FATE\Deus Decipit

Chapter 118: The Ichor Chalice

...

The white light cleaved Caster in two, straight down the middle, his head and his heart destroyed with a single strike.

In a flash of sky-blue, the boundary that Geryon had created folded in on itself, returning him to the Acropolis's peak. In the same moment, whether due to the pressure or something else, what remained of Dionysus's physical body transmuted into a purplish-red liquid with such force and intensity that you couldn't even say that he 'melted'. It was as if his body were a shattered wine glass, spilling its contents at the same moment it fell apart. It drained into the cracks between the cobbles, puddling at Geryon's feet.

He did his best to keep his breathing steady. His body was falling apart- or so it felt. The pain was penetrating; he wasn't sure he could even move. Both his own, spiritual body, and the human body at his center were torn to shreds, but, with maximal effort and grit teeth, he righted his body and stood straight. He looked ahead, forward and up. The tabernacle gleamed white-gold, the column towering into the sky. The clouds overhead seemed to be parting, thinning, revealing a sky so brilliantly indigo that it seemed to shine- the barest glimpses of morning cutting into the dark night. At the same time, rain began to fall. It stung his wounds, and as some of it slipped underneath the cracks in his mask, he tasted it and saw that it was wine. It littered the stones, and it became difficult to tell it apart from the blood. He could feel, in his essence, that the boundary established around the Acropolis, as well as the other spells Caster had placed, were becoming unraveled, and even the smoke wall surrounding the peak fell away, as in Jericho.

He closed his eyes, and allowed the wine to wash him over and drain into his lips. It was sweet and bitter, rich and smooth. Better than any he had ever tasted.

And he was satisfied.

He released the breath he'd been holding. Blue-white light washed over him, and there was Athena, bloodied, bruised and pale. She fell-

Into the arms of her beloved. With one arm, he supported her head and shoulders, and the other wrapped around her. His fingers touched a wound in her side, painting his hand in her blood. He felt himself torn between maintaining her comfort and staunching the bleeding.

And yet, she didn't seem to feel any pain. She turned to look him in the eyes, and greeted him with a weary smile.

"We did it... we won."

He smiled as much as he was able; the glee in her voice causing him to chuckle in spite of himself.

"Yes. Yes we did."

She raised a heavy arm, managing to hook it around his neck. With great effort, she began to pull her lips towards his, he found himself leaning in-

He strengthened his hold around her shoulders, keeping her from moving any further,

"Athena, hold on. It's not over. Not yet. You're not dying on me, okay? Just a little longer- we're almost there."

Her breath shuddered. It was difficult for her to speak. Not because of the pain, but because her body was refusing to obey her will, and her thoughts seemed to float unmoored from her skull.

"No, Chrysaor. There's no time. Please... let me..."

She couldn't finish the sentence.

He bit his lip. His romanticism was at war with itself. Which ideal should he adhere to? Should keep his promise, or should he yield to the desires of his beloved?

He cradled her in his arms. She was unable to lift her head, so he raised her up to himself, and he kissed her. Her lips were weak but soft, weary but tender, and in them was the fullness of her love. His were strong and affirming, firm but relenting. He seized her with an unabashed greed, so that there could be no doubt to whom she belonged, at the same time he held her with a gentle humility, so that everyone knew to whom he bent his knee. It was a touch unlike either had ever felt, and every moment of anticipation and desire leading up to now were justified by their fulfillment in this kiss. It seemed as if their whole lives, long and short as they were, had led to this one moment; that their whole lives apart only existed for the sake of this single moment together. On the one hand there was contentment, the sense that all was as it ought to have been, and the story reached its end. On the other hand was an incredible desire that the story go on forever, and each day allowed its place in the history books for the miracle that it was.