Perseus: Excidium Troiae

Twenty-Four

HE LAY IN A COT IN THE palace's private infirmary, a peaceful expression on his face. But Perseus' one working eye fluttered open when the door slammed shut. He let out an exasperated sigh and pulled himself up in a sitting position.

Apollo continued to walk inside, his feet barely touching the ground. Finally, he came to a stop in between the two cots, glancing sadly at a still-unconscious Aeneas before turning his focus back on Perseus.

"You alright?" Apollo placed a hand on the edge of his cot.

"I'll live," He grunted. The god of the sun motioned to his face, half of which had been bandaged thickly until just the night before. He was shirtless, his chest, arms and abdomen equally covered in white. It had been a few days since Achilles had fallen, and he had been confined to this bed ever since. "Come to check on my brother?"

"I came to check on you, actually," Apollo told him, golden eyes glinting. "Aeneas will live. He's very lucky I got to him in time but he's out of critical condition, don't worry."

"His hand...it's damaged permanently," Perseus murmured, turning to look at his unconscious brother. "But you're right. He's alive, and that's all that matters. We both are. Thank you, I guess?"

"No problem. But you..." Apollo hesitated. "How do you feel?" He brushed his golden hair out of his eyes.

"Apollo," Perseus fixed him with a tired look. "I'm permanently blind in one eye, bruised and leaking gold through my bandages. How do you think I feel?"

The Olympian chuckled lightly. "Right. I'm sorry I couldn't fix your eye."

Perseus swallowed. He had lost all feeling at that side of his face since the battle. But, it was worth it. "A small price to pay for finally bringing Achilles down." His fingers moved to touch the skin on his face. "Besides, I think a scar would suit me quite well, don't you?" Apollo pursed his lips at Perseus' deflection. But the son of the sea god snuggled down into the bed. The past few days had been a whirlwind. He and his brother had missed whatever battles had been fought, but Deiphobus—who had taken command of the army—had been to see him each day, and from the looks of things, the Achaeans were so disoriented by the loss of their greatest warrior that they were falling, steadily.

After Apollo had descended from the ramparts, Perseus remembered him flashing them into the infirmary, then working his magic. He'd been able to heal Aeneas of his wounds, but it was only after he was certain his brother was going to live that Perseus had also allowed himself to be treated (read: Apollo had to knock him out).

Aeneas hadn't even blinked since, and it was only by the steady rising and falling of his chest that Perseus knew he was still alive. Their father had come to see them right after Perseus had risen, weeping and sobbing about how proud of them he was. It had taken all of his willpower to stay strong for Anchises because the gods knew the old man would break down if even Perseus showed him how wrecked he was by everything. He couldn't do that to his father.

His green eye moved past Apollo and into the large cot opposite him. Next to Aeneas slept his son Ascanius, curled into his dad's side. The child held him like he was afraid if he let go Aeneas would vanish with the wind. His fingers rested on the bandaged stump where a hand used to be. Neither stirred as Apollo moved to lean on the wall. Creusa was also passed out in a chair beside Aeneas' cot, her face screwed up with pain, tormented even in her dreams. She looked wretched, still in her nightdress, and Perseus knew she hadn't left since they had been brought in. He knew what she was going through. The fear she was feeling...he owed Apollo now because he was very sure he'd have lost his brother too if not for him.

His hand moved to his abdomen, which was stained with dried ichor. Moving hurt, and although Apollo had closed all open wounds and taken away most of the internal damages, the pain still felt fresh, and along with the left side of his face, he would be adorned with several new scars all over his body. But he did not mind. He would wear them with honour. His scars were symbols of everything he had been through to get to where he was.