion.

They jump out of the way and hold up their hands. “What’s going on? Did you kill the captive?”

“No. Polyphemus was overzealous in his questioning. His unsanctioned questioning.”

Orion flinches. “I’d wondered where he’d gotten off to, but I didn’t realize what was happening. I’m sorry. I should have paid closer attention.”

We all knew the death of Polyphemus’s sister hit him hard, but not even I understood the risk of having Icarus under this roof. “It’s my fault.”

“Is he…alive?”

“Yes. But I need you to get me another mattress from a different room. And dispose of this one. And also new sheets.” I’m not normally this scattered. My household is run in a methodical, streamlined manner that never changes. There’s comfort in always knowing what each day will bring. I operate the shipyard the same way, though there’s a little more flexibility required there. We don’t get the same shipments in every day, or even every week. But the process of shipping in and shipping out is the same, regardless of the cargo.

Nowhere in that regularity is there space for a captive. A captive that is currently unconscious in the bathtub. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I can feel myself spiraling, but that’s unacceptable with the stakes as high as they are. I can not afford to lose control.

Orion, thankfully, doesn’t comment on the erraticism of my orders. They simply nod. “Consider it done. Where will you be?”

It occurs to me that I could leave this situation in their capable hands, but I immediately reject the notion. It feels wrong. I’ve failed Icarus, and I should be there when he wakes up. Apologizing again won’t accomplish anything, but I can’t shake the urge. I don’t know what the rules are for captor and captive. I’ve never had one before.

I fucking hate this.

I drag in a deep breath. “The bathroom. Let me know when the new bed’s set up.”

“Will do.” They pull out their phone and start dialing. That’s where I leave them, bloody mattress and all. Orion will take care of it. I can trust them. They aren’t going to go rogue. But then, I didn’t think Polyphemus would go rogue, either.

Too much is happening. Too much change. Too much stimulation. I need a moment.

I step into the bathroom and close the door softly behind me. Icarus’s eyes are still closed, but his chest rises and falls in a comfortingly steady rhythm. I grab the stool from the corner and set it next to the tub. It’s ridiculously small for my body, but it’s sturdy enough to hold. I perch on it and tap my middle finger against my thigh, mirroring the rhythm of Icarus’s breathing. Each tap calms my breathing and my heart rate further. Within a few minutes, the world stops feeling like it’s spinning out of control and I can think again.

This situation with Polyphemus was an unfortunate series of events, but ultimately it changes nothing. I need whatever information Icarus has. Circe is invading. I don’t know what hope Olympus has of prevailing when we can’t even manage a simple majority vote to go to war to protect the city. Even if we had, we have limited armed forces with no actual experience, no equipped navy, no barrier to protect us. But if Circe wants the whole of Olympus ground to dust, then surrendering is not an option. The risks are too high. She might very well decide to murder everyone, right down to the last civilian.

More, surrender would require a united ruling body the same way going to war would. We don’t have that. Not even with the threat of invasion breathing down our necks. The only thing we managed to come to an agreement on during that meeting was that we would start evacuating civilians to the country, under Demeter’s oversight. There’s space out there, but I highly doubt there’s enough to house an entire city’s worth of people. At least not for any extended period of time.

Despite myself, my attention shifts to Icarus’s face. He truly is beautiful. High cheekbones, a sensual mouth, a delicate bone structure that makes me feel ham-handed just sitting in his presence. I had thought him young, probably in his early twenties, but in sleep, the weight of his years sits on his features. He has to be approaching thirty.

He groans faintly and his eyes flicker open. They’re just as dark as his sister’s, just as wide. Just as haunted. He shifts and groans again. “So. Still alive.”

“My personal doctor is on the way, but I don’t think you were in any danger of dying.” I ignore the fact that it was something I was actively worried about for a few moments. “Don’t move too much, though. I don’t want you to reopen your wounds.”

“Why not? Like I told your little torture buddy, I don’t have the information you need to stop Circe. No one does. She’s going to win. There’s not a damn thing you, I, or anyone else can do to stop her.” He shifts again and frowns. “Am I naked?”

Embarrassment heats my skin until it feels like an inferno just beneath the surface. “I didn’t see anything. I kept you covered the whole time. But you couldn’t stay in those bloody clothes. Are you warm enough?”

He blinks those big eyes at me. “I’ve just been cut a dozen times, and you’re asking me if I’m warm enough?”

When he puts it like that, it does sound ridiculous. I clear my throat. “Yes.”

“Oh.” He shifts a little and winces. “Well, in that case, I’m happy to report that everything hurts and I kind of wish I were dead, but I’m a perfect temperature.”

This is one of our first actual conversations, and it strikes me that he communicates very similarly to so many of the Thirteen—charming, oily lies. I’ve had fifteen years of learning to read the things he’s not saying, though. I suspect that when he’s in full health, he’s better able to lie with his face and body, but right now his discomfort and fear are clear.

I have the strangest urge to find the words to make him feel more at ease. What a ludicrous idea. He shouldn’t be at ease. He’s not safe. I may not have ordered Polyphemus to harm him, but that doesn’t mean I’m not capable of doing it. I wouldn’t feel any joy, but ultimately the life of one person comes nowhere near outweighing the lives of everyone in this city. Most of the Thirteen don’t take that responsibility to heart, but I do. I’ve felt the burden of those people’s safety for my entire adult life. I’m not about to fail them now, not when they need me the most.

Still, words spring from my lips despite my intention of staying silent. “This won’t happen again, but I need you to tell me what you know, even if you say it won’t help. We won’t know what will or won’t be an asset until we have all the information available. For that I need you alive. You’re safe with me. At least until this ends.”

Icarus laughs bitterly. “And here I heard you were the honest one. Silly man. I’m not safe, and neither are you. Circe. Is. Coming.”