ch. 2 . forest

He moved back through the forest.  His fists were clenched.  He needed to find food, or hunger would begin to impair his judgment.  He kept alert for something he could forage while he made for the southern crags.  The berries were unfamiliar, and he didn't trust them.  Hunger and disappointment had begun to drain his strength.

When the forest thinned before the incline Theseus saw a pomegranate tree.  He lunged toward it, gripped the hard red ball and ripped it free.  He crushed the pomegranate in his hands and tore it apart, devouring the sweet pulp and licking his fingers clean of the sticky juice.  None of the other fruit seemed ripe, but he plucked two and hid them in his tunic.

"Dionysus be blessed for this fruit, and praise Artemis for guiding me to it," he whispered, feeling the sustenance empower his limbs.  The crag looked impossible.  The bracken that embowered it were covered in thorns.  Still, he would crest it.  Theseus grabbed a thorn branch and pulled himself up.  The climb was slow.  The thorns stabbed and scraped him, and his limbs were bloody, but it was only pain.  Finally he caught the ridge of a rock overlooking the top of the slope and pulled himself up to lie on his back, exhausted, sweating and blinded by the sun.

He pulled the pomegranates free, but his arm was so tired that he lost his grip and one rolled over the edge.

He wanted to sleep.

"Artemis, lend me strength," he mumbled, tearing open the pomegranate and stuffing the halves into his mouth.  It was bitter, but he didn't care.  He rolled onto one side and managed to his knees, unsure which hurt more between the sting of the thorns or the ache in his thews.

To the west and south mountains blocked his view of the horizon.  In a valley to the southeast stood a lone mountain, bearing such a likeness to the countenance of Zeus, Theseus knew in his bones this was a hallowed land.

"Praise the Olympians," he breathed, touching his chest with his fist.  "I have no beast to sacrifice in your honor, nor have I a sword with which to draw my own blood.  I have only my life, which is yours."

A vast palace rested in the shadow of the god.  From a distance, it seemed a work of art, rising from a wide hill like a marble sculpture.  A holy city, for what else could it be?