Chapter 55 #2
I lingered near the curtained space that passed for privacy, reluctant to shut it away.
The wind moved over my face, cool and unconfined, and for the first time in weeks, I was not choking on the walls of the palace as I prepared for bed.
Roz nestled against me beneath my cloak, a small, steady weight.
I felt safer with it there, even though some part of me knew it could turn into that creature at any moment and devour me whole.
At last, I slipped behind the curtain, sinking onto the low pallet. Roz wriggled free from my skirts, its ribbon-tail coiling. I lifted it into my palms, cradling it in the moonlight.
“What are you, my little friend?” I whispered.
Its eyes glimmered softly, and instead of answering, it pressed its tiny nose to my cheek in a gentle nuzzle. The warmth of it lingered against my skin as my fingers curled tighter around it, holding it close.
I bent to the last oil lamp and blew the flame out. Smoke curled in the dim when the curtain stirred.
Alcmene pulled aside the hanging cloth, and Achilles stepped through, still in half armor, the plates dusted with salt and dried blood. His torn tunic revealed a gash across his ribs, crudely stitched in haste.
But it wasn’t the wound I noticed first. It was the look in his eyes—like the battle hadn’t left him yet. Like he hadn’t stopped fighting.
“What’s happened now?” I asked softly.
His gaze tightened. He didn’t answer immediately, just moved fully inside, towering and silent, scanning the shadows of our little alcove as if danger might rise from the very planks. He waited until the curtain fell shut behind him.
“You’re to stay in your quarters,” he said at last, his voice rough. “No wandering the deck. No walks at dawn. If you need something, send for me.”
My brows lifted in dismay. There were still three days left.
Three days until we reached shore, until who knows what happened in Sidon. I wanted the wind on my face, the salt on my tongue. And he would cage me from that?
“Orders, Captain?” I murmured, emphasizing who I thought I was talking to.
He met my gaze then, and I saw his fear.
“I’m not giving them as your captain,” he said quietly. “I’m giving them as the man who watched you nearly die today.”
The words caught between us, suspended like breath in winter air.
I swallowed. “Achilles, I’m fine. You saved me—”
“That thing could’ve taken you.” His voice was suddenly abrupt, too loud against the hush of swaying canvas and the whisper of waves. “It nearly did. And if I hadn’t—if I had been one step slower … just a step … you’d be gone. You don’t understand what that did to me.”
He turned away for a breath, bracing his hands on the low table and his knuckles strained white. “I can’t protect you if you insist on dancing along the edge of every blade.”
My throat ached from holding back the swell rising beneath my breast. “I wasn’t dancing,” I said softly. “I was living.”
That made something flicker behind his eyes.
Something collapsing inward, like a lung robbed of air.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said at last in a quieter voice.
“I can gut a beast in its sleep. I can face a thousand men with nothing but a sword. But I don’t know how to be calm when you’re in danger.
I don’t know how to breathe when I think I might lose you. ”
The admission settled between us.
“Do you know,” I whispered, “that since the day I married the king, I haven’t stepped foot outside the palace grounds. I haven’t breathed air that didn’t smell of roses or incense. Today I stood beneath an open sky, and I remembered what it felt like to be alive.”
I stepped closer, until I could smell the blood still on his skin and see the sea salt crusting his lashes. This close, I didn’t see Sparta’s fiercest warrior. I saw a man who loved the sound of my breath. Who watched me like it kept him sane.
“I know you want me to stay in here,” I whispered. “I know I can be a distraction if I’m not careful. I know this ship sails toward war and I’m a complication you don’t want.”
He opened his mouth to object to that, but I softly placed a finger on his lips. His hands curled into fists at his sides at my touch, like he was holding himself back.
“And I—” I drew in a breath, steadying myself. “I can’t promise to stay locked away. I can’t trade this taste of freedom … at least until we get to Sidon.”
His hand lifted, stopping just short of my face.
His fingers hovered over my cheek, not quite touching.
“You are not a complication,” he said firmly.
“You are the only thing I’ve seen in all my years that makes me believe, Helena.
” A silence stretched between us until finally he dropped his hand and stepped back, his spine stiffening with the effort it took to pry himself away.
“Stay in here tonight,” he said, his eyes now avoiding mine. “At least give me that.”
I didn’t want to promise that. Even now, when I should have been sleeping, I yearned to go out to the deck … to stare at the heavens and make a wish on every star.
But I nodded. “I promise.”
He didn’t ask for more.
When he left, the scent of him lingered, and I lay down on my narrow cot, staring at the curtain that swayed with every groan of the ship. Roz padded up the pallet and curled itself on the pillow beside me, its ribbon-tail coiling against my hair.
For some reason, the sight of it shook something loose inside me. My throat tightened. I bit hard against it, but the urge to cry welled up sudden and overwhelming, as if the tears refused to stay buried.
The curtain stirred again. Alcmene stepped inside. Her gaze swept the little alcove, then fixed on me. I must have looked worse than I thought, because her brow softened at once, a crease of concern etching deep.
“What is it, Your Majesty?” she asked gently, almost hesitantly, as though she couldn’t fathom what could leave me so shaken … especially after speaking with Achilles.
I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. The ache inside me pressed higher, tight against my throat.
“I’ll never be free,” I whispered. The words slipped out like something long-caged, splintered at the edges, leaving a sting on my tongue.
My hands twisted at the sheet, as though I could anchor myself against the force of it.
The confession startled me. I had not meant to let it loose, not even to Alcmene.
But once spoken, it seemed to hang in the air between us, undeniable as breath.
Alcmene said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only by the ship and the faint lap of water against the hull. Her gaze rested on me, deep with something I couldn’t name. Pity, perhaps. Or recognition.
Her lips pressed together, and she closed her eyes, lashes dark against her skin. I braced for counsel, for rebuke, for some gentle admonishment that I needed to be braver. Instead of words, a song slipped out when she opened her mouth, soft and sorrow-born, its rise and fall echoing the sea.
“Sleep, little ember, the night is long,
Rest where the sea winds carry their song.
Chains may bind and shadows fall,
But dawn will come to break them all.
Hush, little flame, let the dark drift by,
Dream where the stars are kind in the sky.
Though sorrow lingers, cold and near,
The light will rise, the path made clear.
Rest, little spark, on the ocean’s breast,
Cradled by waves, be given to rest.
Though gods may bind and mortals weep,
The sun will find you, sleep, child, sleep.”
Her voice wove around me, softer than the moan of timbers, steadier than the sea’s eternal pulse. My eyes slipped shut before the last note faded, Roz’s warmth against my temple pushing me into sleep.
Alive.
Caged.
But, for a moment, feeling less alone.