Amalfi

Chapter Four: He Forgot His Name

τὸν φρονεῖν βροτοὺς ὁδώ-
σαντα, τὸν πάθει μάθος
θέντα κυρίως ἔχειν.
στάζει δ᾽ ἔν θ᾽ ὕπνῳ πρὸ καρδίας
180μνησιπήμων πόνος: καὶ παρ᾽ ἄ-
κοντας ἦλθε σωφρονεῖν.
δαιμόνων δέ που χάρις βίαιος
σέλμα σεμνὸν ἡμένων.
"Trouble, with its memories of pain, drips in our hearts as we try to sleep, so men against their will learn to practice moderation. Favours come to us from gods seated on their solemn thrones—such grace is harsh and violent."

- Αἰσχύλος (Aeschylus)

Chapter Four

If this was death, he'd been lied to.

It wasn't the unbinding of his soul from his bones; no violent separation, as if a blade had sliced his mortal tethers. It wasn't stormy gales of pain clashing him on jagged, patient rocks. He wasn't left broken nor abandoned, sinking to whatever depths waited, welcoming all doomed to die; not an unwilling captive marching to his final resting place. He wasn't seeing vicious beings of revenge, their leers wide and their patience worn, gruesomely thrilled at his arrival. He wasn't greeted with bloody banners or eternal shackles.

But neither was it an ease of his aches. There was no reprieve, no cleansing, no end or new beginning. There was no open embrace of Elysium to soothe the pains of the mighty. He felt no drenches of clarity, nor even faint spurts, no relief or peace drawing him in. There was no dusting of light on battered skin. No gentle touches from hands of grace to fix gaping wounds; no kisses of truth on blustered lips. There were no celebrations or cheers.

Of course, he was grateful he wasn't being thrust into savage retribution for whatever he'd done in his life—but he felt a little scammed.

If this was death, it was nothing new. It was stagnant. Painful, yes, but it was the same pain he'd woken to on the beach. Nothing had changed; he still ached, he still suffered, he still felt charred and bruised. He was adrift in the pitch-dark waters of his mind, unable to find shore, and that was it. Sure, he wasn't drowning, but he wasn't flying or floating either. He was just... treading water.

Damn them, damn it all, damn Thanatos himself, if this was it—

By gods, he thought, death was not worth dying for.

Frustrated, he'd had enough. Bobbing in uncertain tides somewhere deep within him, full of fury he didn't know how to label, poisoning the water with stubborn resentment—no, this couldn't be death. This couldn't be it. He had no idea which direction to swim in that would lead him to shore, where to go to exit the waters and stand on his feet, but he wouldn't simply wait for something to happen. He would... he would...

He lost focus as something else requested his attention. It wrapped his priorities around its bent finger and tugged him close; he noticed something odd. If he strained his eyes, his ears, and his instincts, he could feel a tremor in the tides that held him. Something was pulsing, ever so subtly throbbing, quaking the water he treaded, originating fathoms below. Something was traveling from drop to drop, spreading as it went. It was—it was—