Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1: SURVIVAL, REPRISE

There was a cave.

(a scary cave)

There was a cave that was filled with the untouched footprints of more than a dozen men and one monster. These chaotically placed footprints spoke of a fierce battle – one that had no winners. Dried bloodstains littered the ground and a blooded club laid discarded to the side. One could almost imagine the tragedy that took place in this otherwise unremarkable cave.

Now, the cave seemed suspended in time – motionless and silent. There was no life except for the mildew feasting on the last putrid remains of a once generously filled larder. It was a hollow, quiet space. Dark and cold.

Dust motes danced in sparse beams of sunlight that penetrated the constant gloom and some of them settled gently on the remains of once brave men, softening their outlines. Nothing but bones, they now were, as time and nature had laid claim to their remains. There had been no time for a burial ceremony, no time to be properly mourned – the only rite they received was to be slowly returned to the natural cycle.

One of the corpses was unlike its brothers, however. It was in a horrible state, just like the others. Skull shattered, arm mangled, ribs broken. But this corpse was fresh. It looked like it had only stopped functioning a day ago. If not for the dried, flaking blood coating its skin and clothes, one might even think its soul had only just vacated its body.
Pale but not grey, no putrefaction, no rigor mortis. It just laid there, seemingly frozen in time.

Why was this corpse different?

Why could nature not lay her claim?

Was it because in life, it was beloved by many?

Was it because in life, it remained as innocent as a mortal during wartime could be?

Was it because it had unfinished business?

Sheer stubbornness?

Only the Gods knew the answer…


*******

For a long time, the corpse lay unchanging in that abandoned cave; cold and indifferent to all the goings on outside.


*******


Something changed. 

Pressure in the cave suddenly rose immensely while the temperature took a nosedive. As if the entire space was suddenly plunged deep underwater. All sound seemed to muffle; filling the area with a deep sense of foreboding – the entire world was holding its breath. Only the subtle scent of woodlands and wildflowers hinted that maybe all might not be what it seemed.

And in the epicentre of it all was the dead man’s body.

A presence appeared in the cave – Magnificent and terrifying. Beautiful and bewildering. 

The presence paused, as if in some sort of contemplation. It studied the mangled remains of a man who once greeted the world with open arms, quietly musing over the fragility of it all.

It made a decision.

Reaching into the chest of the dead man and gently cradling the stilled heart in its palm, the presence wondered what this small yet big organ was capable of had it not been stopped so soon. What it still could be capable of. Tenderly the heart was held, weighed and found worthy.

And so…

The hand

Squeezed. 

The heart spasmed, stiff after such a long time of disuse.

The hand squeezed again.

And again.

Until the organ complied and found a new, sluggish rhythm.

Blood began to flow gradually – through arteries and veins and capillaries, reaching muscles and organs. Lungs trembled and rattled as the body took its first hesitant breaths. Shallow and slow, but undeniably there. A healthier colour returned to the paled skin, heat building up in the cells as they started to work as if death had never happened.

There was a certain thrill of tenderness and wild pride as the catalyst beheld their work. As an afterthought they left a small mark on the body’s chest. As a claim, perhaps. Or a warning.

Then, the air in the cave turned normal again. Whatever had visited, had left.

******

The first thing the body became aware of was its heartbeat. It was a calm, steady sensation in the darkness. The body decided it liked the feeling after experiencing it for a while.
As it lay there, it slowly began to become more aware of other sensations – a lingering sweet smell, the pressure of its back on the ground, the coolness of the air on its skin. It began to dawn on the body that it had a form; a physicality that was sensing all of these things. This, in turn, reminded it that it could, in fact, control this form.

Yet how to do this?

It lay contemplating over this for a bit while flitting between instances of trying to remember what it actually was. The body was, yet what was it?

It noticed, eventually, the rise and fall of its chest. Aha! So it was capable of moving and was doing it already! Alas, as soon as it made this exciting discovery and tried to focus on it, the movement stopped.
Annoyed, the body waited for it to begin again but nothing happened. Its chest remained still. It waited and waited until an unpleasant feeling began to build. Stronger and stronger it became until the body started to fear. Something was wrong and it didn’t know what to do!

Just when the awful feeling seemed to reach its crescendo, instinct took over. Its chest expanded, the feeling dissipating with a vocal gasp of fresh air.

A sound.

It could make sounds!

Having felt how to fill its lungs, the body tried to mimic the motion. To its delight, it sucked in air after a few tries and even managed to breathe the air out again. Yes! Breathing. It was called breathing! It repeated the motions and marvelled at how good it felt. in and out, in and out.
After the novelty of breathing wore off, the body wondered what else it could do – what it could sense. It could feel its back touching a cool surface. The air smelled a lightly sweet mingling with some muddy tang it couldn’t identify. His breathing made noise it could detect. It should be able to do something else. It was hard to remember but the body tried its best.

Nothing.

There was a big, gaping black hole where memory was supposed to be.

Since it couldn’t do anything else at the moment, the body decided to give itself a break and just enjoy what it could do and feel and then try again later to keep itself from getting frustrated.

The body focussed on its breathing again. 

How wonderful it felt to have its chest expand on command. How delightful to blow the air out with some noise. It could even do it in short bursts if it wanted to!

At a certain point while losing itself in the joy of just breathing, the body’s eye fluttered open and suddenly there were even more wonderful sensations. 

Seeing, it realized. It was seeing! 

And it was beautiful.

The body made a sound with its throat as it gazed at the floating motes of dust that danced through the warm coloured beams of light. Colours and forms and movement! It was a bit confused, however, why its field of vision was very limited on one side. Strange, but it was still happy that it could see anything at all! It didn’t know that it could do that a few minutes ago!
It wondered what else it could do that it hadn’t realized yet. Maybe it could move more? It could move its chest, after all.

So it tried to move more of itself. Toes wiggled and fingers twitched. Encouraged, it tried to raise its arms.
One side didn’t work but the other one did. It brought its hand up to its face and wiggled its fingers in front of its eye. at its commande, they would move and it made the body feel very accomplished. Out of curiosity, it ran its pointer-finger over its cheek. It could feel itself touching and being touched. A very strange but nice sensation.
It ran its fingers over its skin, feeling the tickle of its eyelashes under its fingertips. It marvelled at the feeling of the curve of its nose and the warm air coming from its nostrils. Then, when it moved more to the right side of its face, the body ran into swollen tissue. The right side of its face felt wrong and asymmetrical; much thicker than the left side. It was hard to even find its right eye – which also explained the limited field of vision, the body supposed. As it ran its fingers over its temple, the hair felt hard, glued together and crunchy. It continued to follow the shape of its skull with trepidation and found a large crater where an arch of bone should be.

Oh.

The body removed its hand with a start. It was hurt! It didn’t feel any pain, but this was worrying nonetheless. It tried to remember what had happened to cause such damage but it couldn’t recall anything. Then again, maybe the reason it couldn’t remember was the damage! The body quickly ran its hand over the rest of itself to assess if there were more injuries it wasn’t aware of. 

Unfortunately, there were – quite extensively too. Right arm dangling uselessly out of its socket and multiple fractures littered both its humerus and radius (how did it know these names?). Its chest was caved in on its right side as if it was hit by something massive.

That wasn’t good…

Not good at all!

The body tried to figure out what it should do but forming long, coherent streams of thought was hard. It was like trying to herd cats – very fast cats at that.
So it laid back down for a bit, hoping that perhaps some rest might solve the whole ‘brain not working properly’. But to be honest, it was a bit at a loss.

As the body was laying there, staring at the dancing motes with little thoughts and even less memory, two sensations started to slowly emerge. One was something nice and worth more scrutiny, but it was completely overshadowed by the other sensation. It was some kind of urgency, a strong need – gnawing and gnashing around the centre of its chest. The feeling left no doubt that it should be heeded.

The longer the body lingered, laying there in the cave (stalling perhaps), the more demanding the urge got. It was a very unpleasant sensation and the body knew that the only way to get rid of it was to get or do whatever it was this feeling demanded. It just had no idea what that should be.

First things first, though. In order to get anything done, it had to get up.
So, with a bit of ‘oomph’ and a lot of determination, the body tried to sit up. It succeeded in its effort, although it was glad nobody was there to witness its one-armed flailing. It slanted strongly to its damaged side but still the body felt very proud of its accomplishment.

Encouraged, it started on the second step – getting up.

The body was psyching itself up to try and actually stand up when a glint in the corner of its eye caught its attention. It gingerly reached for the object and inspected it.
Glasses. They were a little bent and the right glass was cracked, but otherwise they seemed fine. The glasses looked familiar somehow. It felt right to put them on even though they didn’t quite sit right on its face due to the head-trauma. They belonged with it, the body decided, and it smiled softly to itself. 

Now, back to getting up.

The body soon found out that actually getting up went about as gracefully as could be expected… There was a lot of flailing, falling, trying, failing, falling again, face-planting, failing some more and wobbling. Eventually though, the body succeeded. It was standing! Crookedly, yes, but it was no less proud about it.
The third step, walking, was daunting but once the body began to put one foot in front of the other hesitantly, muscle memory took over. Its steps became less and less hesitant and in no time it was walking towards the cave’s exit. Any faceplants that happened during the journey towards the exit would not be acknowledged nor mentioned.

Exiting the cave was nothing less but a magical experience. The sun bathed the body in its warm rays and it basked in its magnificence. There was green as far as the eye could see.There were large, majestic trees and the grass was soft under its sandalled feet. There was a melodious hum of insects flying from flower to flower and somewhere in the distance the babbling of a brook could be heard. It was wonderful and the body was grateful to experience the beauty of the world around it. It inhaled deeply, revelling in the heady scent of flowers and fields.

Among those smells that the body was breathing in so eagerly, a certain note grabbed its attention like no other. It froze as it registered the smell – musky, warm and terribly enticing. Its slow heart began to pump faster as all its senses seemed to sharpen. The urge it had temporarily forgotten came back in full force and the body, almost transfixed, tried to hone in on the source of the smell. It sniffed the air as its mind quieted and salvia started to form in its mouth.

There!

Senses focussed, the body started to follow the trail of the scent. First walking, then jogging, then breaking into a sprint. Scenery flew past it as it ran.
The body was all instinct now. The need was thrumming in its veins and in its gut. The scent, getting stronger, urged it on until it was running at full tilt; jumping over rocks and fallen trees, its maimed arm jostling at its side like a grotesque banner.
The body’s feet pounded over the ground and strong legs pumped as it followed the aromatic trail. It felt like it could run forever without tiring if it wanted to. The promise of finding whatever it was to stop the painful clench in its gut drove it ever forward.

At long last, the body burst into a clearing.

And there it was – the source of the smell. The body made eye-contact with a severely startled goat. For a moment, they just stared at each other; predator and prey, until the goat quickly turned around and fled. The sight of the animal fleeing made any remaining thoughts fall silent; all that remained was blind instinct. The body gave chase, locking on the sight of the goat sprinting away.

It wasn’t much of a chase, to be honest. The poor goat was no match for the body’s speed and maneuverability. It was tackled by its pursuer within five seconds and was dead within another five; neck cleanly snapped.

The body kneeled in front of its prize with an eye full of hunger and a mind filled with the insistent urge. It knew what it had to do now. It pushed one knee on the goat’s body to hold it down and began to rip and tear into its dead quarry with its bare hand.

Blunt fingers dug into fur and flesh, grabbing and pulling and digging until it had wet and sinewy chunks of flesh between its fingers. It then hungrily stuffed the gore into its mouth. Blood ran down its chin as it barely chewed before swallowing and bringing another handful of meat to its mouth. The taste of its meal was so good it almost brought the body in a state of euphoria. It gorged itself as it revelled in the sheer bliss of finally satiating the urge it now identified as hunger. It feasted until almost half of the goat was eaten. Then, finally feeling satiated and content, the body slowly fell asleep.

Chapter Text

The body woke up slowly, peacefully. It felt good – better than good, even. Like a fog had lifted from its mind. And with that dulling haze gone, it felt different. Bigger. More complex. It still was a body with arms and legs and organs. It could feel how it was lying down and it registered where its limbs were. But now that the fog was gone it felt like it was more than a collection of body parts. That it was also its thoughts, like the ones it was having now. Feelings too. Right now it was feeling content and a little puzzled for example.
So, if it was more than just a body (the fleshy part) and more than its thoughts and feelings (the mind-y part) then it couldn’t be just a body.

What was it then, if not a body?

Then it dawned on it. It was a person! It was a whole and unique being and its body was just a part of the whole.

It was, no, he was a man!

Whatever that haze was, being rid of it had made it easier to think. Allowed him to see himself more clearly. To understand.

Feeling like a person again felt good. He felt really good in general, actually. Refreshed and satiated and comfortable. So comfortable in fact, that he didn’t want to get up yet. Satisfaction buzzed through his fingers and toes – what rush was there to do anything else but lie with the sun on his back, face pillowed against this soft surface? Gentle, warm, squishy…

Squishy?

As he tested his bedding, puzzled by its unusual form, an awful smell slowly stung his nostrils. A sickly sweet aroma that could only be putrefaction (how did he know that?). As he was trying to process the scent, another sensation presented itself for the man to enjoy – a tickle on the cheek that was resting on his strangely squishy pillow. By noticing it, the man realized that he could in fact feel multiple somethings squirming on his neck, in his hair, and on his arms. As if that wasn’t enough, the loud droning sound of buzzing filled his ears. How had he missed that until now? 

Just like that, his peaceful waking up had turned into a nightmare. He knew what he was going to see the moment he opened his eyes. He knew what situation he found himself in. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Oh gods, he didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening. Still, the squirming and the smell and the sounds were insistent and he thought he was going to be sick if he stayed like this much longer…

Like ripping off a bandaid, the man opened his eyes and was greeted by a horror-show of his own making. Hordes of insects were feasting on the rotting flesh that he was using as a pillow. It was a tapestry of decomposition and small wiggling pale things.
Even though the man had anticipated the disgusting spectacle, he still uttered a shrill shriek of revulsion as he quickly threw himself away from the carcass. He landed on his ass with a huff and got up as fast as he could to brush away all the insects that’d decided that his body was a great place to wriggle and writhe on. He could feel them everywhere. In his chiton, on his skin and, oh gods, in his hair!

It took a good few minutes for him to calm down and stop trying to find more hitchhikers (he could still feel the phantom sensation of them squirming), the man took a big breath and looked at the grotesque spectacle in front of him.

There wasn’t much left of the poor goat.

It now fed hundreds if not thousands of tiny mouths.

But not before he had fed on it.

Because he remembered. He remembered hunting down the poor thing and killing it. The memory was spotty and felt like a bad fever dream, but he knew what he’d done. He had torn into the animal with his bare hand – feasting on it as if starved (he probably was).

For a while, he looked at his blood-stained hands in guilt and confusion. Why had he done that? How had he been able to do that with just one functional arm? There was still meat under his nails…

Then he realized something.

Hands.

As in plural. Two unbroken hands, attached to two equally unbroken arms.

The man moved his right arm, clenched his hand into a fist. How was this possible? The last time he saw that arm it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. And now it was healed?

With that thought his hand flew to the side of his skull. Through matted hair his fingers searched for the caved-in part that was surely there. But all he found was a perfectly shaped dome. If not for the blood still crusting his hair it was as if his skull had never been damaged at all!

Overwhelmed, the man ran his fingers over the right side of his face. No swelling or disfigurement. Eyelashes tickled his fingers onder his careful touch as he found that his eye was neatly in its socket where it belonged.
His ribs were the same story; perfectly intact.

How could this be?

It was only then that the man finally realized what the state he’d been in actually meant. He suddenly knew without a doubt that he’d been riddled with fatal injuries. No normal man could run around with a fractured skull, caved in ribs and an arm that looked like it’d been crushed. Even one of those would be a death sentence, let alone three!

But if those were fatal injuries, how could he have been alive? And if by some kind of miracle he’d been able to walk out of that cave with those injuries, then how by the Gods did he manage to heal? This was all far beyond normal human medicine.

Questions started to rise unbidden. What was he? Had he been dead? If he’d been dead, then why was he alive now? By the will of the Gods?

The man scoffed. He might have no memories, but he was sure there was nothing special about him – certainly not special enough to be deserving of the attention of the Gods; their gaze reserved for the likes of heroes and kings.

He looked over at what was left of the goat. Half gone. Why had he done that? Was it because he needed to heal? But even if he needed to heal, why had he lost control like that? What if it’d been a person instead of a goat? Could he have stopped himself then? Or was he dangerous every time he got hungry or hurt?

Thoughts were spiralling out of control, breath coming in short, choked bursts – as if he wasn’t getting enough air. His slow heart started to beat faster and a feeling of certain doom took root – sudden dizziness set in. What was happening? Was he dying again?

No, no, no… he had to get a grip. He knew this. He knew this.

Recollections of violence, the resolve to pull though it, then and now. He couldn’t let it get to him. Never show the others vulnerability, fear. They looked at him for guidance and support.
But there was so much pain and blood and fire and screaming it was damn near maddening, then he felt like dying with his heart pounding and his lungs not getting enough air – feeling sick and shaky and so, so weak.

He would hide then, if he could. Ride it out – breaking down out of sight. Breathe deeply through his stomach and try to calm himself. He got very good at hiding his panic attacks. He had to, for the sake of others. They needed his support – his optimism and his smiles. 

The man began to try and breathe deeply, to calm himself down – tried to work through the panic attack. 

He took a second to muse over the memory that’d just come to him. It felt like it had been from a very dark time in his past – a time where he felt duty bound to be there while wanting nothing more than to leave. 

He hoped that if more memories were to resurface, they would be kinder in nature.

To distract himself from the negative feelings, the man instinctively grasped for something soothing. Finding it in the form of the pulling feeling still lodged behind his sternum. It was clearer to him now that it wasn't overshadowed by hunger and brain damage. 

It was a nice feeling; warm and familiar. It called to him – beckoning him to follow. It felt so good, so comforting.
The man slowly calmed down and as he did, he realized ruminating over who or what he was would be a useless endeavor for now. What he needed to do instead was to think up the steps he was going to take from here.

The man looked at his stained hands again.

It seemed cleaning himself up would be a good idea. His skin itched from flaking blood and phantom insects. Worse of all, he reeked.


******


As the man made his way towards the sea (which direction was easy to find thanks to its briny smell permeating the air), he was also on the lookout for things that would help him clean up. So caked with blood and other unmentionables was he that he didn’t think only seawater would do the trick. And if he wanted to save his only article of clothing from being tossed in the fire, he certainly needed something to scrub with and on.

A flat rock and something soapy would do the trick he reckoned.

As he searched, the man kept surprising himself with how easy he could find things. This time it wasn’t his nose that led him towards his goal, but some hidden knowledge his brain seemed to house. He recognized many of the plants he encountered; knowing both their names and their uses. Had he been a botanist or something in his previous life? 

It didn’t take very long for him to find plant parts that could be used as soap. As he was picking those and pulling out the roots, he also spotted a nice, flat rock which he could use as a makeshift washing board. It looked quite heavy, but when he braced himself and lifted it, he tossed the damn thing straight up in the air. 

Guess it wasn’t that heavy after all… Probably a fluke.

…

Three rocks later and he concluded that it wasn’t a fluke.

He quickly learned that if he tried to do something he thought needed a little bit of oomph, like picking up a heavy rock, he either pulverized said rock with his bare hands or tossed it so far he couldn’t find it anymore. Thank goodness he had some unconscious control, because otherwise the plant parts he’d collected would’ve been mush by now too.

In the end, the man could only conclude that he was strong. Stupidly strong.

He didn't really know how to feel about that, to be honest. He didn’t think that he’d been that strong before – this felt like something post-death. Just like the speed he had when hunting that goat, or the way his sense of smell seemed to be better.

He decided not to think about these revelations too much, lest he’d be overwhelmed.. His priority was to get clean first.


******


When he finally got to the ocean and saw the gentle waves roll onto the pale sand, the man’s heart filled with excitement. After a careful scan to check if everything was safe, he quickly discarded his chiton (it took a bit of effort to take it off as it was crusted to his skin), sandals, glasses and an unbroken flat rock, to run towards the sea. He didn’t stop until he was knee-deep. The man couldn’t help but smile broadly as the cool touch of the ocean caressed his legs and the smell of the sea surrounded him. A feeling of nostalgia overcame him as he suddenly remembered playing in the sea as a child with two other boys. They were trying to splash each other, recklessly laughing like only kids could. They ended up absolutely soaked and satisfied. Yes, they got a proper scolding once they got home for skipping their classes, but they grinned at each other conspiratorially, knowing that the fun together was worth it.

The man indulged in the memory for a bit. It was warm and nice. Better than the first memory. It felt like a piece of home. A piece of himself now restored. 

The warm pull quivered in his chest and now that he paid attention to it, the man noticed that it tugged straight towards the horizon – meaning that he needed a boat or raft to follow it.

Guess he needed to get or make a boat!

Invigorated, the man looked at the plant parts in his bloodstained hands. Hopefully they would do the trick. He sat down in the water where gentle waves rose to his chest and remained there – letting the water soak into all the caked dirt on his body. The water was pleasantly cool as the ebb and flow rocked him while he sat with his eyes closed. For a moment, it was just him and the sea. The sound of the surf and the smell of salt, the soft caress of the water and the swaying motion. If he could, he would’ve stayed where he was for the rest of the day.

But he had other things to do before the day was over. He remembered knowing how to survive when alone. Water, shelter, food, safety, fire. Not all were needed immediately but he would need a shelter and a source of water as quickly as possible. He also strongly preferred not to go hungry because the last time, well... 

Washing up, even with the help of his soap, was a bit of a challenge. It took some serious scrubbing and some scraping with a clamshell before bits of clean skin started to appear underneath the layers of grime. The water around him started to discolour to a dirty shade of reddish-brown and it took some waves to wash it all away. When he soaked his hair and combed his fingers through the strands, the water went truly red for a spell.

Surprisingly, small, silvery little fish soon swam around the man as he continued washing. Curious little things they were, not at all afraid of his jerky movements. It seemed that they were after the detritus floating from his body; snatching little pieces up hungrily. Others were bolder and nipped at his back and sides in search of a morsel. Few just swam around him in circles. It was awfully cute and the man slowed down his movements to prevent himself from hurting the little things.

Once the man felt like he was clean again, he moved back to shallower water. Now that he could see his skin again, he wanted to re-familiarize himself with his body and how it looked. He could see he was littered with scars and he wanted to give them a closer look as well. As he sat down again, he noticed that a few of the little fishes had followed him and started nipping at his toes. Adorable.

He inspected his overall form, his build, all the nooks and crannies – reacquainting himself with the body he inhabited. Some things, like locations of moles, felt vaguely familiar. Other things were like looking at something that wasn’t really his.

There was something strange on his chest but looking at it made him slightly dizzy. With all the strange things going on with his body, he decided to wait a little longer with that one. He needed a dose of mundanity first.

His right arm looked pretty bad. It was one mass of scarring from once protruding bones and discoloration from crushing damage. It wasn’t a pretty sight but he had a functioning right arm and he was grateful for that. It was also nice that the skin didn’t pull when he moved it.
His other arm looked better. There were a few scars, a keloid or two, but nothing that really stood out to him. There was, however, a nasty looking scar next to his shoulder, underneath his clavicle. He could hardly see it with how he had to tilt his head, but it stood out against his skin enough that it attracted his attention. He ran his finger over the puckered scar.

***
He remembered the sharp pain as the enemy’s spear cut through his flesh and the shock of being caught off guard on the battlefield – it was such an amateurish mistake. The spear had been aimed at his heart and if not for his reflexes, he’d been dead. He rolled to the side and grasped his own spear tightly – throwing a quick glance to the cause of his distraction. 

A fallen comrade, gravely injured but still clinging to life. His brother wouldn’t be living much longer if the enemy got close enough to finish him off. Playing the shield, weapon ready, he stood between the enemy and his target. Blood flowed freely from his wound as the opponent tried to circle him and move him away from his comrade or force him in an unfavorable position.

 In a rush to save a life that was running out of time fast, the man lunged – only to be deflected. A flurry of jabs and faints followed, the man refusing to move away from his comrade, earning him some minor cuts that luckily were easy to ignore. He dealt some damage too, but the fight was taking too long, he had to finish this.

As if the Gods had heard his thoughts, the enemy soldier made a mistake which left his core wide open and gave the man the perfect opportunity to end the fight. This fact filled the man with dismay. There was no time, no choice; he needed to tend to his brother. He had to kill to save. And so, he threw himself underneath his opponent’s defences and thrust his spear upward with a grunt. The bronze tip tore through the soft tissue of the jaw, upwards through the palate and finally, through bone and brain – an instant death. Hot blood ran down the spear’s shaft and over his hands and arms. The man had to clench his teeth as a cold shiver ran through his body. He hated this, he hated it so much. They said he had the perfect body for combat: strong and agile and quick. But his mind wasn’t suited for war at all. Every death he caused kept him unsettled for days and if not for the fact that he was also saving lives and had the support of his closest friends, his mental state would’ve deteriorated rapidly.
With efficiency, the man dislodged his spear from the corpse and turned his attention to his brother. While he was tending to his comrade, he wished and prayed this seemingly endless nightmare would all be over soon.
***

The man inhaled deeply and stared at the scar with a grimace. That’d been a highly unpleasant memory. So he probably was a soldier? Had he fought in a war? The battlefield of this recollection was large enough for that to be the case.
The memory unsettled him greatly – it’d been so vivid he could almost smell the scent of smoke and blood, hear the screams of dying men. Did he really want to remember who he was after this? What else would he recall?
No, he didn’t want to stay ignorant of his past. He wished to know who he was so he could better decide who he was going to be.

His legs also had a few interesting scars. A big one near his hip. A little silvery one underneath his knee. But the one on his calf, a raised ridge of flesh with pale dots on either side, attracted his attention most. He’d done that one to himself, he recalled, a bad stitching job done by a desperate youth.

***
He wanted to become a healer. The human body fascinated him to no end and, more importantly, he wanted to help people. He often prayed to Apollo and Asclepius for guidance and tried to get his hands on any writing about the healing arts.
His father had other plans for him, however. In his eyes, healing was for weak men. His son would be a guard or a soldier.
Since his father didn’t allow him formal training, the boy decided that he was going to train himself in secret. And what better way to train than to practice the art immediately? With youthful logic, the boy decided that he should practice stitching first. And since he had nothing to practice with, his own body would have to do.

Hidden in his room, he’d gathered all the necessary equipment: a knife, a needle and thread and a piece of leather to bite on to. By candlelight he made a cut in his calf. It was more painful than he imagined and he might’ve cut a little too deep. Blood ran copiously as the boy, with shaking hands, began to sow the skin back together. It hurt, it was slippery and terrifying – he couldn’t stop his tears even if he wanted to. He faltered for a second thinking that maybe wasn’t meant to be a healer after all, if he couldn’t even do this. But he wanted to help, he wanted to save and take away pain. So he had to do this. 

With dogged determination the boy stitched the wound shut – regardless of how slippery everything had become. The needlework was sloppy but it did the trick. The bleeding eventually stopped and the entire ordeal left him woozy and nauseous. He couldn’t remember much after that. Something about cleaning away all the blood, hiding the wound and chewing some pain-numbing bark.
The wound didn’t heal properly. It stayed painful and made walking hard. Keeping his father in the dark was a challenge. He hadn’t lied so much in his entire life as he did those next few days. Then the throbbing began. The boy could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his wound. He got cold and sweaty. His appetite all but disappeared. He didn’t dare to look at his calf, preferring to pretend that nothing was wrong. After a few days, the wound even started to smell bad and the boy knew that if he kept this up, he might be in danger. Even knowing this, he didn’t tell his father, both too afraid of the repercussions and too ashamed of the trouble he’d gotten himself into.
In the end, he couldn’t hide his infection and resulting fever from his worried father any longer. Half delirious and full of tears, he admitted what he’d done to himself, bracing himself for a punishment.

But that punishment never came. Instead, his father scooped him tenderly into his arms and brought him to the nearest healers. There, it turned out that the infection had spread into his blood and that his chances of survival were slim. The healers promised they would do all they could to save his tiny life. 

Later he found out that during this time, his father made many sacrifices to Apollo and even promised the God that were his boy to survive, he would let his son be a healer in honour of the God.
Blessedly, the boy did survive after fighting for his life for two weeks. What followed was a long and painful recovery and a better relationship with his father. And, an ugly scar with a story to tell.
***

So he was a healer? The notion felt right. It also helped to make more sense of his memory of the battlefield; why be there if he hated killing so much? But he was there to heal, apparently. He had the feeling he was still missing something, though…

There were some scars on from pelvis to ribs (the right side was vastly discolored, like his arm), but none triggered a memory.

Only the mark that resided over his heart was left for his scrutiny.

At first he thought it to be some kind of elaborate tattoo – so intricate that it made him dizzy. If he stared long enough it almost looked like it was moving minutely. 

When he carefully ran his fingers over the mark, it felt slightly warmer than the rest of his skin. What was even stranger was that touching it made him feel… safer? It was hard to describe.
Looking at it upside-down, the man couldn’t make heads or tails of the depiction, especially with the dizzying attribute the mark seemed to have. But he could try to decipher it with some wet sand and a stick.

The man stood and walked back to the water’s edge, scooping up a twig as he went. A few fishes tried to follow until they no longer could. Still very cute, he thought with a grin.
Looking at the mark, the man started to draw what he saw in the sand. The strange properties of the symbol on his skin made the relatively easy task quite the challenge. The man had to look away often to keep his head from spinning. Still, he persevered and managed to completely transcribe the mark. He walked around his work to see the result right side up.

It still took him a couple of minutes of staring before he finally realized what he was looking at – all thanks to his apparent knowledge of plants. The mark over his heart was depicting a small cluster of flowers. Well, cones, to be exact. Cones so unassuming that most people never paid them any mind.

Blooms of the cypress tree.

What would that mean, the man wondered. Why was this left on his skin? Why over his heart? He knew that cypress trees were a symbol of mourning, of the underworld. And since he’d been dead, that did make sense. But why the flowers?

It would be hubris to guess the intention of the gods, if they were involved at all, so until his benefactor made themselves and their goals known, he would humbly send his prayers of thanks and offerings to his anonymous saviour and hope that their intentions towards him are kind.

He exhaled. 

So many questions. So little memory.

One step at a time, he told himself. Just one step at a time for now.

Like cleaning his disgusting chiton, for example.

******

The man made a beeline for the flat rock he’d left behind and along with some new soap plants, he marched towards the water like a man on a mission: ‘Getting my disgusting chiton (which is also the only thing keeping me from running around stark naked except for my sandals) moderately clean’.

As expected, cleaning old blood out of light coloured clothing was nearly impossible. He scrubbed so hard that he broke his nice flat stone (again) and ended up just winging it with soap and his hands. As expected,even after some intense washing, the front and right side of the chiton stayed stained with a dirty red-brown colour, though not as badly as before. It was also a definite win that the chiton was no longer crunchy and smelly.

The sun was close to setting when he put on his sandals and glasses, his wet chiton he kept tucked under his arm. It was a good thing he’d spotted a few cave-like structures and a nearby stream when on his way to the sea. It wasn’t far from where he was so that was his best bet to find good shelter.

As he jogged towards the caves, the most peculiar thing happened. Colour seemed to slowly drain out of the world as he passed the bushes and trees. It was happening so gradually that it took him a while to notice it. When he finally did, most of his surroundings seemed to have turned into different hues of gray.
Polites lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It changed nothing. Everything was in grayscale except a few patches of vague colour. Were his eyes failing?
He saw just fine, though – everything was as sharp and clear as ever. He could see each and every single leaf move in the wind of a tree in the distance, He could spot the movement of a little animal in the bushes beyond, he could see all the stars twinkling in the sky…

Wait…

If the stars were out, then it would be dark. If it was dark, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Yet here he was, seeing everything! Without colour…

Well… 

Guess he could see in the dark now.

…Yeah

When he reached the caves he found one that was perfect to rest in. It was mostly hidden by foliage and it wasn’t too big. The surface was flat so sleeping should be relatively comfortable with some bedding. It was dry and well ventilated, too.
The man dumped his not quite as disgusting chiton in the cave and gathered some leaves and grass to sleep on and when that was done he settled on his nest and laid back to stare at the cave’s craggy ceiling. He was still feeling unnerved and overwhelmed. He wished he didn’t have to go about this alone. Having died, been resurrected, then finding out that the body he has now wasn’t the one he had before… How was he supposed to process all this?

He took a deep breath, putting his hand on his sternum and felt the warm, gentle pull.

One step at a time, he reminded himself. For now, he should sleep. Tomorrow, he would plan his next steps. He could do this.


******


That night he dreamt of a lone ship braving an eerily green glowing river. He reached out to the ones on board. He missed them, he wanted to join them – be at his side once more, as close as he could without overstepping boundaries. There was a great pain in the eyes of the man he tried to reach – sorrow and guilt that shouldn’t be. He tried to soothe his friend with familiar, soft words – anything to take some of the pain away.
Alas, his presence only increased his friend’s agony. More guilt, more loss. So, he retreated with a breaking heart, knowing that this might be the last time he would see the other – for the banks of the Styx were vast and his friend was destined for Elysium.

As he retreated, he caught the hushed whisper of his friend: “Goodbye, Polites.”

He settled back beside the river, watching the ship sail away with great longing and unspeakable sadness. Spectral tears fell as his phantom chest hurt, wishing for a different fate, one where he could share his entire life with his friend and protect him from the pain – to get him to see the beauty of life beside the ugliness.

But he was dead. He could do none of the sort.

So he sat there watching the ship disappear down the river and cried; mourning what never was and never would be.

So caught up in his misery was he, that he didn’t notice the divine eyes studying him.

Chapter Text

A slight tickle crawled along his skin, gently stirring the man awake. Pleasant, till promptly followed by the traumatizing memory of sleeping on a maggot infested goat carcass.

He bolted out of his botanical bed with a yelp and landed onto hard, unforgiving ground. Instantly awake, heart pounding as quickly as that of a normal person in rest, the man checked his surroundings and quickly realized that no, there was no goat, only a bed made of leaves and grasses. And unlike the goat, it smelled nice.

He remembered a strange dream, of boats and rivers and intense longing. He also remembered… his name? ‘Polites’, was that his name? It felt right… It felt like old clothes softened by frequent wear and faintly smelling of you. It fits.

Polites smiled broadly. He knew his name!

The offending tickle made itself known again, distracting Polites from his name-getting victory. Lo and behold, it was a small caterpillar crawling over his arm. It was a bristly, black little thing with orange dots on its sides. Very cute.

“Hey little guy,” Polites wanted to say to his tiny hitchhiker. But instead it came out as a dry croak. Right, speaking. He hadn’t spoken since waking up and who knows how long he’d been laying there before that. He should drink some water – he was a little thirsty, now that he thought about it. While he was at it, he could also do some scouting and foraging. He still wasn't hungry but he wanted to prevent himself from going too hungry if possible; fearing what the consequences might be. The memory of waking up with a face full of decaying goat was still fresh (hah) in his mind. This time it’d been just a goat, but what would it be next time?

He looked at the caterpillar still inching along his arm for a bit (it was cute, okay?) before getting up. Not before he grabbed his glasses, of course. Nearby was his cleaned but still quite disgusting chiton. He put it on with a grimace because if he ran into any people it would be very awkward for all parties involved. The caterpillar didn’t make dressing any easier, the fiend.

Once outside, Polites found the nearest shrub and guided his bushy little friend onto it. “Be careful now, little guy,” He meant to say, and “sorry for using your home as a bed.” It sounded a little bit like he intended, but it also sounded like he’d been gargling rocks. Oh well, progress wasn’t made in a few attempts.

The sun had just risen, a luminous pyre in a dazzling array of colours. It was beautiful and Polites couldn’t help but marvel at the spectacle. He allowed himself a moment's reprieve in the first warm rays of sunlight while luxuriously stretching and listening to the sounds of the world slowly coming to life. These little joys made life worth it, despite its hardships and horrors. He was convinced that it always had. That this world was amazing, ready to be embraced, and he shouldn't forget it.


******


The first thing Polites went to was the little stream near the caves and quenched his thirst. The cool water soothed his throat and made him feel energized. He splashed some water in his face for good measure and felt like he could take the day head on now. He even tried to sing a few notes from a song that popped into his head.

“This life is amazing~”

His voice still sounded rough but it was a huge improvement from earlier. That song though… It stirred something in him and it made that warm pull in his chest throb a little. He rubbed his hand over his sternum in wonder. He made a note to remember the rest of that song.

While he was musing, Polites circumvented the surroundings of his temporary home, getting a feel for the lay of the land. He wanted to know if his little cave was in a safe location if he planned to make it his base for a while. He also had to find where he could forage for food and where he could find useful materials. Finding people would be terrific too, if they were friendly. He really wanted to hurry up and follow that pull but he had to play it safe – he would be of no use to whatever was on the other side of that warm tug if he ended up dead (again).

Not long after he set out to explore the area, Polites ran into a fruit tree. Its fruit looked ripe and delicious and even though he wasn’t hungry, the promise of a sweet snack was too tempting to walk away from. As he plucked one of the fruits he thought about that burning hunger that’d overtaken him and made him lose control... He’d been insanely injured at that time so maybe he should take that in account too? Hmmmm…
As he pondered about healing and hunger, Polites took a big bite out of the sweet smelling fruit.

Only to start gagging immediately.

It was awful! The fruit must’ve been rotten on the inside with how revolting it tasted. He spat the fetid morsel into his hand, fully expecting to see some kind of rot or sickness contaminating it. But no, it looked perfectly fine and inviting. He gingerly licked it and cringed.

It was absolutely inedible.

He tossed the offending item away with disappointment. No sweet snack, it seemed.
Gratefully, near the tree was a little stream to help remove the awful taste from his mouth.

Fortunately luck hadn’t left him, as after a bit more walking there was a wild olive tree laden with dark ripe fruits. He instantly remembered their mellow taste, one of his favorite treats! He plucked a few of the best looking olives and inspected them, just to be sure. They looked perfectly fine, thank goodness, so he popped one into his mouth to re-experience one of his favorite snacks.

Polites retched violently. It was the same taste of wrongness and rot that filled his mouth – he spat the disgusting olive out immediately.

Now a suspicion began to grow in Polites’ mind as he quickly jogged towards the nearest edible thing. He plucked it roughly and tried to eat it – only for his body to reject it as soon as he chewed.
Suspicion turned into worry as he tried another thing, and another. The result was always the same – a horrible taste and a violent rejection of the offending meal. 

Worry turned into panic. 

Polittes frantically began digging for edible roots. Those were different from what he tried so far! Surely that was something he could eat! Dirt flew from under clawing hands, mountain in piles behind him, until finally... a root. He didn’t even bother brushing the dirt away as he bit into it.

… and then gagged once again.

Why couldn’t he eat things?! What was going on here?!

While Polites was having a meltdown, a fat earthworm came wiggling up to the surface as a reaction to the earlier disturbance. Seeing this new generally edible thing emerge, Polites tried what any reasonable man in his situation would do. Grab the worm and stuff it in his mouth. He fully expected it to be absolutely vile. Hell, as a kid he once ate a worm as a dare, he recalled (damnit, best friend), and that was as gross as one would expect.

But instead of gagging, a pleased groan escaped his lips. It tasted wonderful! Delicious! He didn’t even mind the grit of the dirt still clinging to the critter! He happily chewed and swallowed the little morsel.

Wait…

Did he just…Did he just find out that his new favorite snack might be an earthworm? A meaty, succulent, divine tasting earthworm, yes, but still a godsdamned earthworm! 

Was this all he could eat now?

Then he remembered that no, he’d been eating something else not that long ago. The goat. Everything he’d tried to eat this morning was plant based. Could it be that he could only eat meat? 

Man, he really had to learn about his new, strange body if he wanted to survive finding the source of that pull in his chest. 

After the shaking of his panic slowly subsided, Polites got up and looked at his muddy hands and chiton with a sigh – it seemed he had to wash up again later.


******


It was almost dusk when Polites returned to the beach where he’d been yesterday. Like the day before, he could use a proper wash. His sad excuse for a chiton also needed cleaning. Again. He seriously considered just running around naked from that point on to keep his chiton from becoming even more of an absolute disaster. He hadn’t seen any signs of people while exploring anyway. 

Today’s exploring had been fruitful and had eased a bit of his anxiety; nothing dangerous seemed to be near his temporary home.

By climbing to a higher vantage point he’d also learned that he was located on an island, which meant that he had to build something to cross the ocean in the near future. He’d think about that more later.

There was a dense forest east of his camp where he could hunt or trap if needed – there were enough tracks and smells to tell him there was a wide variety of animals that lived there. Combined with the bounty the sea could offer, he shouldn’t have to worry too much about going hungry anytime soon.
The only thing that had him mildly concerned were the large humanoid footprints he found not far from the forest. Luckily old so whatever made it must’ve moved out.

After a long day of exploring, Polites was of the opinion that he deserved another nice soak. Also, he was sweaty and muddy so he had to clean up anyway.
He hurriedly undressed. He’d clean his questionable chiton later.

The gentle waves welcomed him with their soothing coolness. When he got waist-deep, the silvery fish made their appearance again, darting around him as he waded further into the water. He stood there for a while – the waves gently rocking against his chest as he watched the sun slowly go down in a kaleidoscope of colours. Some of the little fish nipped at the scar tissue of his right side and strangely enough, it wasn’t unpleasant.
Polites sighed with a smile and enjoyed the unexpected moment of peace and beauty.

When the sun was gone and the world turned to greyscale again, Polites checked the tidepools that were nearby.

As expected, they were full of life: mussels, limpets, snails, crabs and more. Part of him wanted to try a few of them – partly because everything ‘meat’ had tasted amazing so far and partly because his constant worry about hunger bade him to eat in order to prevent hunger from ever surfacing.

But that last bit was hardly logical or sustainable, knowing he should only eat when his body required it. Overeating purely out of fear would be wasteful anyway. These creatures deserved to live their tiny lives if he didn’t truly need them.

Speaking of survival, a few fish trapped in a tidepool caught his attention. He might not need food to survive just yet, but he sure could use the Gods' favour if he wanted to have a good chance at finding the target of the pull in his chest. He should make an offering to whoever revived him and if he wanted to cross the sea and partake in the sea’s bounty, it would also be very helpful to get into Poseidon’s good graces. Those fish could help.

Now what was the right way to make an offering again? What were the correct words? Did he need some kind of altar? 

No matter how hard he tried, Polites just couldn’t remember how to perform a proper offering. Would the Gods find his amateurish attempt acceptable?
The fish in the tidepool may not be the grandest of offerings, but hopefully big enough to not be insulting.


******


Catching a fish took some patience. It also meant trusting his unfamiliar body to perform as needed. After carefully wading to the centre of the tidepool, Polites waited until a fish swam near enough to grab. Once one came into range, he snatched the animal out of the water, striking like a snake. He blinked at the wiggling catch in his hand, surprised. He didn’t expect the speed and accuracy he now possessed.

As impressive as his capture of the fish was, the awkward juggling he did to get the slippery fish to a relatively flat rock humbled his acquired pride. His intention was to kill the fish swiftly by putting it on the flat rock, grab a heavy stone and end its life with a quick bash to the head. Quick. Easy.

And it worked.

It worked a little too well…

By putting too much force behind the rock he brought down on the animal, he unintentionally obliterated the poor fish’s head. Fish bits flew everywhere – some landed near the silvery fish and some landed on Polites. 

Polites looked at the thoroughly decapitated fish in his hand and sighed. Getting used to his body was really going to cost some time and effort. As an afterthought, he scooped some of the fish flesh from his skin and ate it. No-one was watching anyway.

It was delicious.

Watching the little silvery fish feeding on the chunks of the unfortunate fish gave him an idea. Maybe he could make an offering to Poseidon by sharing a meal with the ocean. If marine life ate his tribute, then surely that would please the God?
He waded back into the sea, headless fish in hand. The silvery fish followed, darting around him and nipping at his scarred side as if they knew what he was going to do.
When the water reached his hips, Polites began to tear off small pieces from his offering while mumbling a prayer. His voice was still rough and the words sometimes got stuck in his throat but he thought it was still a decent prayer for someone who had no idea what they were doing. He thanked for the relief the sea brought him when he needed to cleanse himself, he thanked for the sea’s bounty. For the peaceful feeling the sound and smell of the ocean gave him. He would not ask for anything from the god. Not yet, anyway.
The little fish and some other sealife feasted on the bits of his offering and he joined them by nibbling on the remaining tail-end. Hopefully his offering was to the God’s satisfaction.

Later, he caught a second fish and managed to kill it without making a mess. He took it back to his little cave to make an offering to whoever had given him life.
The fish was fed to a mostly smokeless fire in front of a little altar he’d made from rocks, leaves and flowers. While the fire slowly consumed his offering he whispered a prayer of gratitude and asked for guidance in his oncoming journey.
Once finished, Polites could only hope that the Gods were willing to overlook his improvised way of offering and appreciated his sincere intentions.

After all that, he was properly tired and retreated to his botanical nest. He had to be well rested for tomorrow, as he was planning to go back to the cave he’d died in. He wasn’t looking forward to it but it had to be done. Both for closure and for the off chance that there were some useful items to be found.


******


That night, he dreamt he made a mistake born from good intentions. Convincing the most cunning person he knew to go somewhere they shouldn’t. Fittingly, he was the first to feel the consequences. As a final act, the title of his most important person fell from his lips.
He deserved this death. The pain for bringing them all in danger was warranted.

But even though he thought his death to be just, he could not let go. Would not let go. Perhaps it was the look in the other’s eyes. The devastation. He couldn’t just leave him behind like that! He was fading and fighting at the same time – desperately trying to keep a grasp on his consciousness. It shouldn’t end this way! He had to help them! He had to make amends for leading them astray!

He faded, but fought with tooth and nail.

When he woke up, he didn't remember much of his dream. Just snippets of intense feelings with guilt lingering the longest.