Rescue and Recovery

Mark

Mark saw an old, dilapidated temple appear before him.

It rose from the trees like a broken fang, half-buried in moss and hidden by time, columns of marble gleaming beneath streaks of moonlight and dust. The old place carried the scent of her, a mix of lavender and cedar. A smell he had come across all too often in his past. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, prepared to draw it at any moment.

Someone had lit the sky.

A flare of divine light radiating the warmth of the sun had cracked open the clouds not moments ago, enough to be seen from half a mountain away. The symbol of a god's fall.

Whatever was going on, someone was fighting.

Mark didn't run, trying to conserve energy for a potential ambush. But his pace quickened, boots crunching through wet leaves and crumbling underbrush as the forest blurred around him. Whatever Nyx had seen, whatever she'd felt, he now saw with his own eyes.

And it wasn't good.

He crested the final ridge just in time to see two figures, tall, radiant, and deadly, closing in on someone dragging herself backward across the shattered marble.

Artemis.

She was bloodied and exhausted, cornered by the 2 gods.

Athena's sword gleamed in the rising light. Ares's spear arced down like a hammer, shattering the bow in Artemis's hands.

Mark didn't think, didn't have time to. He just took off down the slope. Through broken roots. Over shattered columns. Every step bringing him closer to the clash between gods. He didn't cry out, trying to conceal his presence until the final moment. The only warning of his arrival was the crack of steel against spear and sword as he hit them.

And he hit them hard.

Ares staggered from the impact, knocked away from the fight. Athena fared slightly better, managing to block his strike, still caught off guard.

Mark landed in a crouch, sword drawn, shoulders rising with each breath.

His eyes flicked to Artemis, lying on the ground, looking at him in surprise.

Still breathing, albeit barely.

"You again," Ares spat.

Mark didn't deign to answer him. He lunged forward, catching the god of war in the left shoulder with his sword.

Their blades met in a storm of sparks, the impact ringing across the broken courtyard. Ares' blows struck with the force of an elephant, but Mark ducked below the hit, twisting to the left, he drove his shoulder into the god's gut, and shoved. Pushing him away just in time to face Athena's blade, her strikes were quick and precise, but he parried the blow wide, boots skidding across the stone as he distanced himself from her.

"You still alive?" he muttered over his shoulder.

Artemis blinked up at him, stunned. "Why are you here?"

Mark's voice was calm and low. "Let's just say someone said that you might need help."

Athena lunged again. He sidestepped, using her momentum to spin her away from Artemis's fallen form.

He turned.

"Can you move?"

Artemis grimaced. "No."

"Then hold on."

He scooped her up in one smooth motion, one arm under her legs, the other across her back. She stiffened in his arms, but didn't protest. Couldn't.

"You can't fight like this," she said, voice fading.

Mark didn't respond. Just glanced up at the crumbling archway above them, judged the gap, and ran.

Ares gave chase with a howl. Athena threw her blade.

He ducked low, the weapon grazing past his shoulder as he vaulted up through a half-broken window, kicking off the rim and landing hard on the nearby slope. Trees swallowed them whole within seconds. The howls of the war god faded behind them.

Mark's boots pounded over roots and damp earth, his breath harsh in his ears. Branches clawed at his shoulders, and low limbs continued to obstruct his path at every turn. He held Artemis tightly, adjusting her weight with practiced ease that betrayed his anger. She wasn't heavy, but she was awkward, unconsciously moving with every jolt and turn they made.

She muttered something. "-lo".

Barely a whisper. A name?

Mark couldn't tell. He just kept running, trying to put as much distance as he could between them and the temple.

A few hours and one short break later, the cabin came into view through the morning mist and forest undergrowth. They had made it to safety, but Artemis wasn't out of the woods just yet.

Picking up the pace, Mark hurriedly stepped into the cabin and kicked the door shut behind him. Miu wasn't home right now. He had left her with an old trapper a few valleys over since he wasn't sure how long it would take, probably for the best.

The familiar scent of pinewood and smoke wrapped around him, but he barely registered it. His boots left dark prints across the floor, which he worked hard to keep clean, as he crossed the room and laid Artemis gently onto his cot. Her body was still limp in his arms, dead weight, and cold sweat was slick on her brow. She had not stirred since they left the temple.

He crouched beside her, brushing a strand of silver-streaked hair away from her face. There was some gold blood on her lips. Her breathing was shallow, but steady.

Alive, but without treatment, heaven's only knew how long it would remain that way.

He worked fast. Gathering the materials he would need from around the cabin.

Bandages, Burn salve, Needle and thread, A bowl of water was warmed over the hearth. She had taken a spear graze across her ribs, deep but clean. There were puncture wounds along her thigh, the kind made by broken stone or jagged debris. Her arm was twisted at the shoulder, dislocated or fractured; it was hard to tell before he set it back in place.

He cleaned her wounds in silence; the sound of the damp cloth against her skin was deafening in the stillness. He stitched the worst gash shut first, using a tourniquet made from an old shirt to keep pressure on her thigh until the bleeding stopped, then splinted her arm with a couple of planks and some cloth. The worst of her injuries were now under control; it would take him a while to attend to all the minor ones.

Her body never responded to the pain. No twitching or groaning. Not a single flicker of consciousness.

She was far gone into the dark.

He pulled the blanket over her, covering her up to the collarbone. Her skin looked less pale now, less like death was clawing at her heels. He placed a cool, damp cloth on her forehead, hoping it would break her fever, then sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly.

The pain in his hands finally caught up with him.

His fingers were raw from gripping her too tightly. His arm still throbbed where Athena's blade had clipped his shoulder. But none of it mattered now.

He crossed to the hearth and knelt beside it, stacking wood into a pyramid and coaxing the small flame to life by blowing on it slowly. The fire caught quick, luckily the wood was dry and ready to burn.

He fetched a small iron pot, filled it with water from the jug, and set it to boil.

Then he got to work, dicing carrots, crushing thyme and garlic between his fingers. He found a bit of barley at the bottom of a herb sack and threw that in too. He tried to avoid anything too heavy, just something he could give to an unconscious person.

It was the kind of thing you made when you didn't know what else to do.

He stirred it slowly, letting the warmth steam into his face. The smell slowly filled the cabin, adding an almost earthy scent to the air.

Once it had simmered long enough, he ladled a portion into a wooden bowl and brought it to Artemis's bedside. She still hadn't moved. Not a flicker behind her closed eyes.

The steam curled from the bowl, indicating it was still warm. He dipped a cloth in the broth, letting it soak thoroughly, then carefully brought it to her lips. Her mouth was slightly parted, and he used the edge of the cloth to wet her lips, pressing lightly until they darkened with moisture.

A couple of drops slipped between her teeth.

There was no reaction besides a slight swallow.

Still, he did it again.

Dipped the cloth, dribbled it into her mouth, and helped her swallow. Mark lost track of how long he sat there, but by the time he was finished, the sun had already started its descent from the sky.

"Too late to pick Miu up tonight," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Not wanting to sit there with his thoughts, he looked for some work to do.

Stepping outside, letting the remaining warmth of the sun slap him awake. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. His arms ached from the repetitive motion of bringing the cloth up and down, from the small nick on his shoulder, but mainly from the long-forgotten tension that never really left his body.

He moved without thinking, crossing to the woodshed. He grabbed the axe.

The blade rang against the stump like thunder.

Thump.

The axe left a mark in the round of wood; a second strike formed a clear crack along the top, and the third finally split it in half.

Each strike kept his emotions at bay. Gave shape to the storm inside him.

He'd seen Apollo's golden armor crumpled like foil, a small dagger in his back. Hermes's scarf was tangled beneath the stone.

He hadn't seen them fall.

But the stillness around their bodies… it was enough to know that they hadn't made it. It was sickening how quickly the gods turned on each other. They had been allies to each other, worthy opponents to Mark. Yet they now lie dead, killed by their own.

Another swing. Another round split.

Nyx had known, maybe not everything, but enough.

Of course, she had.

He rested the axe against the stump, chest heaving, breath curling in the air. The sun was setting across the horizon when he finally called it a day, pale and tired.

"She's going to need your help," Nyx had said. "And she'll despise every minute of it."

Mark looked back toward the door.

Yeah.

That sounded about right.