Amalfi

Chapter Six: Borrow a Name, Wear It with a Smile

Whatever he'd managed to grab from the cosmos, pulled desperately from the unreadable stars mapping his mind's truth, dissipated. He focused back on the adamant, striking woman before him. Her voice gave no room for argument—but from what he could tell, he didn't think he was much of a follower. He had no intentions of sticking around.

"You can't even stand," she continued, as if reading his unchanged mind. She gestured to the weeping wound on his leg as her first point of evidence.

It was a convincing argument, he would admit.

The wound was a stomach-churning color, truthfully best not looked at, as it leaked not only liquid garnet but some clear wetness, too. The area around it was charred and cracked, dark black and sickly yellow all at once. It was a palette of contrasts. The liquid combination flooded the cracks of split skin and muscle; he felt his stomach bounce into his throat to see such grievous damage on himself. He didn't feel like a stranger to injuries—and even felt he'd regularly seen worse sometime, somewhere—but to see said hurt on himself? It was disorienting. It was nauseating. It was—

Amalfi pushed more. "What choice do you have? You will stay and recover. It is almost certainly your lone hope and only chance."

Pistacia opened her mouth to speak again, apparently as stubborn as he was, but Amalfi gave her a look. Surprisingly, Pistacia snapped her lips shut. She seethed, her cheeks red as her hair, and stayed quiet. He did, too. He was still staring at his leg, or at what was left of it, and trying to understand that it was his. There were many chunks missing. There were many veins ruptured, skin clearly ripped by sand, stone, and wreckage. There were many open gaps where blood oozed and dried on just-cleaned flesh, where muscle folded up and puffed through slits—

Gods. He was going to be sick.

A new overcast of uncertainty had crept over Amalfi's face. It was as shady as the clouds voicing the thunder of his mind. She appeared to struggle with her next words, tightlipped and hesitant before gently asking, "I know you don't remember, but until you do... what should we call you?"

He didn't look up.

"Might I suggest a name that honors one of the gods?" Pistacia sneered. She clearly shared none of her friend's sensitivity. "Maybe they'll take pity on him."

Amalfi didn't answer, and he couldn't stop staring at what kept him weak.

Pistacia's voice took an odd tone as she listed deities, exaggerating her aid too much to be sincere. "Let's think: Enyo, Deimos, Achelois, Eris, Hera—"

"No," he said, louder than necessary. He felt nausea clamber up his throat again, pressing close, as if to seal his airways. The throb in his head had reawakened with fresh vengeance.

"Why does it matter—"

"No," he repeated, looking up. Deep, dark, firm; there was no leeway offered.

Amalfi eyed him. He was forced to avert his gaze from her shrewd one, dropping back to his mangled body as if the sight was easier to withstand. His hand hovered over his leg as if to touch, but rose higher instead. He ran fingers over the wisps of tattered clothing, the bruises, the marks and open wounds.

"A regional name, perhaps," Amalfi said mildly.

Gratitude burned in his chest, beneath the fingers exploring the throbbing gash traveling from sternum to collar. He almost welcomed the grounding pain.