Chapter 5: Victim Of The Plague
Apollo was too tired to argue. Instead, he slurped the lukewarm broth, found in it the ghost of anise and marrow, and let his mind sink into the depths of the pallet beneath him again.
Sleep came yet again, and this time, so did a dream.
He dreamed of the palace at Delphi, columns scorched white by sun, echoing with the laughter of nymphs who no longer remembered his name.
He dreamed of his own hands, unbloodied, coaxing gold from the lyre, then smashing it against a marble step as if to punish the song for daring to persist in a world gone small and cold.
In the dream, he walked the length of the palace alone, calling for his sister, his muses, his hounds, and finding only the echo of his own voice, as thin and bitter as the tea Othra had pressed on him.
He awoke after a time that could have been minutes or years. The hut’s interior was washed in the sickly light of dawn, and beside the fire, Othra sat hunched over a shallow basin, her hands red to the wrist.
She made no move to acknowledge him until he sat up, wincing at the fresh heat where flesh had sealed over the wound.
Othra’s eyes flicked to him, measuring. "You survived the night. That means something here."
He said nothing. The air in the hut, though still thick with the odors of roots and animal, seemed less oppressive than before. Through the gaps in the wall, he could see slats of sky, brightening by the moment.
There was an urge inside him to get up, to walk into the dawn and see if he could still command the sun to rise by the old rituals, but he stayed where he was, letting the minutes build a palisade around his new, ruined self.
Othra cleaned her hands in silence, then crossed to where he sat. She pressed her palm to his brow, fingers cool and sure. "The fever is gone," she said. "You will live." She did not sound disappointed, but neither did she sound especially pleased.