Those who were taken...
They never came back, dragged beneath the waves never to return.
Their haunting screams were a symbol of their horrific deaths.
Like shadows they lay in wait, the deep blue waters hiding them from view.
With sharp claws they...
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Atlas puts all of his strength into heaving the log further up the beach. His joints and muscles ache in protest, his wounds from the day before stretching and reopening. He welcomes the pain, as it is the perfect distraction from his whirling, hate-filled thoughts.
He releases his anger by hammering stakes through the wooden logs, though it does little to diminish his fury. He is blinded by so much hatred and guilt he can hardly see straight, the task at hand being the only thing to keep him from going insane with rage.
Self hatred burns in his chest like the hottest flames, burning him from the inside out with guilt and shame. His breaths are laboured both from the physical activity and the strength it takes to ignore the pain from his wounds. His back feels as though it is being ripped apart all over again each time he reaches for another log. The pain is good, though; maybe he deserves it.
He had grown sick watching the human girl for so long. The longer he stared at her the worse her injuries seemed to look. He can only imagine how horrible they would be--how much she would have lost--had he not saved her. Yet, at the same time, how bad would her wounds be if he hadn't kidnapped her at all?
She wouldn't have any.
He picks up another log.
He had stared at her so long he got to where he couldn't look another second. He ignored her hand reaching for his as he rose and left the tent. He knew exactly how he could fix his mistake, so that's exactly what he did.
It was still dark when he left the tent, the moon still high in the sky. He was wary of leaving her unaccompanied, so he never strayed far. Every now and then he would return to check on the girl, making sure she was still sleeping soundly. Each time she was exactly as he had left her, fast asleep and curled by the fire.
All of this, everything that had befallen her was his fault. He knew at the beginning that his actions were wrong, but he was too afraid to admit it to himself. Coward. He had only wanted to make someone pay. He wanted to do unto them as they had done unto him. It was payback, a penalty to the human race for everything they had taken from him.
Only, he hadn't realized he had lowered himself to their level of inferiority in doing so. In aiming for justice he had made himself no better than they had been. He had been so controlled by hate it blinded him from the consequences of his actions.
Now every time his looks at Calliope all he sees is what had been done to her. Atlas became no better than the very men who destroyed his childhood and taken her away from him. Humans had taken the most important thing in his life, someone innocent and kind. Now Atlas had done the same.
He continues to work on his project, placing the various logs and branches in their allotted places before fastening them together with reeds and vines. It will be some time before it can be put to use, but it will indeed be useful. Maybe then he will have redeemed himself in some small way.
