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The gods were angry- or at least that’s what Akila thought as the rain just continued to poor down from the sky, making her ship rock back and forth as it fought the waves. What was supposed to be a fairly quick journey to Judea was now slowed- the storms adding what would most likely be another two days as they fought against it. It was a fairly long day, her rowers exhausted, resting as the worst was over but the journey was still ahead of them.
Soaked to the bone Akila moved to her captain’s quarters where she finally let down her hair, wringing it out to the side. There was still the hustle and bustle on and below the deck. She could hear Khalid give commands and the rest of the crew taking a rest after their hard fight. But that was all background noise- especially in comparison to the whipping wind that surrounded them not too long ago. To Akila… it was quiet.
On her bed was a man, a man she knew once ten years ago when she screwed him… and then screwed him. His lackey she knew was not far, but a man with that type of injury needed rest, even if he denied it. Besides, if Akila wanted either dead by now they would be. But she had much bigger plans. A favor from the King would serve her well.
If he lived.
The arrow had been removed and he had been bandaged, but since boarding her ship the man had a large fever- hotter than the desert sands. The wound was red and veiny, and every day Akila’s healer cleaned it with different strong-smelling concoctions that caused her to gag every time he opened the jar. But Akila only stored so many medical supplies, and the King’s infection was deep. He’d have to rely on the good fortune of Judeans in order to properly heal. He was lucky, at least. If there was one thing Judeans loved it was foreigners.
Akila went to her desk to look at her log when she noticed Achilleas. The damp towel on his head had slid, so part of it was covering his eye instead of his forehead. Akila glanced around. The healer was likely with the other Greek… and thus he wasn’t here. Maybe the third should have been brought, but Akila felt like he’d be more annoying than anything and she had little patience as is.
She dropped the papers down and sighed, going over to the rag. She dipped it in a bucket (Which was mostly spilled from the rocking of the ship) wringing it out over it. “This had better be worth all this trouble,” Akila said as she laid the rag on top of his forehead again. Though if he were to die, the ring would serve her well. It wouldn’t be a complete wash. Still, she rather he lived. He was a fun little toy. “You’re as big as a dumbass as when we first met, you know. Maybe more so,” After all what kind of King isn’t with his army? A half blind guy and a kid is all he had- he should have died.
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Dec 30, 2020 21:55:00 GMT
Posted In Fever Dream on Dec 30, 2020 21:55:00 GMT
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The gods were angry- or at least that’s what Akila thought as the rain just continued to poor down from the sky, making her ship rock back and forth as it fought the waves. What was supposed to be a fairly quick journey to Judea was now slowed- the storms adding what would most likely be another two days as they fought against it. It was a fairly long day, her rowers exhausted, resting as the worst was over but the journey was still ahead of them.
Soaked to the bone Akila moved to her captain’s quarters where she finally let down her hair, wringing it out to the side. There was still the hustle and bustle on and below the deck. She could hear Khalid give commands and the rest of the crew taking a rest after their hard fight. But that was all background noise- especially in comparison to the whipping wind that surrounded them not too long ago. To Akila… it was quiet.
On her bed was a man, a man she knew once ten years ago when she screwed him… and then screwed him. His lackey she knew was not far, but a man with that type of injury needed rest, even if he denied it. Besides, if Akila wanted either dead by now they would be. But she had much bigger plans. A favor from the King would serve her well.
If he lived.
The arrow had been removed and he had been bandaged, but since boarding her ship the man had a large fever- hotter than the desert sands. The wound was red and veiny, and every day Akila’s healer cleaned it with different strong-smelling concoctions that caused her to gag every time he opened the jar. But Akila only stored so many medical supplies, and the King’s infection was deep. He’d have to rely on the good fortune of Judeans in order to properly heal. He was lucky, at least. If there was one thing Judeans loved it was foreigners.
Akila went to her desk to look at her log when she noticed Achilleas. The damp towel on his head had slid, so part of it was covering his eye instead of his forehead. Akila glanced around. The healer was likely with the other Greek… and thus he wasn’t here. Maybe the third should have been brought, but Akila felt like he’d be more annoying than anything and she had little patience as is.
She dropped the papers down and sighed, going over to the rag. She dipped it in a bucket (Which was mostly spilled from the rocking of the ship) wringing it out over it. “This had better be worth all this trouble,” Akila said as she laid the rag on top of his forehead again. Though if he were to die, the ring would serve her well. It wouldn’t be a complete wash. Still, she rather he lived. He was a fun little toy. “You’re as big as a dumbass as when we first met, you know. Maybe more so,” After all what kind of King isn’t with his army? A half blind guy and a kid is all he had- he should have died.
The gods were angry- or at least that’s what Akila thought as the rain just continued to poor down from the sky, making her ship rock back and forth as it fought the waves. What was supposed to be a fairly quick journey to Judea was now slowed- the storms adding what would most likely be another two days as they fought against it. It was a fairly long day, her rowers exhausted, resting as the worst was over but the journey was still ahead of them.
Soaked to the bone Akila moved to her captain’s quarters where she finally let down her hair, wringing it out to the side. There was still the hustle and bustle on and below the deck. She could hear Khalid give commands and the rest of the crew taking a rest after their hard fight. But that was all background noise- especially in comparison to the whipping wind that surrounded them not too long ago. To Akila… it was quiet.
On her bed was a man, a man she knew once ten years ago when she screwed him… and then screwed him. His lackey she knew was not far, but a man with that type of injury needed rest, even if he denied it. Besides, if Akila wanted either dead by now they would be. But she had much bigger plans. A favor from the King would serve her well.
If he lived.
The arrow had been removed and he had been bandaged, but since boarding her ship the man had a large fever- hotter than the desert sands. The wound was red and veiny, and every day Akila’s healer cleaned it with different strong-smelling concoctions that caused her to gag every time he opened the jar. But Akila only stored so many medical supplies, and the King’s infection was deep. He’d have to rely on the good fortune of Judeans in order to properly heal. He was lucky, at least. If there was one thing Judeans loved it was foreigners.
Akila went to her desk to look at her log when she noticed Achilleas. The damp towel on his head had slid, so part of it was covering his eye instead of his forehead. Akila glanced around. The healer was likely with the other Greek… and thus he wasn’t here. Maybe the third should have been brought, but Akila felt like he’d be more annoying than anything and she had little patience as is.
She dropped the papers down and sighed, going over to the rag. She dipped it in a bucket (Which was mostly spilled from the rocking of the ship) wringing it out over it. “This had better be worth all this trouble,” Akila said as she laid the rag on top of his forehead again. Though if he were to die, the ring would serve her well. It wouldn’t be a complete wash. Still, she rather he lived. He was a fun little toy. “You’re as big as a dumbass as when we first met, you know. Maybe more so,” After all what kind of King isn’t with his army? A half blind guy and a kid is all he had- he should have died.
Achilleas is lost.
Submerged, somehow. Drowning? He tries to find his way to the surface but its hopeless, like swimming in honey. His arms and legs are heavy, and he’s so tired. Sometimes he thinks he is near enough that he sees shapes, hears..voices. Its a relief, to find something he recognises, something to hold on to. But though he tries, he can’t make himself heard. He’s left alone again.
He’s hot. So hot it’s like standing in a fire, and it hurts. Some places more, some places less, but its the overall sensation of pain that is most prevalent.
He thinks about the soldiers they left on the beach and tries to find his way back there because even if it’s hopeless, futile, he should stand with his men. He might be valuable enough to the Egyptians that their lives might be spared. He’d do it too, that was his duty. Thinking about it makes the pain worse though and so he lets go again, drifts.
He dreams. Sometimes thing he knows, faces he recognises. Sometimes that hurts too, sometimes it makes him giddy with delight. He knows he must be dreaming because he isn’t lost there, for those moments, and his stupid body will do what he wants it to. He can’t hold on to those dreams like he wants to and they too slip through his fingers.
There’s ice...cold, shockingly so, another sharp layer of pain atop what already flays his nerves and Achilleas lifts an arm through the syrupy stupor to brush it away, jerking in shock when he actually manages it. The dull dark of his imprisonment suddenly becomes bright, and he blinks, blinks again.
***
The King had not been peaceful in the grips of the fever. There are twitches, occasionally his hands would move as to bat away some invisible foe, and more than once he had cried out mostly unintelligible mumblings, but occasionally a name or two. So it was not uncommon that he shifted slightly when the woman laid the cool cloth back across his brow. The dampness had seen the dark hair on his forehead curl, for the heat that radiated off the man was a dry, scorching heat, He did not sweat, a thing the ships doctor had advised a result of the poison. He would become more lucid, or he would not. Either his body would throw it off, and the fever would break, or he would die.
Perhaps then, Akila should have been pleased by what happened next.
Whether it was the shock of the cold, the sound of her voice, but when she turned to look down at her charge, she was met with wide blue eyes, blinking rapidly and trying to focus on her face. There was a flicker of something, a harsh intake of a breath that might have given her some warning before a hand had closed around her throat and thrown her away, a move that obviously cost the man greatly for he gave a sharp cry of pain, only then seeming to look down and notice the linen wraps that cradled his other arm across his body, protecting that wound which now had an entry ]and exit wound. Achilleas struggled to sit, glanced around with eyes that didn’t really seem to see, and then he was clawing at the bandages that were -in his mind- so restricting. He had no weapons, no nothing, and he had to get back to the men.
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Dec 31, 2020 16:44:51 GMT
Posted In Fever Dream on Dec 31, 2020 16:44:51 GMT
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Achilleas is lost.
Submerged, somehow. Drowning? He tries to find his way to the surface but its hopeless, like swimming in honey. His arms and legs are heavy, and he’s so tired. Sometimes he thinks he is near enough that he sees shapes, hears..voices. Its a relief, to find something he recognises, something to hold on to. But though he tries, he can’t make himself heard. He’s left alone again.
He’s hot. So hot it’s like standing in a fire, and it hurts. Some places more, some places less, but its the overall sensation of pain that is most prevalent.
He thinks about the soldiers they left on the beach and tries to find his way back there because even if it’s hopeless, futile, he should stand with his men. He might be valuable enough to the Egyptians that their lives might be spared. He’d do it too, that was his duty. Thinking about it makes the pain worse though and so he lets go again, drifts.
He dreams. Sometimes thing he knows, faces he recognises. Sometimes that hurts too, sometimes it makes him giddy with delight. He knows he must be dreaming because he isn’t lost there, for those moments, and his stupid body will do what he wants it to. He can’t hold on to those dreams like he wants to and they too slip through his fingers.
There’s ice...cold, shockingly so, another sharp layer of pain atop what already flays his nerves and Achilleas lifts an arm through the syrupy stupor to brush it away, jerking in shock when he actually manages it. The dull dark of his imprisonment suddenly becomes bright, and he blinks, blinks again.
***
The King had not been peaceful in the grips of the fever. There are twitches, occasionally his hands would move as to bat away some invisible foe, and more than once he had cried out mostly unintelligible mumblings, but occasionally a name or two. So it was not uncommon that he shifted slightly when the woman laid the cool cloth back across his brow. The dampness had seen the dark hair on his forehead curl, for the heat that radiated off the man was a dry, scorching heat, He did not sweat, a thing the ships doctor had advised a result of the poison. He would become more lucid, or he would not. Either his body would throw it off, and the fever would break, or he would die.
Perhaps then, Akila should have been pleased by what happened next.
Whether it was the shock of the cold, the sound of her voice, but when she turned to look down at her charge, she was met with wide blue eyes, blinking rapidly and trying to focus on her face. There was a flicker of something, a harsh intake of a breath that might have given her some warning before a hand had closed around her throat and thrown her away, a move that obviously cost the man greatly for he gave a sharp cry of pain, only then seeming to look down and notice the linen wraps that cradled his other arm across his body, protecting that wound which now had an entry ]and exit wound. Achilleas struggled to sit, glanced around with eyes that didn’t really seem to see, and then he was clawing at the bandages that were -in his mind- so restricting. He had no weapons, no nothing, and he had to get back to the men.
Achilleas is lost.
Submerged, somehow. Drowning? He tries to find his way to the surface but its hopeless, like swimming in honey. His arms and legs are heavy, and he’s so tired. Sometimes he thinks he is near enough that he sees shapes, hears..voices. Its a relief, to find something he recognises, something to hold on to. But though he tries, he can’t make himself heard. He’s left alone again.
He’s hot. So hot it’s like standing in a fire, and it hurts. Some places more, some places less, but its the overall sensation of pain that is most prevalent.
He thinks about the soldiers they left on the beach and tries to find his way back there because even if it’s hopeless, futile, he should stand with his men. He might be valuable enough to the Egyptians that their lives might be spared. He’d do it too, that was his duty. Thinking about it makes the pain worse though and so he lets go again, drifts.
He dreams. Sometimes thing he knows, faces he recognises. Sometimes that hurts too, sometimes it makes him giddy with delight. He knows he must be dreaming because he isn’t lost there, for those moments, and his stupid body will do what he wants it to. He can’t hold on to those dreams like he wants to and they too slip through his fingers.
There’s ice...cold, shockingly so, another sharp layer of pain atop what already flays his nerves and Achilleas lifts an arm through the syrupy stupor to brush it away, jerking in shock when he actually manages it. The dull dark of his imprisonment suddenly becomes bright, and he blinks, blinks again.
***
The King had not been peaceful in the grips of the fever. There are twitches, occasionally his hands would move as to bat away some invisible foe, and more than once he had cried out mostly unintelligible mumblings, but occasionally a name or two. So it was not uncommon that he shifted slightly when the woman laid the cool cloth back across his brow. The dampness had seen the dark hair on his forehead curl, for the heat that radiated off the man was a dry, scorching heat, He did not sweat, a thing the ships doctor had advised a result of the poison. He would become more lucid, or he would not. Either his body would throw it off, and the fever would break, or he would die.
Perhaps then, Akila should have been pleased by what happened next.
Whether it was the shock of the cold, the sound of her voice, but when she turned to look down at her charge, she was met with wide blue eyes, blinking rapidly and trying to focus on her face. There was a flicker of something, a harsh intake of a breath that might have given her some warning before a hand had closed around her throat and thrown her away, a move that obviously cost the man greatly for he gave a sharp cry of pain, only then seeming to look down and notice the linen wraps that cradled his other arm across his body, protecting that wound which now had an entry ]and exit wound. Achilleas struggled to sit, glanced around with eyes that didn’t really seem to see, and then he was clawing at the bandages that were -in his mind- so restricting. He had no weapons, no nothing, and he had to get back to the men.
Aww, how sweet. He remembers me. The sharp intake of breath was enough to get Akila to move. The man had lunged forward for her throat, and at the same time her hand went to his wound, thumb jutting into it to cause serious pain.
Achilleas wasn’t the first person to have his hand around her throat, nor would he be the least. Ten years though was a long time, and for him to have such an instant response well… Akila was flattered to have made such an impact. Though perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so cocky- this was a man fresh off the battlefield. Then again… this was Akila, and the fact that her ego hadn’t capsized the ship yet was a marvel in it of itself.
“Oh come off it, little fish.” Akila laughed, shoving him back onto the bed as she dug that thumb deep into his bandaged shoulder. “You should be thanking me.” She pushed the man down, back towards the bed, before rubbing her own neck. He did no damage, the grip not strong enough to even leave a bruise.
Really though, such a reaction to have towards his savior. It was her medicines, her bandages, her crew that was keeping this little Greek alive. If Akila were to be a good little girl she’d had left them all to die. The Egyptians would be happier for sure.
But where was the fun in that?
Akila sat down in the chair that was parked beside the bed, the chair the other Greek often was at, and was about to kick back and say something cocky when the little fish started moving again. He struggled to sit up and began to claw at his bandages. Normally Akila would just let the dumbass die if that’s what he wanted. But he was a pay day.
“Tsk, tsk,” Akila was back on her feet and gathered the man’s wrists, leaning her weight on them to pin them down. She could still feel the heat radiating from him and she was close enough to see the droplets of sweat and water sliding from his brow. “Don’t make me tie you up. You remember I’m into kinky play, but I’d rather my men actually able to finish me off. You weren’t even able to do that when you were in the proper state.” Flopped like a dead fish. “You’re my guest, Achilleas. Now relax.” She pushed off him, but she was still hyper-aware of his every movement. She would tie him up to the bed no problem. After all, it’d save his life. No need to thank her.
Akila sat back down on the chair, leaning forward so her elbows were on her knees. “We took the liberty of freeing you from your armor. That picture made a nice bonus for my men. I thank you for that. They’ve been getting on my nerves lately having been so long since they had shore leave. That’ll keep them entertained for a while.”
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Aww, how sweet. He remembers me. The sharp intake of breath was enough to get Akila to move. The man had lunged forward for her throat, and at the same time her hand went to his wound, thumb jutting into it to cause serious pain.
Achilleas wasn’t the first person to have his hand around her throat, nor would he be the least. Ten years though was a long time, and for him to have such an instant response well… Akila was flattered to have made such an impact. Though perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so cocky- this was a man fresh off the battlefield. Then again… this was Akila, and the fact that her ego hadn’t capsized the ship yet was a marvel in it of itself.
“Oh come off it, little fish.” Akila laughed, shoving him back onto the bed as she dug that thumb deep into his bandaged shoulder. “You should be thanking me.” She pushed the man down, back towards the bed, before rubbing her own neck. He did no damage, the grip not strong enough to even leave a bruise.
Really though, such a reaction to have towards his savior. It was her medicines, her bandages, her crew that was keeping this little Greek alive. If Akila were to be a good little girl she’d had left them all to die. The Egyptians would be happier for sure.
But where was the fun in that?
Akila sat down in the chair that was parked beside the bed, the chair the other Greek often was at, and was about to kick back and say something cocky when the little fish started moving again. He struggled to sit up and began to claw at his bandages. Normally Akila would just let the dumbass die if that’s what he wanted. But he was a pay day.
“Tsk, tsk,” Akila was back on her feet and gathered the man’s wrists, leaning her weight on them to pin them down. She could still feel the heat radiating from him and she was close enough to see the droplets of sweat and water sliding from his brow. “Don’t make me tie you up. You remember I’m into kinky play, but I’d rather my men actually able to finish me off. You weren’t even able to do that when you were in the proper state.” Flopped like a dead fish. “You’re my guest, Achilleas. Now relax.” She pushed off him, but she was still hyper-aware of his every movement. She would tie him up to the bed no problem. After all, it’d save his life. No need to thank her.
Akila sat back down on the chair, leaning forward so her elbows were on her knees. “We took the liberty of freeing you from your armor. That picture made a nice bonus for my men. I thank you for that. They’ve been getting on my nerves lately having been so long since they had shore leave. That’ll keep them entertained for a while.”
Aww, how sweet. He remembers me. The sharp intake of breath was enough to get Akila to move. The man had lunged forward for her throat, and at the same time her hand went to his wound, thumb jutting into it to cause serious pain.
Achilleas wasn’t the first person to have his hand around her throat, nor would he be the least. Ten years though was a long time, and for him to have such an instant response well… Akila was flattered to have made such an impact. Though perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so cocky- this was a man fresh off the battlefield. Then again… this was Akila, and the fact that her ego hadn’t capsized the ship yet was a marvel in it of itself.
“Oh come off it, little fish.” Akila laughed, shoving him back onto the bed as she dug that thumb deep into his bandaged shoulder. “You should be thanking me.” She pushed the man down, back towards the bed, before rubbing her own neck. He did no damage, the grip not strong enough to even leave a bruise.
Really though, such a reaction to have towards his savior. It was her medicines, her bandages, her crew that was keeping this little Greek alive. If Akila were to be a good little girl she’d had left them all to die. The Egyptians would be happier for sure.
But where was the fun in that?
Akila sat down in the chair that was parked beside the bed, the chair the other Greek often was at, and was about to kick back and say something cocky when the little fish started moving again. He struggled to sit up and began to claw at his bandages. Normally Akila would just let the dumbass die if that’s what he wanted. But he was a pay day.
“Tsk, tsk,” Akila was back on her feet and gathered the man’s wrists, leaning her weight on them to pin them down. She could still feel the heat radiating from him and she was close enough to see the droplets of sweat and water sliding from his brow. “Don’t make me tie you up. You remember I’m into kinky play, but I’d rather my men actually able to finish me off. You weren’t even able to do that when you were in the proper state.” Flopped like a dead fish. “You’re my guest, Achilleas. Now relax.” She pushed off him, but she was still hyper-aware of his every movement. She would tie him up to the bed no problem. After all, it’d save his life. No need to thank her.
Akila sat back down on the chair, leaning forward so her elbows were on her knees. “We took the liberty of freeing you from your armor. That picture made a nice bonus for my men. I thank you for that. They’ve been getting on my nerves lately having been so long since they had shore leave. That’ll keep them entertained for a while.”
He’d opened his eyes to light too bright, to a shadowed distorted figure leaning over him, pushing shards of ice into his brain. His efforts to fight had been feeble, the creature brushing him away as if he was nothing and then clawing into his shoulder with claws and teeth. He tried to get away. Where was his sword, spear?
There was a cry of pain, whatever awareness the fever masked the sensation of pressure on a newly stitched wound still enough to have the man curl backwards, making it an easy thing for Akila to push him back down on to the bed. He looked from the injured shoulder back to the woman, confusion and pain hazing the wild, wary eyes that had so suddenly opened as the greek came back to consciousness.
Achilleas has expected to see blood. He burned and bled, he was sure of it, but when he looked down there were the coils of some serpent wrapped around him, and he remembered the hydra, and how it had cast them on to Egyptian shores. Not done with him yet, he flailed and tried to pull the coils away from where they pinned his arm to his body.
Akila’s words did not seem to register with the man. When he had recovered from the digging press of her thumb, it was just a struggle against the linens that bound his bad arm to his chest, a clumsy process at the best of times but made more so by limbs that did not seem to do as he told them, fingers with little grip. Wrapped as it was to minimise movement and allow torn muscle and flesh to heal, it was clearly panicking the greek enough to see him fight to free himself. If he was truly awake and aware of the pirate and his precarious situation, Achilleas showed no sign of it. He did react to the hold she took upon his wrist, recoiling like it burnt, struggling to choke out words that were garbled and senseless.[/i]
“Not backwards. He sent shadow teeth.”
The words, meaningless as they seemed to be, clearly took some effort, forced through paper dry lips as they were, but he was trying to get up again all the same, determined to get back to the somewhere...something that his mind had convinced was both an urgent and possible thing.
Did he think himself still on the sands, able to rejoin the fight? Or somewhere else, some strange conflation of different elements of reality. Skin flushed and pupils blown wide and dark, he looked through Akila, seeing something different perhaps.
At words that surely would have merited more of a reaction had the King been more himself, there was not even the slightest reaction. Not even a look of recognition at talk of what she had done with the portrait the man had kept so close to his heart. Instead, his eyelids had fluttered, and he rolled onto his side, dry retching though nothing came up, and with his free hand, he was batting away invisible assailants, muttering nonsense again.
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He’d opened his eyes to light too bright, to a shadowed distorted figure leaning over him, pushing shards of ice into his brain. His efforts to fight had been feeble, the creature brushing him away as if he was nothing and then clawing into his shoulder with claws and teeth. He tried to get away. Where was his sword, spear?
There was a cry of pain, whatever awareness the fever masked the sensation of pressure on a newly stitched wound still enough to have the man curl backwards, making it an easy thing for Akila to push him back down on to the bed. He looked from the injured shoulder back to the woman, confusion and pain hazing the wild, wary eyes that had so suddenly opened as the greek came back to consciousness.
Achilleas has expected to see blood. He burned and bled, he was sure of it, but when he looked down there were the coils of some serpent wrapped around him, and he remembered the hydra, and how it had cast them on to Egyptian shores. Not done with him yet, he flailed and tried to pull the coils away from where they pinned his arm to his body.
Akila’s words did not seem to register with the man. When he had recovered from the digging press of her thumb, it was just a struggle against the linens that bound his bad arm to his chest, a clumsy process at the best of times but made more so by limbs that did not seem to do as he told them, fingers with little grip. Wrapped as it was to minimise movement and allow torn muscle and flesh to heal, it was clearly panicking the greek enough to see him fight to free himself. If he was truly awake and aware of the pirate and his precarious situation, Achilleas showed no sign of it. He did react to the hold she took upon his wrist, recoiling like it burnt, struggling to choke out words that were garbled and senseless.[/i]
“Not backwards. He sent shadow teeth.”
The words, meaningless as they seemed to be, clearly took some effort, forced through paper dry lips as they were, but he was trying to get up again all the same, determined to get back to the somewhere...something that his mind had convinced was both an urgent and possible thing.
Did he think himself still on the sands, able to rejoin the fight? Or somewhere else, some strange conflation of different elements of reality. Skin flushed and pupils blown wide and dark, he looked through Akila, seeing something different perhaps.
At words that surely would have merited more of a reaction had the King been more himself, there was not even the slightest reaction. Not even a look of recognition at talk of what she had done with the portrait the man had kept so close to his heart. Instead, his eyelids had fluttered, and he rolled onto his side, dry retching though nothing came up, and with his free hand, he was batting away invisible assailants, muttering nonsense again.
He’d opened his eyes to light too bright, to a shadowed distorted figure leaning over him, pushing shards of ice into his brain. His efforts to fight had been feeble, the creature brushing him away as if he was nothing and then clawing into his shoulder with claws and teeth. He tried to get away. Where was his sword, spear?
There was a cry of pain, whatever awareness the fever masked the sensation of pressure on a newly stitched wound still enough to have the man curl backwards, making it an easy thing for Akila to push him back down on to the bed. He looked from the injured shoulder back to the woman, confusion and pain hazing the wild, wary eyes that had so suddenly opened as the greek came back to consciousness.
Achilleas has expected to see blood. He burned and bled, he was sure of it, but when he looked down there were the coils of some serpent wrapped around him, and he remembered the hydra, and how it had cast them on to Egyptian shores. Not done with him yet, he flailed and tried to pull the coils away from where they pinned his arm to his body.
Akila’s words did not seem to register with the man. When he had recovered from the digging press of her thumb, it was just a struggle against the linens that bound his bad arm to his chest, a clumsy process at the best of times but made more so by limbs that did not seem to do as he told them, fingers with little grip. Wrapped as it was to minimise movement and allow torn muscle and flesh to heal, it was clearly panicking the greek enough to see him fight to free himself. If he was truly awake and aware of the pirate and his precarious situation, Achilleas showed no sign of it. He did react to the hold she took upon his wrist, recoiling like it burnt, struggling to choke out words that were garbled and senseless.[/i]
“Not backwards. He sent shadow teeth.”
The words, meaningless as they seemed to be, clearly took some effort, forced through paper dry lips as they were, but he was trying to get up again all the same, determined to get back to the somewhere...something that his mind had convinced was both an urgent and possible thing.
Did he think himself still on the sands, able to rejoin the fight? Or somewhere else, some strange conflation of different elements of reality. Skin flushed and pupils blown wide and dark, he looked through Akila, seeing something different perhaps.
At words that surely would have merited more of a reaction had the King been more himself, there was not even the slightest reaction. Not even a look of recognition at talk of what she had done with the portrait the man had kept so close to his heart. Instead, his eyelids had fluttered, and he rolled onto his side, dry retching though nothing came up, and with his free hand, he was batting away invisible assailants, muttering nonsense again.
Akila typically liked insane men. They were interesting. They were fun. They were unpredictable. But right now when the man was between a journey to Judea and a journey to the Du’at, she’d preferred predictability. So Akila once more stood up and went to a chest she kept in a chest in her quarters. From the chest, she pulled out chains and shackles. Typically they were used for a bit of fun when she cared to have them (they were pretty fucking heavy at times), but now they would have a real practical use.
“I guess you couldn’t get enough of my biting that one time, hm?” Akila snickered as she set the chains up on the head of the bed, wrapping it around. “Now, now, if you wanted this all you had to do is ask. You’re just looking to be punished, aren’t you. Naughty.”
Akila’s strong grip wrapped around his wrist and she wrestled with him for a moment before she finally managed to get the shackle around it. The other free wrist was what caused her the most problem, with him trying to bat invisible combatants. Damn, if he was like this injured, she didn’t want to see him at full strength.
Then again, maybe she did. Might be a fun time.
Click. The shackles snapped against the wrist and Akila finally stood back smirking. “You know what amuses me most?” Akila smirked down at him. She slowly reached forward, a fingernail gently tracing his side, careful of any injuries that may be there. “When the healer was dressing your wound I got a peek at you back. I saw something, faint, but there. Reminded me of a nail scratch. Did I manage to scar you?”
That would make her day.
Akila sighed and looked around. There had to be- There. A bottle of wine labeled Belladonna had been left out by the healer. Akila didn’t know much about medicines, but she knew wine steeped with Belladonna was used to reduce fever. He hoarded Belladonna like it was poppy, and should one of her men go near this wine it would be… well, a quick trip to the healer after he was done punishing them.
Akila poured it in a mug and held it close to Achilleas’s lips. “Here, drink,” Akila said rather impatiently. She lacked bedside manner, but well, wasn’t like he’d fucking remember anyway. He was fucking useless right now. This would all be just some fever dream.
One hand helped his head go up while the other carefully tipped it, so he wouldn’t choke on the liquid as it went down. Then she placed it on the table beside him. Fuck. Akila killed people all the fucking time. She didn’t nurse them to health.
“I’m not getting paid enough for this shit.” Akila muttered under her breath.
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Akila typically liked insane men. They were interesting. They were fun. They were unpredictable. But right now when the man was between a journey to Judea and a journey to the Du’at, she’d preferred predictability. So Akila once more stood up and went to a chest she kept in a chest in her quarters. From the chest, she pulled out chains and shackles. Typically they were used for a bit of fun when she cared to have them (they were pretty fucking heavy at times), but now they would have a real practical use.
“I guess you couldn’t get enough of my biting that one time, hm?” Akila snickered as she set the chains up on the head of the bed, wrapping it around. “Now, now, if you wanted this all you had to do is ask. You’re just looking to be punished, aren’t you. Naughty.”
Akila’s strong grip wrapped around his wrist and she wrestled with him for a moment before she finally managed to get the shackle around it. The other free wrist was what caused her the most problem, with him trying to bat invisible combatants. Damn, if he was like this injured, she didn’t want to see him at full strength.
Then again, maybe she did. Might be a fun time.
Click. The shackles snapped against the wrist and Akila finally stood back smirking. “You know what amuses me most?” Akila smirked down at him. She slowly reached forward, a fingernail gently tracing his side, careful of any injuries that may be there. “When the healer was dressing your wound I got a peek at you back. I saw something, faint, but there. Reminded me of a nail scratch. Did I manage to scar you?”
That would make her day.
Akila sighed and looked around. There had to be- There. A bottle of wine labeled Belladonna had been left out by the healer. Akila didn’t know much about medicines, but she knew wine steeped with Belladonna was used to reduce fever. He hoarded Belladonna like it was poppy, and should one of her men go near this wine it would be… well, a quick trip to the healer after he was done punishing them.
Akila poured it in a mug and held it close to Achilleas’s lips. “Here, drink,” Akila said rather impatiently. She lacked bedside manner, but well, wasn’t like he’d fucking remember anyway. He was fucking useless right now. This would all be just some fever dream.
One hand helped his head go up while the other carefully tipped it, so he wouldn’t choke on the liquid as it went down. Then she placed it on the table beside him. Fuck. Akila killed people all the fucking time. She didn’t nurse them to health.
“I’m not getting paid enough for this shit.” Akila muttered under her breath.
Akila typically liked insane men. They were interesting. They were fun. They were unpredictable. But right now when the man was between a journey to Judea and a journey to the Du’at, she’d preferred predictability. So Akila once more stood up and went to a chest she kept in a chest in her quarters. From the chest, she pulled out chains and shackles. Typically they were used for a bit of fun when she cared to have them (they were pretty fucking heavy at times), but now they would have a real practical use.
“I guess you couldn’t get enough of my biting that one time, hm?” Akila snickered as she set the chains up on the head of the bed, wrapping it around. “Now, now, if you wanted this all you had to do is ask. You’re just looking to be punished, aren’t you. Naughty.”
Akila’s strong grip wrapped around his wrist and she wrestled with him for a moment before she finally managed to get the shackle around it. The other free wrist was what caused her the most problem, with him trying to bat invisible combatants. Damn, if he was like this injured, she didn’t want to see him at full strength.
Then again, maybe she did. Might be a fun time.
Click. The shackles snapped against the wrist and Akila finally stood back smirking. “You know what amuses me most?” Akila smirked down at him. She slowly reached forward, a fingernail gently tracing his side, careful of any injuries that may be there. “When the healer was dressing your wound I got a peek at you back. I saw something, faint, but there. Reminded me of a nail scratch. Did I manage to scar you?”
That would make her day.
Akila sighed and looked around. There had to be- There. A bottle of wine labeled Belladonna had been left out by the healer. Akila didn’t know much about medicines, but she knew wine steeped with Belladonna was used to reduce fever. He hoarded Belladonna like it was poppy, and should one of her men go near this wine it would be… well, a quick trip to the healer after he was done punishing them.
Akila poured it in a mug and held it close to Achilleas’s lips. “Here, drink,” Akila said rather impatiently. She lacked bedside manner, but well, wasn’t like he’d fucking remember anyway. He was fucking useless right now. This would all be just some fever dream.
One hand helped his head go up while the other carefully tipped it, so he wouldn’t choke on the liquid as it went down. Then she placed it on the table beside him. Fuck. Akila killed people all the fucking time. She didn’t nurse them to health.
“I’m not getting paid enough for this shit.” Akila muttered under her breath.
The first shackle went on without too much fuss; the king’s strength and coordination sapped by the fever that had taken hold of his body. But he resisted the second, and there was a brief struggle before the iron had snapped into place. Then there was that panic again at being so restrained, the chains rattling as he pulled against them. His breath was laboured, eyes wild by the time he’d tired himself out, and Achilleas flinched away from the touch of her finger tracing down his ribs. His skin felt pulled too tight, sore, the poison that still crept through his veins, making everything feel sharp, too much.
Exhausted by even the minor exertion of trying to fight off his would-be nurse, the Taengean slumped back against the thin straw mattress, eyelids fluttering. There was still no sign of recognition when the pirate moved closed, but he did at least seem to see her and not look past her like she was not there at all.
When she lifted the cup to his lips there was a moment where he blinked up her, eyes bright with fever, and it looked as though he might resist, but then the promise of something to slake his burning thirst was too much, and he drank, throat bobbing as he gulped down what little of the wine she poured. Awake for a while, he gazed up at the ceiling before whatever the wine was laced with seemed enough to send him back to a fitful slumber.
It went on as such for hours; moments of wakefulness that were not paired with lucidity. Still, the fever burned flushed the King’s skin, and when his eyes were open, they were almost black, only the thinnest seam of blue visible around dark, vast, pupils. Occasionally he would cry out though piecing together meaning from the words was impossible. A name here or there, a protestation.
It was dark when he awoke properly for the first time, a small candle in a deep pot throwing a little light across the cabin. Achilleas cast his eyes around, did not recognise where he was. He felt wretched, sharp pain in his head with the slightest movement, and so hot he thought he might burst into flame.
Trying to quell the initial flood of panic at waking where he didn’t know, he gingerly moved his toes and kicked his legs free of the coarse blanket he lay upon. There was hurt, but nothing more than muscle aches. When he tried to move his arms, he was hindered twice over. Once by an excruciating jolt of pain that had him gasp out, and then again by the clank of metal and the shocking weight of shackles upon his wrists. The sound was enough to cause some movement in a shadowed lump he had not noticed before; a figure sitting across the room.
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Feb 10, 2021 22:10:36 GMT
Posted In Fever Dream on Feb 10, 2021 22:10:36 GMT
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The first shackle went on without too much fuss; the king’s strength and coordination sapped by the fever that had taken hold of his body. But he resisted the second, and there was a brief struggle before the iron had snapped into place. Then there was that panic again at being so restrained, the chains rattling as he pulled against them. His breath was laboured, eyes wild by the time he’d tired himself out, and Achilleas flinched away from the touch of her finger tracing down his ribs. His skin felt pulled too tight, sore, the poison that still crept through his veins, making everything feel sharp, too much.
Exhausted by even the minor exertion of trying to fight off his would-be nurse, the Taengean slumped back against the thin straw mattress, eyelids fluttering. There was still no sign of recognition when the pirate moved closed, but he did at least seem to see her and not look past her like she was not there at all.
When she lifted the cup to his lips there was a moment where he blinked up her, eyes bright with fever, and it looked as though he might resist, but then the promise of something to slake his burning thirst was too much, and he drank, throat bobbing as he gulped down what little of the wine she poured. Awake for a while, he gazed up at the ceiling before whatever the wine was laced with seemed enough to send him back to a fitful slumber.
It went on as such for hours; moments of wakefulness that were not paired with lucidity. Still, the fever burned flushed the King’s skin, and when his eyes were open, they were almost black, only the thinnest seam of blue visible around dark, vast, pupils. Occasionally he would cry out though piecing together meaning from the words was impossible. A name here or there, a protestation.
It was dark when he awoke properly for the first time, a small candle in a deep pot throwing a little light across the cabin. Achilleas cast his eyes around, did not recognise where he was. He felt wretched, sharp pain in his head with the slightest movement, and so hot he thought he might burst into flame.
Trying to quell the initial flood of panic at waking where he didn’t know, he gingerly moved his toes and kicked his legs free of the coarse blanket he lay upon. There was hurt, but nothing more than muscle aches. When he tried to move his arms, he was hindered twice over. Once by an excruciating jolt of pain that had him gasp out, and then again by the clank of metal and the shocking weight of shackles upon his wrists. The sound was enough to cause some movement in a shadowed lump he had not noticed before; a figure sitting across the room.
The first shackle went on without too much fuss; the king’s strength and coordination sapped by the fever that had taken hold of his body. But he resisted the second, and there was a brief struggle before the iron had snapped into place. Then there was that panic again at being so restrained, the chains rattling as he pulled against them. His breath was laboured, eyes wild by the time he’d tired himself out, and Achilleas flinched away from the touch of her finger tracing down his ribs. His skin felt pulled too tight, sore, the poison that still crept through his veins, making everything feel sharp, too much.
Exhausted by even the minor exertion of trying to fight off his would-be nurse, the Taengean slumped back against the thin straw mattress, eyelids fluttering. There was still no sign of recognition when the pirate moved closed, but he did at least seem to see her and not look past her like she was not there at all.
When she lifted the cup to his lips there was a moment where he blinked up her, eyes bright with fever, and it looked as though he might resist, but then the promise of something to slake his burning thirst was too much, and he drank, throat bobbing as he gulped down what little of the wine she poured. Awake for a while, he gazed up at the ceiling before whatever the wine was laced with seemed enough to send him back to a fitful slumber.
It went on as such for hours; moments of wakefulness that were not paired with lucidity. Still, the fever burned flushed the King’s skin, and when his eyes were open, they were almost black, only the thinnest seam of blue visible around dark, vast, pupils. Occasionally he would cry out though piecing together meaning from the words was impossible. A name here or there, a protestation.
It was dark when he awoke properly for the first time, a small candle in a deep pot throwing a little light across the cabin. Achilleas cast his eyes around, did not recognise where he was. He felt wretched, sharp pain in his head with the slightest movement, and so hot he thought he might burst into flame.
Trying to quell the initial flood of panic at waking where he didn’t know, he gingerly moved his toes and kicked his legs free of the coarse blanket he lay upon. There was hurt, but nothing more than muscle aches. When he tried to move his arms, he was hindered twice over. Once by an excruciating jolt of pain that had him gasp out, and then again by the clank of metal and the shocking weight of shackles upon his wrists. The sound was enough to cause some movement in a shadowed lump he had not noticed before; a figure sitting across the room.
To think that Akila sat there waiting diligently and caringly while the King went in and out of sleep would be a blatant lie that no one would ever fucking believe. The moment he was out she made sure he wasn't going to randomly drop dead and went about her business. Akila didn't have the time to leisurely lounge in her quarters, not when she had a crew of idiots steering her ship and another Greek that was off getting fixed up by her doctor. It was hours later before she went in ready to rest for the night. Or at the very least put on something that wouldn't be soaked to the bone.
When she finally entered the quarters again, once more the Greek dog was gone. Akila wasn't too surprised. As much of a leech as he was to the King's side, the eye was a lot for anyone to deal with, and in order to clean it properly the medic needed him knocked out. It was perfect for her anyway, as the pirate needed to get changed. (Not that Akila was one for modesty anyway. An ex-whore and an Egyptian? Of course she fucking wasn't.)
She pulled off her clothes and glanced over at Achilleas. Leaning against the chair she used it as support as the ship rocked back and forth. When she glanced again, she saw his eyes flutter open. Akila smirked amused, before throwing the cloth above his head. "No peeking, little fish."
The shackles had moved, the blanket had fallen, and Akila gave no damns. At least not until she was wearing something dry. Finally that was when she pulled the discarded sopping clothes from the king's head. She then plopped down on the chair, rebranding her locks into one long braid. "You awake now? Here I thought you were on your way to Anu- Oh, wait you don't believe in Anubis. Harry? Whatever." Akila snorted. It wasn't like either gave a damn about him anyway. Anubis would give his heart to the gator so fast it wouldn't even hit the scale.
Akila leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Your eyes are looking clearer too. If I unchain you will you be an idiot and try to get rid of your bandages again? I promised to get you to Judea alive. I didn't promise it would he with both hands." Her dark eyes traveled from his face to the wrists that hung from above. "Gonna be a good fish?"
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Feb 25, 2021 20:09:42 GMT
Posted In Fever Dream on Feb 25, 2021 20:09:42 GMT
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To think that Akila sat there waiting diligently and caringly while the King went in and out of sleep would be a blatant lie that no one would ever fucking believe. The moment he was out she made sure he wasn't going to randomly drop dead and went about her business. Akila didn't have the time to leisurely lounge in her quarters, not when she had a crew of idiots steering her ship and another Greek that was off getting fixed up by her doctor. It was hours later before she went in ready to rest for the night. Or at the very least put on something that wouldn't be soaked to the bone.
When she finally entered the quarters again, once more the Greek dog was gone. Akila wasn't too surprised. As much of a leech as he was to the King's side, the eye was a lot for anyone to deal with, and in order to clean it properly the medic needed him knocked out. It was perfect for her anyway, as the pirate needed to get changed. (Not that Akila was one for modesty anyway. An ex-whore and an Egyptian? Of course she fucking wasn't.)
She pulled off her clothes and glanced over at Achilleas. Leaning against the chair she used it as support as the ship rocked back and forth. When she glanced again, she saw his eyes flutter open. Akila smirked amused, before throwing the cloth above his head. "No peeking, little fish."
The shackles had moved, the blanket had fallen, and Akila gave no damns. At least not until she was wearing something dry. Finally that was when she pulled the discarded sopping clothes from the king's head. She then plopped down on the chair, rebranding her locks into one long braid. "You awake now? Here I thought you were on your way to Anu- Oh, wait you don't believe in Anubis. Harry? Whatever." Akila snorted. It wasn't like either gave a damn about him anyway. Anubis would give his heart to the gator so fast it wouldn't even hit the scale.
Akila leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Your eyes are looking clearer too. If I unchain you will you be an idiot and try to get rid of your bandages again? I promised to get you to Judea alive. I didn't promise it would he with both hands." Her dark eyes traveled from his face to the wrists that hung from above. "Gonna be a good fish?"
To think that Akila sat there waiting diligently and caringly while the King went in and out of sleep would be a blatant lie that no one would ever fucking believe. The moment he was out she made sure he wasn't going to randomly drop dead and went about her business. Akila didn't have the time to leisurely lounge in her quarters, not when she had a crew of idiots steering her ship and another Greek that was off getting fixed up by her doctor. It was hours later before she went in ready to rest for the night. Or at the very least put on something that wouldn't be soaked to the bone.
When she finally entered the quarters again, once more the Greek dog was gone. Akila wasn't too surprised. As much of a leech as he was to the King's side, the eye was a lot for anyone to deal with, and in order to clean it properly the medic needed him knocked out. It was perfect for her anyway, as the pirate needed to get changed. (Not that Akila was one for modesty anyway. An ex-whore and an Egyptian? Of course she fucking wasn't.)
She pulled off her clothes and glanced over at Achilleas. Leaning against the chair she used it as support as the ship rocked back and forth. When she glanced again, she saw his eyes flutter open. Akila smirked amused, before throwing the cloth above his head. "No peeking, little fish."
The shackles had moved, the blanket had fallen, and Akila gave no damns. At least not until she was wearing something dry. Finally that was when she pulled the discarded sopping clothes from the king's head. She then plopped down on the chair, rebranding her locks into one long braid. "You awake now? Here I thought you were on your way to Anu- Oh, wait you don't believe in Anubis. Harry? Whatever." Akila snorted. It wasn't like either gave a damn about him anyway. Anubis would give his heart to the gator so fast it wouldn't even hit the scale.
Akila leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Your eyes are looking clearer too. If I unchain you will you be an idiot and try to get rid of your bandages again? I promised to get you to Judea alive. I didn't promise it would he with both hands." Her dark eyes traveled from his face to the wrists that hung from above. "Gonna be a good fish?"
It took him a moment to figure out that he hadn’t gone blind and he wasn’t drowning. There was just something covering his face, and it was wet. Drenched. Unpleasant to breathe through and Achilleas shifted his head to try and dislodge it.
His first thought - the first that had any kind of rationality attached to it was that hed been captured by the Egyptians. Why else would his hands be bound and his sight taken away? When someone spoke in horribly accented greek, it should have only confirmed it, but he wasn’t expecting a female voice, and the words themselves made little sense. The man went very still then, trying to quell the panicked rise and fall of his chest and listen because he clearly wasn’t alone.
With that little bit of lucidity came the horrible awareness of how vulnerable he was, and Achilleas strained to hear, tilting his head toward the sound of footsteps approaching and visibly tensing when they paused nearby. Too close.
All at once, the damp cloth was pulled away again, and the greek man blinked and took a deep breath, trying to focus in the gloomy dark. He blinked past the pounding in his head to focus on a figure sitting next to him, definitely female...definitely Egyptian. He blinked again because some part of him thought he recognised her but…
‘You awake now? Here I thought you were on your way to Anu- Oh, wait, you don't believe in Anubis. Harry? Whatever.’
It was hard to think when his head seemed fogged with fever, but there was something familiar, something dancing just out of his grasp, and he could only stare at the woman, brows drawn together in a frown as he’d tried to piece together what he was missing. His tongue slipped out to dry and wet-dry lips, and he managed a cracked and rasping “ where..?” before giving up, his wors clumsy and throat closed up with underuse.
When the woman spoke again, he tried to follow her words, glancing down at himself and where sure enough there were linen strips wrapped around his chest, up over his shoulder. The source of that pain when he tried to move. He didn’t know that he necessarily wanted to know what was under there just yet. “Let me free” he ground out, words husky but audible all the same, and it was as he looked again at his captor - for what else could she be - that he had a dawning recognition. Amazingly, it didn’t make him feel any better about his situation, nor any less confused.
“...I remember you.”
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It took him a moment to figure out that he hadn’t gone blind and he wasn’t drowning. There was just something covering his face, and it was wet. Drenched. Unpleasant to breathe through and Achilleas shifted his head to try and dislodge it.
His first thought - the first that had any kind of rationality attached to it was that hed been captured by the Egyptians. Why else would his hands be bound and his sight taken away? When someone spoke in horribly accented greek, it should have only confirmed it, but he wasn’t expecting a female voice, and the words themselves made little sense. The man went very still then, trying to quell the panicked rise and fall of his chest and listen because he clearly wasn’t alone.
With that little bit of lucidity came the horrible awareness of how vulnerable he was, and Achilleas strained to hear, tilting his head toward the sound of footsteps approaching and visibly tensing when they paused nearby. Too close.
All at once, the damp cloth was pulled away again, and the greek man blinked and took a deep breath, trying to focus in the gloomy dark. He blinked past the pounding in his head to focus on a figure sitting next to him, definitely female...definitely Egyptian. He blinked again because some part of him thought he recognised her but…
‘You awake now? Here I thought you were on your way to Anu- Oh, wait, you don't believe in Anubis. Harry? Whatever.’
It was hard to think when his head seemed fogged with fever, but there was something familiar, something dancing just out of his grasp, and he could only stare at the woman, brows drawn together in a frown as he’d tried to piece together what he was missing. His tongue slipped out to dry and wet-dry lips, and he managed a cracked and rasping “ where..?” before giving up, his wors clumsy and throat closed up with underuse.
When the woman spoke again, he tried to follow her words, glancing down at himself and where sure enough there were linen strips wrapped around his chest, up over his shoulder. The source of that pain when he tried to move. He didn’t know that he necessarily wanted to know what was under there just yet. “Let me free” he ground out, words husky but audible all the same, and it was as he looked again at his captor - for what else could she be - that he had a dawning recognition. Amazingly, it didn’t make him feel any better about his situation, nor any less confused.
“...I remember you.”
It took him a moment to figure out that he hadn’t gone blind and he wasn’t drowning. There was just something covering his face, and it was wet. Drenched. Unpleasant to breathe through and Achilleas shifted his head to try and dislodge it.
His first thought - the first that had any kind of rationality attached to it was that hed been captured by the Egyptians. Why else would his hands be bound and his sight taken away? When someone spoke in horribly accented greek, it should have only confirmed it, but he wasn’t expecting a female voice, and the words themselves made little sense. The man went very still then, trying to quell the panicked rise and fall of his chest and listen because he clearly wasn’t alone.
With that little bit of lucidity came the horrible awareness of how vulnerable he was, and Achilleas strained to hear, tilting his head toward the sound of footsteps approaching and visibly tensing when they paused nearby. Too close.
All at once, the damp cloth was pulled away again, and the greek man blinked and took a deep breath, trying to focus in the gloomy dark. He blinked past the pounding in his head to focus on a figure sitting next to him, definitely female...definitely Egyptian. He blinked again because some part of him thought he recognised her but…
‘You awake now? Here I thought you were on your way to Anu- Oh, wait, you don't believe in Anubis. Harry? Whatever.’
It was hard to think when his head seemed fogged with fever, but there was something familiar, something dancing just out of his grasp, and he could only stare at the woman, brows drawn together in a frown as he’d tried to piece together what he was missing. His tongue slipped out to dry and wet-dry lips, and he managed a cracked and rasping “ where..?” before giving up, his wors clumsy and throat closed up with underuse.
When the woman spoke again, he tried to follow her words, glancing down at himself and where sure enough there were linen strips wrapped around his chest, up over his shoulder. The source of that pain when he tried to move. He didn’t know that he necessarily wanted to know what was under there just yet. “Let me free” he ground out, words husky but audible all the same, and it was as he looked again at his captor - for what else could she be - that he had a dawning recognition. Amazingly, it didn’t make him feel any better about his situation, nor any less confused.
