Two Monsters

Anatolius’s home had been destroyed.

Apart from the crackling of fires still eagerly munching at the dregs of what used to be beautiful greenery, the island was silent. Anatolius might not have noticed the army behind him, were he marching on an adjacent kingdom.

This kingdom, his kingdom, had been razed. Every home they passed was either a pile of ashes or the blackened husk of a stone wall.

Anatolius pressed on. Nefeli had to be okay. She’d been alone with Anakreon for six years. He still had to apologize for that.

He remembered the linen sheets she’d wrapped around their boy as she carried him, the boy with her blue eyes and the golden hair Anatolius himself had been born with, hair that would by now be darkening to a soft brown. He’d been looking forward to catch up with them, with the goings-on of the kingdom, with the childhood he’d missed out on.

As they walked through the town he heard several of his men cry out, the sounds of weapons dropping to the stone roads and the sound of feet racing off. Several corpses dotted the paths; most were burned beyond recognition, but a few wore helms bearing a crest that had been melted by the heat. None of his men, of course; some army that had sacked the place. But some didn’t wear armor.

 Anatolius was trying not to think about that. He had to see to Nefeli first. He had to–

His sandal hit an uneven patch of stone in the path, and he stopped. Behind him, the sounds of his army rustled to a stop.

No.

He stumbled forward, the dying light of the day casting long shadows that blended with the soot-blackened stone as if to trick him into thinking that it was supposed to look like this. The courtyard was in disarray. The once beautiful gardens that Nefeli had so meticulously tended to were reduced to cinders, the two cypress trees at its entrance little more than stumps. A bench lay in a heap of broken stone. The doors, at first glance, were open, though taking another trembling step forward Anatolius realized there was no door in the hollow mouth leading into what was once his home.

"Sir.”

Anatolius jumped. He’d thought most of the men had run off, seeing to their own homes, but Theodoros stood behind him, standing to attention. His eyes were hard, as if he were pretending to be blind to the destruction. 

Theodoros had fled his home, a country to the south, one with gods like Nyame and Anansi rather than Zeus and Hermes. He remembered helping the man out of a shipwreck when they were boys, making a comment about being surprised he’d survived the wrath of Charybdis and realizing the boy couldn’t understand his words. He didn’t even have the language to tell Anatolius his name; Theodoros was the name they’d given him in lieu, and the name that had stuck. Apart from Anatolius, he didn’t really have a family here.

“Theo,” he said, stepping forward. He’d intended to make it a long, confident stride, but his foot skidded in the ash and rubble. “You don’t have to see this.”

“I must,” he said. His eyes grew soft as he regarded his king. “If only to keep you on your feet.”

Anatolius frowned at him, then took a deep breath and nodded. He ducked into the doorway.

The humble palace was illuminated by a wide hole in the wall, breaching through the ceiling of the upper floor. The smell of charred flesh, stale after days of abandonment, still hung faintly in the air. Anatolius pulled up his cloak to cover his nose.

“There could be survivors,” he said, doubtfully. “Check the cellars. Someone could have hidden there from the fire. I’ll go check my bedchambers.”

Theodoros opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, giving his king a nod. He ducked into the kitchen and disappeared from view.

Anatolius put one foot on the bottom step, taking a deep breath to steel himself–regretting it immediately as the odors seemed to coagulate in his nostrils. He readjusted his cloak about his nose and headed up the stairs, dreading what he’d find at the top.

They could still live, he tried to reassure himself. If they’re not up here, Theo might find them in the cellar. Perhaps Anakreon was hiding between the wine barrels when they came.

He paused on the steps. “They”. Who was “they”? The city had been burnt to the ground intentionally, there were dead soldiers among the townspeople. But who on Earth would have this big a problem with him?

He almost turned around to go find one of those dead soldiers and examine the corpse more thoroughly, but he shook his head and took another step up. “Don’t distract yourself.”

As his words echoed in the still air, he froze. The sound of something rustling in the rooms overhead were distinct now, a scuttling of feet and fabric. Someone was here.  One hand on the hilt of his xiphos, he charged up the stairs. It could be Nefeli, but it could be someone else entirely.

He threw his shoulder through the remains of the door, barging into his rooms amid a shower of soot. He then froze. His chambers, now a single room with the walls burned or knocked over, were destroyed. He shook his head, refusing to let himself be distracted by the destruction, and turned to the bed. Their bed.

His blood ran cold.

Nefeli, thin and gaunt, staring at him in disbelief and fear, lay in the bed. At first he thought she must be tied there, with how little she moved. But as she lifted her trembling hand, he realized she was simply too weak. With effort, she outstretched a finger to point at him.

No…not at him. Behind him.

He spun, in one fluid motion drawing his sword. Initially he saw nothing but the darkened corner of the room, blackened by shadows and soot. Then a low, dark chuckle echoed, and two glowing pinpricks of red appeared from the void.

“And here I was half expecting her to die before you arrived,” said a smooth voice, a shape separating itself from the shadows and resolving into a strange figure. It stepped forward. 

Some kind of humanoid relative of Chimera, Anatolius thought.

Its legs were smooth, dark red, scaled things, talons clinking on the stone floor between the tattered remnants of a pelt. The long, thin end of a reptilian tail whipped around. The figure’s face remained in shadow, apart from its eyes, but Anatolius could just make out the shape of their head, adorned with wicked horns that swept back and arched up into points like some cruel wave.

“Who are you?” he demanded in horror.

“Not what?” the being chuckled, bringing a hand up to rest on their hip. It had those same dark red scales, same hooked black talons, clashing with the clean white of the creature’s exomis. “Most people ask me ‘what’. I’ve had many of these conversations, King, yet you’re the first to ask after my identity first. I’ll commend you on that.”

“I know what you are. You’re a monster. You brought your army here to destroy my people, and I will know why. Speak!”

The figure, infuriatingly, remained still, another chuckle rumbling in their chest. Anatolius could practically hear Nefeli’s bones vibrating as she trembled in fear, or exhaustion–perhaps both. What had this thing done to her?

“It’s quite close to dark,” they said, drawing his attention back. “Are you certain you want to strike now?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he shot back.

One more dark chuckle, one more tremulous heartbeat. The sun was barely a bloodstained sliver cresting the windowsill, then it was gone, the light dying from the room.

The figure swept toward him. Only his reflexes saved him, his foot swinging out as he pivoted, trying to catch the creature unawares. The first thing Anatolius had learned in war was that a soldier’s sword wasn’t his only weapon.

An instant later, he was staring at the ceiling through star-clouded eyes, wheezing for breath. The creature’s tailtip unwound from his ankle, and the thing stepped over to look down at him, a silver grin cracking the violet dusk light.

“You should have gotten her and gotten out,” they said, and lunged down at him.

*

Pain greeted him as he woke. Head muddled, he groaned, reaching up to rub at a crick in his neck.

A hand grabbed his wrist, and he cursed under his breath. That thing–

“Let go!”

The words, though attempted to be forceful, came out as a pained hiss. He glared up at the figure above him, reaching for his sword.

A moment later he realized it wasn’t the thing from earlier, but a more familiar face. Theodoros. Anatolius relaxed.

“What happened?”

Theodoros loosened his grip on his wrist, readjusting to help Anatolius sit up. There was a…pain in his eyes, Anatolius realized. Or was it guilt? He shook his head to clear it, feeling a lot like he was nursing a hangover without having drunk the wine.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

Anatolius looked around the room. It was still in the same disheveled state as before, only now a huddled mass lay on the ground beside him. The creature, he realized. Its tail was still coiled lightly around his leg, but it lay in a puddle of blood, and Anatolius realized with shock that the sword whose handle he’d been reaching for was buried in its chest.

Looking over the thing now, it seemed so much smaller, so much less imposing. He could see its face clearly now. Nearly human, but for a dusting of crimson scales across its cheeks–had they been that bright before, or had he been imagining it in the distorting shadows of the encroaching night?–that collected in patches around the outside corners of its hollow silver eyes, framing its face. It was a woman, too, more sets of horns studding her jawline almost like facial hair. Her mouth hung open, revealing a set of fangs.

Fangs whose tips were dipped in blood.

Anatolius reached up again, and this time Theodoros didn’t stop him as he reached for that crick in his neck.

No. Not a crick, he realized, hissing in pain as his fingertips brushed a set of puncture wounds.

“This thing…what is it?” he asked as he dropped his hand, looking up at his friend.

Theodoros shook his head. He didn’t know.

Anatolius stood, feeling dizzy and weak as he got to his feet. He looked over to the bed, toward the unmoving lump under the sheets. Theodoros got up, but if his intent was to help he moved too late, as Anatolius stumbled to the side of the bed and fell to his knees beside it. His wife, her once beautiful face now sunken in and bloodless, stared with dead eyes back at him. He reached up with trembling hands, one hand cupping her cheek, the other reaching for her hand. It was still outstretched with the pointer finger out.

She must have used the last of her strength to try and warn me, he thought, leaning up to kiss her forehead as tears collected in his eyes.

Without looking up, he said, “Where is my son?”

Theodoros was silent for a long moment. “I found him in the cellars,” he finally said.

“Dead?”

“The smoke must’ve killed him.” Theodoros usually sounded stern. Even in battle he’d never cracked. But he loved Anatolius’s family just as much as he himself did, and now their loss had broken something in him, if the pain in his voice was anything to go by.

Anatolius took a deep breath, then stood, still holding his wife’s hand. The night before he’d left for war, he’d promised to return. He’d promised to her worried tears that she’d see him again. That promise had been fulfilled, but it felt hollow now.

A sudden rage seized him. He dropped her hand, then despite his weakness he stormed to the side of the creature who had attacked him. The thing that had ransacked his kingdom, destroyed his home, murdered his people and his family. He reached out and ripped the sword from her chest, scoring it down her belly to upend her innards onto his floor.

“How dare you!” he snarled. Blood arced as he swung the blade down, then sprayed out as he drove the blade into the dead monster again.

“How dare you! How dare you! You–you gods-damned rat! You disgusting wretch! I was loyal to the gods! I commanded an army! I destroyed my enemy! How dare you spit in my face like this!”

With each heartbeat he swung the sword again, and again, and again. Blood drenched the floor, splattered the walls and soaked up the ash from the fire, coating his clothing in sprays of red and black. A bit of it got in his eyes, his mouth as he screamed his defiance. He didn’t care, even as he tasted it going down. He didn’t stop until the body was unrecognizable, chunks of meat decorated with once-fine fabric and putrid viscera. Even then he didn’t want to stop, but his fatigued muscles gave out, his arms refusing to lift the blade. He glared at the thing, the only bit of it still vaguely intact its mouth, still agape.

Then that mouth closed, and smiled at him.

“So you accept,” came a voice, though the lips didn’t move further.

He blinked, about to turn to Theodoros to ask if he’d heard it, too, then froze.

Anatolius was no longer in his room.

He looked around, finding a field devoid of color. He spun, sluggishly, wondering if he’d died of exhaustion. If he was about to be approached by Charon and guided by ferry to join his family. For a moment, he hoped so.

Then a sound echoed. A footstep. A figure did approach him, but not the figure of the god he expected. A familiar figure, with lizard’s legs and a thin, whiplike tail. He hissed and crouched down, sword ready, and lunged forward with a strength he thought had abandoned him.

“Wrong way, King,” said the woman’s voice snidely. He whirled on her, slashing once more with his blade.

Again her voice was behind him, though this time it was an exasperated sigh. “Maybe I won’t tell you what you’ve done to yourself. It’s more fun to imagine your despair from Tartarus, anyway.”

He turned, though this time confusion stayed his hand. “What I’ve done to myself?”

The creature gave him a flat look, clearly disappointed. “Yes. You could have let me kill you. I came to your kingdom, destroyed it, slowly drained your wife and let your son choke on his own death in the cellar, and you didn’t bother to ask me why. I’m insulted, Your Majesty.”

He curled his lip. “Why would I want to know why? You deserve death.”

“Oh, I’m already dead. Good job on that, too, though if you’d been a little quicker you might have escaped.”

“What…” He paused. She’d opened her mouth, tongue tracing his blood off her fangs. He reached up, finding the wound she’d given him, though in this strange place touching the area didn’t hurt.

“I’ve made you immortal,” she said smugly, hands on her hips. “That wasn’t my goal, though. I am very old, Anatolius. I was hoping to die. I was just glad for a little fun on my way out.”

“Why seek me out for that?” he demanded, hand still on the wound, as if by covering it he could avoid the “immortality” she promised. Something told him it wasn’t the immortality he might have wanted.

“I’ve heard of the wars you Greeks wage,” she said conversationally. Lifting one hand from her hip, she cupped the air, and Anatolius jumped back as a lithe flame danced in her palm. “I carry a power to make them more…destructive. As made evident by what I did to your home. The power of one creature’s rage. I did not bring those soldiers, Anatolius. That was one of your allies, sending their army to defend your people. They failed.”

“You…” His mouth went dry. “You did all this on your own?”

She grinned, crooking her fingers around the flame in her hand. Upon closer inspection, that flame was bigger than it appeared, bright orange bleeding into a pinkish hue and then darkening to black as they curled around her cruel grin. “That was my power, Anatolius. And now it’s yours.”

She swept forward soundlessly, then suddenly, her hand was on his chest, the tips of her claws digging into his flesh and caging the flame against his skin. He screamed, but before he could swing his sword again she’d pressed it into his chest.

Everything became blinding pain. The fire seemed to consume his heart, then flood through him along the paths of his veins, setting him alight. That strange flame morphed him into a human-shaped bonfire. Everything was flame. All he knew, everything he’d ever known, was that flame. It burned away every bit of him, leaving a smoldering hunk of coal in his place.

Within himself, he saw two faces. His wife, smiling at him, her dazzling beam burning away the memory of her dead in her bed. That of a young boy, older than he’d known his son but undoubtedly him all the same, grinning playfully up at him through the mess of curls on his head.

Though made of that flame, he reached out, pulling the both of them into an embrace.

When he woke again, once more looking up at his own ash-and-blood-flecked ceiling, once more with Theodoros’s face looking with concern down at him, there were tears in his eyes.

Anatolius’s home had been destroyed.