Chapter 4: Treating A Fallen God
He refused them this entertainment, though the woman’s touch was as merciless as any torment devised by Hades.
She wiped her palms on her skirts and eyed him sidelong. "I am called Othra," she said, as if carving her name in granite.
Her slate eyes sparkled with a humor so dry it threatened to ignite. "Healer, midwife, fixer of all things soft and leaking. This will not be gentle."
Apollo considered a retort, something barbed and dazzling, but found himself caught by the steadiness of her stare.
’She sees me like a frog sees the fly, something to be taken apart.’
He nodded, which cost him another flare of pain. Othra grinned, revealing teeth more wolf than woman, and set about her work.
She barked orders at the children, who scattered, and then drew her implements from a pouch stitched with runes. The contents were simple, almost insultingly so.
A bone-handled knife, a pot of sticky resin, a wad of dried moss, cords of sinew, a flask that promised only agony.
Othra pressed the flask into Apollo’s hand. "Drink," she said. "For the pain, and to keep your tongue from wagging too much."
He drank.
It was not the honeyed nectar of Olympus, nor even the mulled wine of a prosperous city. It tasted of scorched roots and regret, and left a raw scorch that ran all the way to his toes.