"He deserved more than that. More than a chapter, more than entire epics, he deserved to live, the Fields of Asphodel will never deserve someone as devoted and good as him. He lived for justice, he died for justice, but I would throw that justice at...
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My New Ordeal
╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮
When I woke up, the hawk sat by my windowsill, watching me with its round eyes. It chirped calmly when I sat up, examining it.
"What was your name again?" I questioned, straining my mind to remember the details of my dream. I remembered the tree, twisting and turning, the hawk, circling over the five gods...
I rubbed my eyes to clear up my foggy vision, and almost had a heart attack when I heard a dark voice go:
"Alastor."
I backed onto the wall my bed was placed against, hitting my head. When my vision cleared for me to look at the bird, it wasn't a fucking bird anymore. A half bare man with large curls down to his shoulders was standing casually in front of my bed. He was wearing a brown ancient greek robe, ornamented with black and golden embroidery. As I examined him more carefully, I saw how his arms moved and blurred, how his entire image seemed to flow with... the wind. It was an Ánemoi, a wind spirit.
"What the fuck?" I gasped, still backed into the corner of my bed. "You can turn into a wind spirit?"
"Any flying creature, mistress." Alastor answered regally. I cringed at the title given to me.
"Don't call me that, for Tartarus' sake." I answered, as I carefully dragged myself to the edge of the bed and stood up.
"What should Alastor call you?" he asked, as he moved out of my way.
"Just... by my name?" I yawned in suggestion, as I walked to open my bedroom door. Alastor stopped me. "And don't refer to yourself in third person, if you don't mind."
"Your friend is outside, waiting to swing on his Stygian Iron sword." he warned.
"Turn into a fly or something."
Alastor disappeared. When I opened the door, Nico was indeed holding his gloomy black saber above his head. I casually greeted him, as I stretched. He had his usual dark circles, but he seemed more tired than usual.
"Are you okay?" I asked, noticing the dried blood on his jacket and hands. "Are you hurt?"
"The blood isn't mine." he answered, looking behind me without sheathing the sword. "I heard something from your room. Are you alright?"
"Oh yeah, about that. We should talk about it." I muttered, still half-awake. "Take your shirt off so I can see if you were stabbed or not."
I headed into the bathroom with those words, splashing my face with cold water in order to spike up my brain. I took into account all that happened from last night to this morning, and cold-blooded I realized: it had been the first night in over three months in which I hadn't had a single nightmare.
