The mild winter continued. Warm enough some days even to venture outside without cloaks.
Over a month had passed since I escaped with Acheron. My letters sent to my father with false locations helped to keep us safe. As did the men and women I bribed to give false sightings of us in other cities. I just hoped he continued to buy into my ruse until spring when it would be safe for us to travel.
The drugs were gone from Acheron's body now and I scarcely recognized the boy I'd found chained to a bed.
His hair shiny and gold, he had gained weight and could easily be mistaken for Styxx now. All except those swirling silver eyes, and his quiet, introverted personality. There was no boisterous swagger, no annoying bragging.
Acheron was thoughtful and respectful. Grateful for any kindness shown to him. He could sit for hours and not move or speak. His favorite activity appeared to be just sitting on the balcony that looked out over the sea, watching the waves crash into the shore, watching the sun rise and set with a fascination that amazed me.
Or playing games of chase and dice with Maia. The two of them shared a bond that warmed my heart. Acheron never hurt her or raised his voice. He very seldom even touched her. And when it came to her incessant questions, he had more patience than anyone I'd ever seen. Even Petra commented on it and how grateful she was that Maia had found a willing playmate.
Earlier today, we'd been out in the orchard, trying to find fresh apples even though it was past season. Acheron had finally admitted to a preference for the fruit-it'd taken me weeks of trying before he would admit a preference for anything.
"Do you think Father will come soon?" he asked.
I swallowed in fear. I don't know why I'd kept up the lie. Except that the truth of Father's feelings was something I didn't think he needed to know. It was easier to tell him that his family loved him-that they all felt toward him as I did.
"Perhaps."
"I would like to meet him," he said as he peeled an apple with his knife. It was the only one we'd found and though it wasn't quite fresh, Acheron didn't seem to mind. "But it's Styxx I'd like to meet most. I can only vaguely recall him from before."
From before. That was the only way he'd refer to the time in Atlantis.
He'd ceased speaking of himself as a whore, said nothing of torture or abuse, not even when I asked him for details. His eyes would become haunted and he would hang his head low. So I learned not to ask, not to remind him of anything about his years spent with our uncle.
The only telltale sign of his time there was still the way he moved. Slowly, seductively. He had been so thoroughly trained as a prostitute that even here, he couldn't shake those movements.
The only other reminder of his past were the balls in his tongue that he refused to remove and the brand on his palm.
"It hurt too much to have it pierced," he'd told me when I'd asked about the balls. "My tongue was so swollen that I couldn't eat for days. I don't want to have to experience that again."
"But you won't, Acheron. I told you, I won't let them return you there."
He'd looked at me with the same indulgence he'd given Maia when she told him that horses could fly-like a parent who didn't want to spoil the child's delusion with the truth.
So the balls remained.
But then so did Acheron.
January 20, 9531 BC
I sat for hours today, watching Acheron. He'd awakened early as he often did and walked down to the beach. It was so cold that I feared he'd become ill, but I didn't want to infringe on his freedom. He'd lived so long with rules dictating his every movement and opinion that I never wanted to impose any limitation on him.
Sometimes the mind's health was even more important than that of the body. And I believed he needed his freedom more than he needed to be protected from a small fever.
I kept to the shadows, just wanting to observe. He walked for almost an hour in the freezing surf. I had no idea how he withstood the coldness of it, yet he seemed to derive pleasure from the pain.
Whenever one of the sea animals from the water washed ashore, he took great care to get it back into the water and send it on its way.
After a while, he climbed up the craggy rocks where he sat with his legs bent and his chin resting on his knees. He looked out across the sea as if waiting for something. The wind blew his fair hair out and around him, his clothes rippled from the force of it while the water plastered the light golden curls of his legs to his skin.
Still, he didn't move.
It was almost noon before he returned. He joined me in the dining hall for our midday meal. As we were being served, I saw the jagged cut he had on his left hand.
"Oh, Acheron!" I gasped, worried about the deep gash. I took his hand into mine so that I could examine it. "What happened?"
"I fell against the rocks."