Let's kick off Episode 9 back in Rider's camp again :)
EPISODE 9
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Scene 1: Beyond All Hope
2020 B.C.
"Will you ever continue the story?"
As ever, Rider did not turn to face her when he answered. Kept his gaze fixed on the task to which he tended — whether shaving his face, cleaning his blade, or any other act, the task would always matter more to him than her. "What story."
Lachesis cleared her throat. "The one you told, some nights ago. About your past, all of the things that set you on this path."
He paused, which made her doubt whether he would respond at all. Though sometimes, such as now, his words were colder than the silence into which he often fell. "I am in no mood to tell."
Such had been his reply, these past few nights. Lachesis sighed. "Is it because you're still... upset about Chrysaor?"
Another pause. Colder, longer. This time his silence answered well. Ever since discovering that his closest friend had inexplicably abandoned camp, some days ago, Rider had seemed to descend to new lows; these past few nights as his bride had been utter hell.
For all the time that they'd been wed, his heart had been hopeless and dead, but after suffering the sudden loss of a brother, that despair seemed deeper now. Lachesis wished that she could help, but she hadn't the faintest idea as to how.
Even without any idea as to how, she figured that she might as well attempt. "Perhaps his loss isn't worth being upset..."
Rider seemed to be in no mood to consider such a thought.
"I mean to say that... he might not have been a true friend."
Even at that, her husband's silence didn't end.
"I know that no one in this camp is certain why he left, but I have reason to suspect..." before her next words, she took in a deep breath, "...that he might have gone to find someone. A girl once in this camp, a girl of whom... I think you both were fond."
Those words at last had some effect, as Lachesis had known to expect. She watched as every beautiful muscle in her husband's back visibly tensed. Had he been facing her, she was sure that she would've seen his bay-blues darkening, jaw flexed. "How would you know this."
Now it was the wife's turn to fall into silence.
Rider turned to glare at her, bay-blues dark indeed and demanding an answer. He spoke the words more slowly now, almost as if she'd been too stupid to comprehend what he was asking the first time around. "How would you know this."
"Like I... like I said, no one is certain. I just have my suspicions."
"And have you any reasons?"
Silence again. She found herself wishing that she had never mentioned it, uncertain why she had. It might have just been in an effort to get his attention. Which she now realized was rather sad.
"You know — others in this camp have told me that they saw you speaking with Chrysaor, not long before he left," Rider declared. "I made nothing of it, when they mentioned it. But now..."
Lachesis shivered as he crossed the tent toward her.
"...now I have to ask, Lachesis," her name on his lips was a loveless hiss. "Whether you told him something you're not telling me."
"What... what do you mean?"
His bold gaze bored into her tremulous core. "You know much more than you pretend to."
"Rider, I — I would never lie to you..."
"You would just hide the truth?"
She shook her head. "I swear I don't know what you mean..."
"Well, if you do so swear, why should I even ask," he muttered as he turned toward the exit of the tent. "It'd be no use."
"But you... you do believe me, don't you?" she beseeched, voice cracking from the desperation of her plea.
He cast her half a backward glance, but did not answer as he left.
As evening fell and deepened into night, he did not even come back to the tent. It wasn't the first time, of late, that she had slept alone upon his bed; she dared not let her thoughts stray toward the other women in the camp, toward all the nights he might have spent.
And when a familiar figure came through the entrance, she knew that it would not be him. It was Dictys, bearing supper, as he had these past few nights — a kindly gesture, very much appreciated, as she would have stayed inside alone and let herself starve otherwise.
He always sat beside her while she ate, engaging in polite conversation, often till the hour was late. Though his was not the company for which she yearned, she was grateful for his attention and concern.
At one point, Lachesis figured that she might as well turn the conversation toward a topic of interest to her. "Dictys, do... do you think you could tell me about Rider's past?" she asked.
The old man canted his head. "Has he not told you himself?"
"He began to, but he stopped before he had fully explained what set him on this path," she replied. "I would like to hear the rest of it; I really wish I knew, but he... refuses to continue."
Dictys pursed his lips, pondering this for a moment. "Well, I'm usually not one to spill the secrets of another — but I reckon that you, the bride who has chosen to stay by his side, deserve to know the truth. And if he hadn't recently become so cold, I'm sure he would've told you. Now, at what point in the tale did he stop telling?"
Lachesis indicated this, grateful to be hearing the rest of the story from Dictys. He spoke in simple terms, his storytelling rich with hindsight and the wisdom it provided. Explained that Perseus had never truly been the son of Zeus. Dictys had always had doubts about this, despite Danaë's unwavering belief that it was true; and his doubts had proven to be justified when, one day, a ship from Danaë's native land of Argos had sailed to their humble isle of Seriphos and spread a certain piece of news.
The news had to do with a man by the name of Proetus, with whom Danaë's father Acrisius was widely known to share great enmity. Although not biologically related, the two boys had been raised as brothers by the royal family of Argos. Over the years, they had developed a very intense case of sibling rivalry, evolving into absolute animosity. And upon learning of the prophecy against Acrisius — that his daughter's future firstborn son would be the death of him — Proetus had decided to commit the ultimate act of spite.
Disguised in the likeness of a god, covered in gold and claiming to be Zeus himself, Proetus had managed to infiltrate the chamber in which Acrisius had kept his daughter captive. And in this manner he'd seduced her. Perseus was the product of this union — begotten not by a powerful deity, but rather by his grandfather's mortal enemy, in an act of ill will, a malicious atrocity.
This was the rumor that had been established as truth, back in Argos. The sailors from the mainland had come to Seriphos, sharing the scandalous story with locals, and Dictys had overheard. Hastening home to tell Danaë, in hopes of finally dispelling her delusional beliefs, he'd found to his dismay that her blind faith could not be swayed. She had insisted on continuing to raise her son believing himself to be a demigod, as she still believed him to be. And since Perseus was her son after all, Dictys had — with great reluctance — ceded to her wishes. Till the day of Danaë's death, when he had at last told Perseus the truth about his birth. A truth that had destroyed the foundation of Perseus's faith, the bedrock of all he had ever believed.
"And that is why he never again believed in anything, since then," Dictys stated at the story's end. "Well... he might have, for a moment."
Lachesis tilted her head. "Might have believed in something? When?"
He blinked. "Not long ago, but not for long. Those days are gone."
Part of Lachesis knew exactly what the old man meant, but she ignored that. "So now he is heading to Argos, for... for vengeance, against Proetus?" she guessed. "Does he intend to kill his own father?"
The grey head beside her dipped in a deep, solemn nod. "Indeed."
Lachesis swallowed. "Do you think he will succeed?"
"Succeed?" Dictys echoed, voice as distant as his gaze. "How can a man succeed in anything, when he's no longer whole? When he walks the earth a ghost beyond all hope, destroyed at heart, devoid of soul."
She wasn't quite sure what that meant; she had been looking for a more straightforward answer, so she sought clarification. "So you don't think he can manage to kill him?"
Kind, crinkling eyes smiled in a soft half-laugh, a gesture of endearment rather than of ridicule for her failure to comprehend. She appreciated this. "Lachesis, dearest — what I meant by those words is that I don't believe it matters. Whether he kills, whether he lives or dies, the boy I've raised and loved is dead inside."
The bride sighed. "I wish that I could bring him back to life."
"As do I," the old man agreed, against hope and belief. "As do I."
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Any thoughts about the full reveal of Rider's past? Predictions as to what will happen with his mission to Argos? ;)
Next scene, we'll check in on Cloe in modern-day Greece...
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