Οὐδὲν ἀκιδνότερον γαῖα τρέφει ἀνθρώποιο πάντων, ὅσσα τε γαῖαν ἔπι πνείει τε καὶ ἕρπει.
"Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man."

- Ὅμηρος (Homer)

Chapter Three

Amalfi let go.

Relinquishing her grip on the rocks, Amalfi fell down, straight to the waiting tyrant. Praying to whoever was listening—given her recent luck, probably no one—and hoping she was just mad enough to pull it off.

And if she wasn't so nimble, it wouldn't have worked.

Even then, it almost didn't; the beast flicked its head at the last moment, tipping back to meet her. Amalfi watched its right horn perfectly angle to catch skin, its sharp point separating her flesh like seas parted under Earthshaker's will. It slid through the bottom of her arm with sickening ease. Both nymph and beast witnessed subdued scarlet spray on a familiar landscape as skin and muscle gave way.

There was no time to acknowledge the pain.

Amalfi landed, with a thud of a whump and the grimace of an oof, on top of her stomach and heart. Both had apparently fallen out somewhere along the way. They were joined by her cowardly breath, too, as it fled her lungs like deserters in war. But she'd done it—Amalfi was astride a beast ready to kill her. Laid flat on its broad back, with a bad taste in her mouth like she'd bitten her tongue, Amalfi held to the tooth-tyrant.

She was recognized for her bravery, at least. Saluted by the rattle of clicking bones—unfortunately in this case, hers—as it ricocheted through her, applauding the stunt; greeted by the shirking falter of a plan not fully thought through; given little reason, yet grasping the broken prayers that'd snapped under her weight—truthfully, all poor honors to receive. Amalfi was starting to think bravery wasn't much more than sheer stupidity that happened to be morally right. Self-sacrifice was the same thing with a blunter name.

Dazed and scrambling for grip, Amalfi hardly held on. The tyrant kicked and thrashed. Her teeth jolted and clattered, her jaw slammed into her skull like waves on a shore, her shoulders ached from how much tension she'd woven into every muscle. She couldn't look down; it would make her dizzy to see how she wildly pitched through the air, body flopping so far from the ground. Amalfi could cringe at the feel of the tyrant even as she curled around it. Its dark skin was smooth and moist, but rough with its age, like the embrace of an amphibious mountain. Nausea was waiting in the pits of her seizing stomach.

Amalfi tensed, gritting her teeth to stop the clattering. There was no going back now.

She forced herself to ignore anything but her task, digging her fingers into the ridges of one of its shoulders and slowly releasing the others, prepared to hang from one hand. She ignored the bellows and heaving breaths rushing from the chest beneath her. She pushed away the reality of her dire situation; Amalfi turned her back on the terrifyingly high chance of failure. She ignored everything but the next step, until finally—feeling as secure as she could possibly feel clinging onto a furious predator—Amalfi let one hand go, leaned, and pulled a knife from her belt.

The blade wasn't nearly as big as she would've liked. It was only about half the length of her forearm, almost laughable in comparison to the size of the beast, especially if held against its three horns—but it was all she had. It had to be enough.

She sucked in a breath. It did little; its taste was poisoned with the energy of battle, and she'd hardly caught anything with her body being whipped about. But Amalfi was trying to prepare herself for the dirtiness of blood. She was never ready for it. She was currently covered in her own, of course, but bleeding and making another bleed were very different sides of a grimy drachma, and she hated the latter. Amalfi tried for another deep breath. She'd pay the price; she'd pay every and all to save others. Another breath.

Then, as the beast snarled and bucked, Amalfi lifted her arm. With all her might, she plunged the sharp bronze point of her blade into the softer hide of the tyrant's shoulders, and pressed as hard as her trembling strength would let her. Though hardly anything in comparison, a splinter at best, the beast screamed. Amalfi wasn't ready for the tyrant's reaction when it reared up, pitching her off and thundering its feet. She hit the ground in a mess of flailing limbs. Panic punched her throat until she was breathless. By the time Amalfi finally gasped for air, facedown on the beach, she was convinced she'd lost her heart again, abandoned somewhere several meters up. It felt like she'd been dropped, stepped on, and left to tease death where she sprawled on the pebbles.

It was possible. It was uncomfortably possible.

Amalfi stumbled to her feet. Dragging herself up using every ounce of stubborn willpower she had, it was all she could do to avoid being trampled. Too blind in rage to see her, the tyrant lurched, dark blood spilling from its wound as Amalfi dodged kicks and thrusting horns. It was enraged—it was a good time for her to go. A really, really good time.

Tripping over rocks, clutching her arm, Amalfi slipped away while the beast cried foul.

Tooth-tyrants weren't very bright creatures. Their size and hardiness usually made up for it, but they were stubborn and highly territorial, and it could make them foolish. The beasts fought to the death, insistent on continuing until the battle was entirely finished. She'd heard a tyrant would even go so far as to stay in one place until resolution was reached. Perhaps if Amalfi didn't give it the rest of the fight, the beast would keep waiting, looking for her to finish the job, stuck here on this beach—

Amalfi suddenly decided the next piece of her plan.

Somewhere, there was a sliver of space in one of these cliffs, one she knew from years of hiding away from swooning stray men and teasing sister nymphs. It was hardly wide enough to fit her then, but as the tyrant turned, bulging red eyes flooded with unmatched rage, locked in on her... well, it would have to do. Amalfi started sprinting again. Every jolt on the ground dislodged the location from her hardened memory.

With some remnant of now-used luck, she threw herself up and scrambled into the rocky space just in time. Another breath of hesitation and she wouldn't have made it; as it was, the horns grazed her back as they slammed into the open crevice behind her. She gasped at the feeling of more skin giving way.

Forced to commit to her plan, she kept going. Amalfi shoved herself forward, deeper into the tightening space. Her injured arm scraped against rock. Searing pain entangled her; it bounced up her arm, her back, her entire body from hitting the ground. It was warm and damp. Blood was sticky. It was hers, his, the beast's. Her heart was thunder shaking these cliffs—or it was born from the tooth-tyrant, throwing itself against the entrance as the earth shuddered. Its roars were magnified in the small space; Amalfi was sure she was deaf now.

But she kept going. Amalfi had chosen this pocket not only for its convenience, but for its tunnel. Curved like the letter omega if one went far enough, the space would open again on the other end, further down the cliffs. She simply had to make it through. She just had to push forward. She just had to—gods, space was slim. Even slimmer than she remembered. Amalfi could hardly breathe. It was so dark, and she could still hear the beast, clawing and scratching at the rocks. Gods, her arm ached. Her back felt like it'd been entirely split open from the sharpened edges of those horns, the wound wide enough to count her vertebrae; she couldn't get air, gasping, scrambling her way through a small tunnel that seemed to only get smaller and smaller—help, she needed help—she tried to keep going—

Like a savior, light reached a hand to the panicking nymph. It was brittle and thin through the dark, but it gave her the last push she needed. Amalfi reached the narrow opening with a swallowed cry of joy. It'd taken longer than she'd liked—she'd almost bowed to panic before freedom revealed itself again—but Amalfi eased her head through and looked around, panting.

Down the way, some hundred meters or so, the beast still growled as it paced the section where it'd last seen her. Yes, tooth-tyrants were proud beasts, unfamiliar with surrender. It was waiting for the rest of the fight. For today, it'd keep waiting. Someday, another day, Amalfi would face it again. She'd have to. At that fearsome thought, panic and anxiety pressed her lungs deeper into the protective caverns of her chest. Perhaps hiding in the tunnel didn't sound so bad, safe from tyrants and teeth, protected from untimely demise and eager fates—no, she slapped those cowardly thoughts away. There was someone who needed her help. She had no time for self-preservation or panic.

Slipping down the cliff, Amalfi relied on the brushy flora and slumbering boulders to hide her. She prayed for aid, hoping the beast remained stupid and faced away, pleading to make it as she darted around the back of the beach. She spitefully cursed herself for every prayer that slipped from her mouth; she knew it would go unanswered. Amalfi was beginning to feel she was finished asking for mercy from others.

When she finally got back to the stranger, grateful for her success but awfully bitter, Amalfi saw he was unconscious again.

For a moment, chest heaving and open veins weeping, she stood above him and eyed the man where he lay. It was probably a good thing he was vacant from consciousness. His injuries were vast. Truthfully, Amalfi wasn't entirely sure he'd make it. It was a sobering thought she refused to voice, but it lurked nonetheless; a grim possibility demanding acknowledgement. Skin wasn't meant to be so charred. Bruises weren't meant to be so green. Breath wasn't supposed to be so agonizingly shallow. Men weren't designed to teeter so brazenly on the edge of an eternal pit, above a space inhabited by lonely gods craving company, with only half of the strings of mortality holding them back. The fall of death was appealing to tired threads wishing to unravel, and his seemed exhausted.

Preoccupied, Amalfi jumped when the beast roared somewhere behind her.

Glancing back, relief whispered where it bloomed from her lungs to her limbs, seeing the beast still facing the cliffs. It was guarding the beach's distant side, but it was much too close. They had to go—now. But how? The man was huge, essentially a lump of muscle and dead weight. It probably would've been easier if he was a dolphin, then she could've released him to familiar depths much closer than home.

There was no choice. She needed help.

Putting two fingers in her mouth, Amalfi sounded a long, low whistle that snaked around hills. Terrified the beast would hear, she kept it close to the ground, as dull and blunt as she could, left hoping it'd still be enough for help to hear.

Then she waited.

Amalfi kept one eye on the beast and one eye on him as she offered what immediate first aid she could. She'd always been a curious nymph, it was one of the various flaws hoarded by her pride, but in this case it was more than warranted. A stranger, hardly half-living, had washed up on her beach, grievously injured and alone. Interest was allowed; it would've been absurd if she wasn't at least a little intrigued.

Though, no matter how long she looked, she still wasn't sure what to make of the man.

He was large and wet and half dead.

Her interest wasn't satiated or snuffed; realistically, she knew it wouldn't be until he awoke and gifted her answers. Where did he come from? Who was he? What happened? Amalfi kept studying him. She would have to settle for gleaning whatever answers she could this way, prying more from each opportunity offered, until he could speak. She'd look him over from head to toe.

The stranger's hair was dark. It tumbled on his forehead in soaked twists and spiraled furrows, fighting to bend even when sopping. His brow was strong and tense. Amalfi blamed his pain for the burden it showed; survival could stress anyone. She looked further down. Along his sun-loved skin, beneath the blood and trauma, buried under wounds and burns, were countless white scars; they were constellations mapped across him, hinting he was no stranger to injuries. They were drawn along his arms, his legs, his chest, whatever skin she could see. And she could see quite a bit. Little remained of his clothes. Based on the blackened bits that'd survived, seeming too fine for the region and too hardy to be simply decorative, he didn't belong here. The apparel was most certainly not anything she was familiar with, from its color to its design.

A pinch of warning twisted her overwrought nerves. She'd checked earlier, but she'd check again. No, he wasn't armed. Yet, going by the callouses painting his hands, he usually wielded something. An oar, a tool, a rein, a blade. That could be a problem later, if from a blade, but for now he was weaponless and injured. Amalfi wouldn't view him as a threat. Not yet. Not when his fingers were empty, crooked where he gripped the sand, as if even when loosened from consciousness, he held on, afraid to slip away. Amalfi looked back at his face. He was rugged and regal. Even flirting with the furies that came for his ending, broken to blue and ripped to red, he was commanding. Amalfi might've even said he was attractive if he wasn't so close to death.

Who was he?

Amalfi owed him nothing. Amalfi could've left him to the vultures and gulls, abandoning him to the beast, seeing if his unconsciousness affected the tyrant's hunger for live meat. But she couldn't. It wasn't right. He was defenseless, and she was tired of death. Tired of sacrifice, of loss, of gut-braiding grief.

The thought pulled at her. Every moment she waited, standing over the dying man, hearing the murderous beast scream for her, Amalfi felt herself sink a little deeper. Her nerves were a coil of heat in her stomach. Her tongue tasted like metal, and her arm throbbed with malice. She was just so tired. She could help this man—maybe, she thought, he seemed so close to death—but then what? What about tomorrow?

Water lapped at her feet, rubbing her ankles as if sympathetic. Amalfi knew she could've laid down beside him and slept forever if not burdened with survival.

Thankfully, a flash of copper fur interrupted her, telling Amalfi her request had been answered. Help was to be given. She lifted herself from her despaired depths with shaking arms, ignoring how it called her back, and focused.

Aes bounded to her side with a sharp chirp of greeting.

"Thank gods," Amalfi muttered. She couldn't help herself, she reached to pull him close, smacking a kiss on his soft snout and forgetting about her own wounds. She left crimson streaks on her companion by the time she pulled away, but Amalfi simply ignored it. She stared into the luminous bronze gaze of the man's only shot.

"We need help, Aes."

Aes sniffed the heap of man by her side, and his lip curled, slick teeth bared. Then his head whipped to the other threat; his ears fully swiveled to the tooth-tyrant when it bellowed again, louder. Faithful, Aes was quick to go between her legs with a planted stance, ready to defend her.

"I know, I know," she murmured. She could feel urgency bleed into the already-tense air, faster than even her wounds wept. "We need to go."

Amalfi moved to stand by the man's head. She reached to heave him up, trying her best, but her shaking legs almost collapsed under his weight. He was even heavier than he looked. Even worse, the rush of the fight had bunched her nerves, they now rocked between numbness and pain. She had to inhale through clenched teeth to try again. His skin burned to the touch.

"Aes," Amalfi commanded, panting, "pull."

Eyes stuck on the tyrant, Aes moved to help. He took a gentle grip with his teeth and pulled the man up by the chest, deep enough to give him some leverage. Amalfi scrambled to fill the gaps. Together, Aes and Amalfi began to lug the unknown, unconscious man up the beach.

As they moved towards home, Amalfi couldn't help herself from smoothing the man's worried brow, tugging him higher when he drooped to scrape the unforgiving ground. Despite her better judgement, she found herself offering more silent prayers. She just hoped he'd make it. If he wouldn't... well, she asked that he survive long enough to die somewhere warm, in the hands of someone who could grant him kindness.

Amalfi couldn't think of much worse than dying alone, abandoned by anything other than chills, cold and wet.

No, Amalfi couldn't think of anything worse than that at all.