Chapter Text
December 11th, 9529 B.C.
Acheron turned away from Apollo’s temple. Impotent anger roiled through him. He was tired of being reminded of his place in this world.
Being reminded he was nothing.
No doubt his father would punish him later for this. Not that he cared.
He no longer felt physical pain like the rest of the world. Too many days of being used and abused had left him hollow and unable to feel much of anything except hatred and anger.
Those two emotions burned inside him constantly.
He’d been made a whore against his will and now it was held against him as if he had a choice in the matter. As if he enjoyed being groped and fought over.
So be it.
Seeking some sort of vengeance on the ones who had cursed him to this fate, he found himself heading into the temple across the street from Apollo’s.
It was empty. Most likely the occupants and caretakers were all across the street to witness his sister’s sacrifice.
Fucking pigs.
There was nothing people loved more than to watch someone else being humiliated, especially royalty. It gave them a sense of power. A sense of superiority. But in the back of their minds, they all knew the truth. They were just grateful it wasn’t them being degraded.
He walked down the center aisle that was framed by huge columns that stretched up toward the heavens. Before he could do anything or think of anything, he was sucked into something so stiffly, it lifted his feet and purged him into a darkness he’d never known of. In the harshness of a brutal world, he’s forced to live in, he’s seen many types of darkness. The types that made him wonder if he had any purpose other than being labeled as a whore. Had the gods that abandoned him since birth finally have the audacity and time to listen to a whore’s pitiful prayer?
As he waited for death to finally release him from this existence, he felt himself land on something soft, something warm and furry. Unfamiliar by something he'd hardly felt every day, he heard shushed voices behind strange walls and the blowing of leaves from an open window.
The wind carried over a rich, sweet and floral fragrance that reminded him of the garden he, his sister and Maia used to go to. The memory still lingered over his mind, as a reminder of a life he could've had. He was born in royalty, yet all the same, his father and brother treated him like the lowest life-form ever born.
Trying not to dwell on something he knew he couldn't change, he rolled over and sat up over bed sheets he felt were made of silks and fur. He automatically knew he wasn't in Atlantis or Didymos or anywhere near the temple he was heading to.
Maybe death had managed to claim his soul.
That would be his luck, since he was still able to feel the warmth that emitted from the sheets that covered half of his body.
Before he could think of other scenarios that potentially led him here, those strange voices grew louder. Loud enough, he heard the sound of two pairs of footsteps nearing the stylish, wooden door in front of him.
One voice resembled that of a man with an accent he hadn't heard in his life and speaking in a language so foreign, yet he understood his conversation with a woman. A woman whose accent was as different as the man's, yet they spoke fluently to each other. It wasn't Greek or Atlantean he heard.
It was something new, something different. He didn't know what to make of it at the moment, only did he heard them speak their concerns.
"That's clearly something I don't hear from you every day. You've always enjoyed seeing Antagh and Sia. Why not now? You're going to miss someone's special birthday!" The man exclaimed the last part before a sigh exited from the woman.
"I know, I know, you don't have to guilt-trip me into it, Gautier. But there's someone I have to address before I attend the celebration. I believe you can wait a bit longer. If I don't make it by sunset, you have every right to nag on me."
"Speaking of which, are you sure the dude's alive? That crash landing woke up the entire village and made ma fille scare the living shit out of me three days ago."
Oh. so that's what happened.
"There's a difference between dead and knocked out, Cajun. I'll handle this. You go to Antagh and tell him everything's in order."
Gautier exhaled, "If you say so. You need help, say the word."
The woman chuckled, "Go to your daughter."
The man's footsteps faded away as the knob on the wooden door twisted, unveiling a set of deep, pine green eyes, and thick, black hair held together by a spiral braid of reddish-brown flowers. Tall and different from another woman he laid with in the past. The moment her eyes were fixed on his, she offered him a small smile on her round face, jerked her head to her right and shouted across the corridor.
"Ha! He's not dead, Gautier! So, prove me wrong!"
"I'm going home!" Rung out Gautier's voice, tangled with a tone that sounded catchy in Acheron’s ears.
The woman shook her head, revealing her teeth and turned to look at him again.
Cautiously, she asked, "All cheery in that skull of yours, Good sir? No broken bones or anything, right?"
For once, what baffled him wasn't the strangeness that surrounded him, but rather that she, the first person to ever overlook his unnatural eyes upon first meeting, greeted him like he was a normal, decent human being without those malform eyes and not some lowly piece of dirt waiting to be stepped on or taken advantage of.
"You're different." He responded in Greek without thought put in his words, it was the only thing he managed to say without pulling indicators that he brought misery and misfortune with him.
Her sharp eyebrows arched in amusement or bewilderment, still, she didn't step past the vaulted doorway that marked the distance between them. Even with her far away from arm's reach, he somehow felt her so close.
No. It must be that side effect from his major injury. Given what Gautier said about a whole village hearing the blow, it surprised him to be in one piece.
She flashed him a warm smile and leaned against the doorway. She responded in that foreign language again. "Different, you say? I strife to be myself and not someone's copy or puppet. Everyone has the potential to be and do anything, no matter what the circumstance is. Anyway, I am speaking out of turn. I am here to check your injuries. From a fall like that, no weak person would've survived it."
If that's the case, how come he didn't feel anything? He felt queasy but nothing serious that would indicate that he fell from a high place.
Then, her forest-like eyes inspected him closely, her smile replaced by a frown. "Now that I think about it, you've suffered serious injuries before, haven't you?"
He leaned his head closer to the bed's headboard, reminding himself that she could deceive just as quickly as anyone else. People loved to do that to others, instead of helping each other get through the obstacles of life. Somehow, people find making others suffer an easy alternative.
"Not to be rude, My Lady, but it's none of your concern."
Not like she could do anything about what he called a ‘life’, but the thought of her comfort stayed in his mind. A comfort he craved since he'd been forsaken from birth. Another side of him wanted her to leave him the way he was, let him bleed out and die. It’s a solace that he’ll welcome with open arms and not fight.
"I don't believe it so. You are under my roof, resting on my bed. As you've said that it is none of my concern, your circumstance here doesn't support that bold claim." More of her unusual accent sprang out.
At last, she stepped forward, the sun's light revealing her dress. It wasn't a peplos she wore, but rather a resemblance of one. Decorated with patterns he hadn't seen before and cloth that covered her arms, and a purple cloak hung loosely over her shoulders with a thin, yellow thread. Her green dress reminded him of every greenery he'd seen in his life and its hem rested just below her knees. Her footwear was unlike anything he seen on people's feet and because he couldn't look directly at people without them making suggestive remarks about him at every turn, to save what little dignity he had left, he resorted to looking at the ground almost all the time. It was how he identified who was who.
He hadn't seen anyone look so modest and so brilliant. Maybe he was too scared of what people would do to him if he dared look up. Not like that will ever change.
He gazed at his hands intently, before she’s left to inspect his cursed driven eyes for too long.
"You don't find it odd?" she inquired, standing to her full height. He'd imagined that if he stood beside her, he would dwarf her by a head.
He lifted his head a little, to indicate that he heard her and understood what she asked and made sure his eyes were mostly hidden while so.
"I suppose 'She' has chosen you. It is the only reason why we understand each other despite our different tongues."
Perhaps that was the case, that would explain how.
Finally, he spoke again, "Who's 'She' you speak of?"
The woman's lips parted, like she was going to answer, but changed her mind. Her facial features mimicked one of realization. Her face became and remained stoic.
"You are the one 'She' chose, are you not? If not Gautier, then you must be. You should know, should you not?" Her insistence soaked in her words.
He would ask if he went mad or still suffering from the concussion, but as he realized the seriousness of the question, no answer escaped his lips, he was unsure of the answer as he was unsure if this was all real.
"You're not just a mere human, are you? 'She' is clever, very clever. An Atlantean god in the guise of a human, am I wrong?"
The affirmation of what he was made him perked his senses.
Still looking down, he was mentally preparing himself for the possibility, the slight possibility she would twist her face in anger and launch at him like everyone else did.
"And, if I truly was? What form of torture would you perform on me? Surely, a monster such as I, is deserving of one that's brutal." His hatred and self-loathing all liquefied every word he spat out.
His eyes, now fully revealed themselves as he composed himself, making it clear he was a monster, a sex puppet just waiting to be thrown around and abused of.
Enya had never seen anyone with swirling eyes, but then she had seen a lot of things more unnatural than this. One thing she couldn't wrap her head around was the fact he, Znvn's Chosen, called himself a monster. She had seen the malevolence in many that were classified as a monster, yet, as she dwelled in this one's soul, she felt it a lonely and broken place. So broken, it triggered her mind to recall memories she thought she had left behind the moment she accepted Znvn in her life.
Why would Znvn choose 'him'? 'Him', the most lost and heartbroken entity she had ever met. She knew that it was not a mistake. The Chiefess never failed to protect Her children, never deceived anyone in Her service. So why?
As quickly as she could, she subdued those memories and kept her eyes locked on those silver swirls.
"If you truly were. . ." She wended her way closer to him, his aura lifting her neck hairs. "It would not change, nor shall I see you differently. Despite what happened to you to make you believe in what you believe right now, you are special in ways I can't fathom. I am called Eyna Elraeya. It's an honor to serve you as protector."
She made a gesture with her fists. Putting them together, she dropped to one knee and lowered her head, as she enacted a ritual with a prayer in words of a lost language.
When she was done, she stood up with such grace and held out her gloved hand, non-verbally asking for his.
The man before her stared at her in shock and hesitated to reach out for her small, harmless, delicate hand. Her dim hair shifted, exposing her tiny, arced shaped ears.
If there was one thing, he wasn't unsure of, Enya was not human. Yet she seems sincere enough. Something he hardly felt from people.
To make sure this was all real and not something his mind conjured up, he leaned forward, his large hand barely took a hold of her fingertips. Undeniably soft and warm, he delicately shook her hand half the size of his. Eyna noticed the way he glanced at her fingers and flushed in embarrassment. If there was one thing, she didn't like about herself, (which there were multiple things) it was the fact her hands were smaller than other people's. Not too abnormally small to the point it stood out like a sore thumb, but small enough to make some adept observers question her deformity.
Eyna tilted her head in confusion, she noticed him tremble. Maybe in fear, in the unfamiliarity of her home? It would make sense.
"I won't harm you, nor will I allow anything to harm you. What name do you go by?"
Acheron hardly knew the touch of such tenderness, a touch that was pure and not intended to torture or abuse him. As he realized that, he remembered something similar where he used to play in the gardens with Maia, where he touched grass for the first time since past memory. Subconsciously, he didn’t feel the need to be on high alert in Eyna's company nor did he realize how long he was holding onto her. It was her who returned him to the real world at that moment with the one action that made his shattered heart recall how to beat soundly again.
"You are crying, yet you have not said your name?" Her eyes moved to view his, unaffected. Her pupils stayed the same size, uninterested in what people desired the most in him.
"Acheron."
She raised an eyebrow, "Acheron?" She said his name slowly, pronouncing each syllable separately.
He nodded, watching her next movements as he used his other hand to wipe away his tears.
Feeling the urge to help him complete such trifling task, Eyna reached over to the dresser beside her, slide a clean handkerchief toward a corner and gently patted it under each silver marble to absorb the wetness. Such kind act he thought he’d never experience in his life again, pierced him tenfold, in a place he didn't know was there.
"By Her grace. . . " Eyna breathed out after studying him attentively. ". . . You'd never known true kindness before, not from anyone in your world?"
For the first time since he got here, a tiny, but painfilled smile formed on its own accord. There was a time when he was shown kindness, but it did not last.
"What if I told you, you don't have to go back there anymore?"
Acheron liked the notion the instant it was brought up, but he considered declining, as he recalled that today was the day Ryssa sacrificed herself to Apollo. He agreed that he would be there, but after remembering that she also broke his trust and never left him alone after he demanded his solitude. He didn't trust anyone there, nor did he believe that he would gain the trust of anyone here. He learned enough that it was fruitless. Whores like him had one job and gaining trust wasn’t in the job description.
“I’d understand if you’re against the idea, but wherever you were from, I can’t bring you back. I have no way of knowing.”
“I am from Didymos.”
Her brow further shot up. “Didymos? I’ve never heard of such a place.”
That confirmed some of his suspicions. “So, I am stuck here.”
Eyna inclined her head, some of her hair locks brushed against his arm, leaving a tingling sensation. “Even if you find a way, you can't go until you contribute to our cause willingly.”
“And that is?”
Eyna left the used handkerchief on his palm. “You’ll soon see, but you’ll have to trust me in order for you to see and that can’t happen until I earn it. All I ask now, is to have patience. Can you do just that?”
The room after that fell in silence. With the blowing leaves and the thudding of their heartbeats to accompany it.