Τὶ καινὸν εἴη τεθεαμένος; Γέροντα τύραννον.
"What is the strangest thing to see? An aged tyrant."

- Θαλῆς ὁ Μῑ́λητος (Thales of Miletus)

Chapter Two

That morning, Amalfi had known something was off. She'd known it as soon Pistacia asked to accompany her on her morning rounds.

Pistacia wasn't an early riser by choice. Granted, neither was Amalfi. Until recently, there'd been nothing dire enough to pluck the pair from sleep before the sun was supple, its rays fully stretched, long and loose across a lazy landscape.

But who could've blamed them for their sleep back then? Harboring pleasant drowsiness from late nights spent under a giggling moon, slumbering long after the first drops of light appeared, then passing the day recovering from being chronically symptomatic of youth—it was all an understandably easy song to live by. Their evening hours had always preferred to be drizzled with honey mead and white fig wine, and they'd usually obliged. These types of fun were found only by surrendering to the flighty craze of youth, the insanity of the seasons, and the restlessness of living; they did not follow the rhythms of a rather strict sun.

Amalfi missed those days. Blank sundials had once watched them all night, while the nymphs tempted even themselves, cooing at boundaries til softened. They'd always found a place among the chattering clusters of lively women, nestled snugly between hills and jealous tides, singing and preening for the sheer fun of it all. In that unbothered time—coming from the skies, the seas, and everywhere in between—fellow nymphs had flocked to paddle glistening lagoons, laugh at peeping stars, and dance in the hollow base of each mountain's throat. Nature had always liked to glow her brightest when her children lived without worry.

But given the events of late... well, things had changed. Amalfi now worried, and so did the others. There was no flocking, or singing, or laughing. There was no giggling moon; instead, it bit its grieving tongue each night and flooded craters with horror. Guilty to illuminate the ravage of a land once peaceful, Selene now wrung celestial hands when not driving her chariot. Her brother, Helios, burned great with worry whenever he heard her weeping those concerned storms above earth's mourners—so lately, the sun burned too bright more often than not, and the living suffered for the loss of the dead.

Amalfi and the others would often hear the moon wail at her newfound loneliness, too. Still, there was no reprieve they could offer. They hadn't meant to abandon her. It was simply that nymphs were no longer dancing, they were hiding. They were dying.

And Amalfi was greeting grief every day. Like an old friend one wished not to know, it was a horrid exchange, and she had to seek other allies wherever she could.

Amalfi had taken to spending her mornings step-in-step with each bleary-eyed dawn, instead. Though sunrise was impassive to anything other than its task, Amalfi liked to take note of the shifting state of her home while she journeyed. She would survey the wobbly knees of the once-quiet region; spending precious moments counting what loved ones remained, and dreading a shift. She'd learned to cherish the feeble number before it gave way under pressure, because it often did.

Amalfi's walks kept getting harder. When every new, tender dawn didn't match her devastated community, simply artful skies over fresh pain, it felt cruel. Anguish kept stacking higher. Sorrow kept burrowing in guts, in chests, in skulls. Fear kept growing, a weed too stubborn to be defeated, infecting the roots of their community until wilting the hardiest evergreen, throttling the sturdiest bloom. It was the cultivation of suffering by forces outside of their control. Amalfi knew Fate's heavy hands had always wrenched change from every far corner of the earth, stripping time bare with tools lent by the four winds, but this? There was no rest for her. Even when mourning became habit, it didn't get any easier. It just became familiar. It clogged her veins and bore heavily on her shoulders; nymphs were not meant for this.

And yet, Amalfi thought each morning, seeing what damage had been inflicted to structures still standing, clinging to the knowledge of who'd survived, refusing to buckle under merciless odds—it helped her keep fighting. There was still something to fight for, even if it dwindled, even if she knew one day there might not be need for one single step. She knew the odds, but still she hoped; when she suffered time and time again, she forged on anyway.

Yet somedays were worse than others.

Somedays, dawn left her far behind, unable to wait for her while she held the hand of a grieving friend. Somedays, the whips of agony made her home as much of a stranger to herself as who she used to be; bloody and beaten lashes marking souls and soil, too deep to be held together by even a nymph's touch. Too many things were becoming unrecognizable. Recovery was one of them, peace was another.

Other things, Amalfi knew despite wishing she didn't. She knew them too well. Amalfi knew pain, and she knew the past few weeks had been unkind.

"Amalfi, we're halfway there, right? More than?"

Amalfi glanced back at her friend. They were walking a perilous path above the sea; Pistacia was picking her way through a scrubby bush with a look of distaste, lugging an air of barely-hidden annoyance behind her. Amalfi tried not to smile at her plight. She watched Pistacia abandon hope of untangling the burs embedded in her hems, instead reaching to slap a flirting branch away. She had to use some force to knock its grip from her vermillion hair; it'd tried to keep her close.

"Yes," Amalfi lied. "Halfway."

Turning to avoid her friend's narrowed eyes, Amalfi prayed not to encounter excessive troubles on their way. Pistacia, bless her evergreen temperament, was not a fighter. At least, not the kind they would need if conflict bared its teeth, challenging them where they stood. Since the beginning of this unwelcome war, her friend had been wrangling an emotional breakdown; relying on her feet to carry her away instead of her hands to defend her. Of course, Amalfi wasn't sure she could truly blame her. Amalfi would love the chance to break down, to run, to hide, to wait for another to accept the mantle of protector—but, there wouldn't be anyone to keep them safe if she did.

Instead, Amalfi had very quickly learned to hone what basic skills of combat she'd been able to scrape by with until now. She'd done it because she had to.

A stray beast, a lone monster, a weary lost traveler—they'd once been few and far between. For as long as she'd known, for as long as anyone still living had ever known, this area had been home to a few nymphs, a few satyrs, and a few odd mortals, that was all. They'd been mostly left alone. Now, everything had changed. At this rate, Amalfi wasn't sure what would be left other than monsters. Monsters, and panic, and fear, and... and loss. Loss, she knew that well now, too.

Their previous isolation had made sense, of course. The area wasn't the most habitable; the rugged cliffs and tall hills made living inland far more appealing than braving life on this section of coast. The only truly flat portions were the scattered dimples in the coastline where stretches of beach often hid, backed by steep slopes of intimidating heights and peppered with crouching ranks of vegetation. It was a decent journey inland by wing before it reasonably flattened enough for a full village. By foot, the uneven landscape made travel much longer, much harder. So instead of great cities or growing towns, a smattering of humble community had taken root here, quiet and pressed to the cliffs. Unless severely lost on their course of travel, or being one of the quiet mortals who flitted on the outskirts as if forced here in exile, no one came around. They wouldn't risk the journey, nor the dangers of encountering the folk who lived here—rather, the kinds of folk who lived here.

Pistacia was one of those folk; Pistacia was a nymph, and wasn't a fighter nor early riser. Yet, she'd popped up as soon as Amalfi had appeared that morning, asking to join her with a tempered countenance. Amalfi had accepted without hesitation. She'd tempered her own reaction and ignored the low tickle of warning on a suspicious conscious, disregarding the unmissable purr of a knowing past. She knew Pistacia had something to say. She knew her friend; it was the words themselves she wondered on.

So far, Amalfi was still wondering. It'd been quiet on their journey. They'd trekked the irked land with the somberness of fatigue, the moroseness of ruin, and the silence of empathy. They'd waved at Sostrate, an aging Satyr with a heavy limp as he tended what remained of his flock. They'd held a child's hand, the boy trying not to cry—determined to be braver than any childhood should demand, determined to be older than he was—while his mother tried to fix gashes in the side of their home. The frightening damage had been carved overnight by a wild boar the size of a chariot; it was somewhere still roaming, still terrorizing, and Amalfi knew it'd be back. She'd made a promise to return and help how she could. Later, the nymphs had hugged their friend, Olea, close while she wept, tearily informing them of losses sustained protecting a sacred site. They'd made note of the friends they no longer had.

They'd counted the dead, and it'd been quiet.

Except, Pistacia was known for her quiet as much as she was known for her skills in battle. So, at the next stretch of uninterrupted journey, Pistacia had broken it.

"Amalfi, I've been thinking of what we should do," she called over the wind, "or rather, what we must do."

When Amalfi glanced back again, scrambling over a particularly jagged piece of terrain, she was still trying to put the terrified boy out of her mind. Pistacia was a few paces behind, making her way around a smoking pine strewn to pieces. Though forced to choose her steps haltingly, her eyes were hopeful when she looked up to meet Amalfi's. Hopeful, and wide, and shining too bright. Dread immediately crept to block the sun. It scuttled to Amalfi, sucking at her like rings on a tentacle; it puckered and pulled. She knew Pistacia too well to welcome that tell-tale gleam. Pistacia was a restless dreamer who hoarded naïveté, any eagerness of that type was reserved for only a few select possibilities—and absolutely none of those possibilities excited Amalfi.

She hoped Pistacia wouldn't hear the wariness sticking to her words when she called back, "What do you mean?"

Amalfi was trying to remind herself Pistacia could surprise her. Amalfi was not always right; she might've assumed wrong.

"Nothing is getting better!" Pistacia exclaimed. She sighed wistfully; it tugged on Amalfi's dress like a greedy wind, and her hope deflated. "I don't want to live this way. We cannot survive on our own—it's too hard. We need to ask for help."

Well, Amalfi probably hadn't been wrong.

She had to bite back her own sigh. Amalfi stuffed it down her throat and hid it under a lung; it burned going down, but it was a necessary pain. If released, Amalfi's weighted breath would've been from aggravation. It wouldn't have held the rosy fragrance of fantasy that reddened Pistacia's very hair and sweetened her sighs; Amalfi's impatience would have been obvious. But how could it not? Pistacia spoke as if there were choices. As if certain possibilities were appealing, and Amalfi knew every choice was cursed.

Gods, hadn't Pistacia learned? Hadn't they all learned by now, if not from experience, then from stories?

Amalfi resented Pistacia's word choice, too. She knew she shouldn't, but it just didn't feel like enough to fit everything under some thin cap like 'hard'.

Could 'hard' ever capture enough? Beasts she hadn't thought existed had killed their friends. Monsters she'd believed to be myths had trampled their homes. Day and night, the residents of this small edge of sprawling Campania had been hunted and found by what prowled. Even if one decided to flee, to risk the journey inland, to try to escape to more constructed civilization, and somehow made it past all the beasts, claws, and teeth—well, turmoil had simmered for far too long. War was brewing in the cities. Tension chafed between the regions. Running to the monster-less cities to avoid death would simply be signing up for a different battle instead; conscripted into a civil war they weren't part of and never should be.

Besides, that was if the city would even let them come within eyesight of the walls. The satyrs, maybe, would be able to. They most certainly would not. Or, even worse, they'd be invited in for reasons more ghastly than war. And asking for help from a god? No. That was a price better not paid, a risk Amalfi wasn't willing to take.

Like Pistacia, Amalfi wanted things to get better. Of course she did, that wasn't up for debate. She remembered how home had once been quiet. Before, so routine it'd threatened to veer into boredom, and now, miserable and life-threatening; Amalfi could think of nothing better than the comforting luxury of apathy. She longed to taste silence on her tongue when it wasn't fouled by fear. But easy answers weren't truly easy; they were cheap, flimsy, and impermanent. They were dangerous.

However, for the moment, she would oblige and humor her friend. She was always too kind to speak her truth. And perhaps Pistacia had come up with something better, some unknown third option; Amalfi could still be wrong.

"What do you suggest, Taci?"

Pistacia excitedly shot forward, catching up to Amalfi to walk beside her. She was speaking too fast, bouncing with every word, babbling, "Well, I think we need to reach out to—"

Amalfi liked to think herself a good listener. A good friend even, but right then, Amalfi cut Pistacia off with a strangled gasp of surprise. It stopped both in their tracks.

Pistacia was quick with a scowl. She immediately turned to her friend with a ready reprimand, eyes unnervingly narrowed from how wide they'd been, but Amalfi wasn't done.

"Look!" Amalfi exclaimed. Grabbing her friend's arm, she pointed down the slope they walked beside.

Below, in one of the coastline dents carved from cliffs, sat one of the area's larger stretches of beach. It was lined with grey stones and green waters.

It was there, limp among sea foam and curious waves, half in and out of a restless tide, there was a lump that didn't belong.

Pistacia peered down at the unknown pile. It was something once living, perhaps. Maybe even still so, but she didn't have much other than doubt. She granted it a shake of her head and a pitiful half-glance, her voice not matching her words. "A dolphin," she reasoned. "Poor thing must have beached itself."

But Amalfi was fixated on the sight. There was a rather strange look about her; a mist in her eyes that softened the already tender look others either loved or despised. Pistacia's scowl deepened.

Her displeasure reached even further unpleasant heights when Amalfi suddenly looked at her with a made mind; Pistacia could see a new glint of determination in the fog.

"Let's go look," Amalfi urged. She didn't wait for a response; she'd already started down the slope.

Pistacia could hardly believe it. She would look rather funny if Amalfi turned back again, expression stretched out and sour. Her brows were high in surprise while her mouth stayed low and flat. "Why?" she loudly demanded.

"What if we can save it?"

"What if it's not a dolphin? We should continue on, Amalfi."

"You go," Amalfi called over her shoulder. "I'll follow after!"

Pistacia scoffed even louder then, looking at Amalfi incredulously. Who knows what lurked around here? But Amalfi didn't budge; she continued down, leaving Pistacia to helplessly scramble after her. Gods, Amalfi was often like this, and Pistacia hated it.

"Amalfi! That's too big to be a dolphin!" Pistacia soon hollered in warning.

That only made Amalfi increase her speed. A bad feeling was gripping her collarbones, giving her a shake like they were handles and clenching too tight. Maybe she should've heeded her friend's overly thick caution.

Maybe...

But Amalfi was never one to quit.

Many minutes later, as Amalfi darted towards a beast large enough to consider her a mere afternoon snack, she knew her bad feeling hadn't been a fluke.

The tooth-tyrant, as she knew them to be called, was something made of nightmares. That was all Amalfi used to think they were: nightmares, myths, legends, stories to scare children. But those vicious red eyes, claws digging into the rocky beach, glistening horns hungering to eviscerate... they were real enough.

A tooth-tyrant couldn't be defeated alone. Its coriaceous hide was hardy, its strength was unmatched, and its size rivaled that of her grotto. She knew all of those humbling facts. She knew them very well—but it didn't slow her pounding legs. She had to draw it away. She had to, or death would stain this morning even darker than Nyx's dreams.

If only she could beat the creature back, forcing it to retreat for another day, allowing her time to make a plan—

The tooth-tyrant tilted its head back, exposing a thick, leathery throat as it howled to the sky. It was waiting for her, feet stomping, teeth bared, ready to snap her to twigs with its powerful jaw as she ran towards it.

But Amalfi sprinted past.

Dodging the swing of its hideous head and the slice of its horns with a powerful side step, Amalfi just kept running. The beast huffed, confused; as incredulous as Pistacia had been just moments before as it turned to follow her movement. With its back now facing the man, Amalfi had nabbed a tiny success.

A funny little thing she was, sporadic in her dance to death—but she tightened her fist on its attention and vowed to keep it.

When Amalfi was far enough, though not nearly as far as she otherwise would've liked for safety, she skidded to a stop and turned to face the tyrant. Against her better judgment—against anyone's better judgement—she began her attempt at distraction. If the beast wasn't already baffled, it certainly was when it heard her holler, "Here, kitty kitty! Come get me, you ugly brute!"

The tyrant was not a cat.

It was nowhere near a cat.

But the aggravation still stood, and it did the trick; the tyrant's nostrils flared at the challenge. It tensed as it readied to chase the foolish girl. The beast pinned her with a look that leaned deadly.

Oh gods, Amalfi thought, it worked.

Fear was hot as it clasped Amalfi's neck then. It pressed bony fingers into her eyes, palming her ears and making her head spin. Her legs already ached. But Amalfi couldn't give up; she planted her feet deeper and waved her arms again.

"Come on, you hideous thing!" she screamed. "Let's go!"

Another sound tumbled around the tense beach then, an order for its intended listener to follow.

"Run!"

The call was weak, sluggish as it reached her ears. It certainly wasn't the high pitched screech of Pistacia. Nor was it born from her own throat, but no one else was on the beach except—well, except for him.

Amalfi made the mistake of looking over. The man was still limp on the sand, but even from this distance she could see how he violently twitched and seized in the encroaching tide. He was dying. He needed care as soon as she dealt with the tyrant.

The beast took the very moment her focus was elsewhere to lunge forward. It broke into a run, its crazed eyes stuck on her, gaping maw widening, dark as death and promising the same. Amalfi could have screamed. The tyrant's size slowed it, but not nearly enough. It was a rumbling boulder of a beast approaching her fast enough to clench her airways. 'Nightmare' wasn't enough to describe it.

Amalfi turned and started sprinting again.

Her life depended on it.

Her hips screamed as she ran. Her legs thrust back and forth, pumping so quickly they threatened to undo her joints. Her feet wailed under spiking rocks biting at her soles; her chest seized and cried for air that was moving too fast to catch. Run, she thought, RUN.

She led it to the cliffs.

As soon as she reached one, not stopping to assess the rock wall, she launched herself up. Amalfi slammed onto its sharp edges and clung with every ounce of survival, trying to grip tighter than her fear. Her fingers immediately trembled. Her feet struggled to find hold in her panic. Thankfully, Amalfi had spent her whole life here; she was better at climbing than most. Even if she wasn't, she'd have to be now.

Her life depended on that, too.

With not a moment to spare, she got a good distance up as the beast slammed into the punishing wall below her. Its horns made a sickening crunch when they smacked on unbothered rock, but it was too much to hope for that they'd fall off its thick head from its rash mistake. The gruesome points looked as straight and intimidating as ever. And again, when the beast stumbled back and began another attempt. From this height, she couldn't see if they'd at least splintered; there was no clear sign pointing to any weakness to exploit. Cursing, Amalfi almost lost her grip when the cliff trembled harder than her hands.

She didn't want to die here.

She really, really didn't.

The beast was furious. It rammed the rocks, scraping, screaming, screeching. Amalfi's safest option was to keep climbing, to escape, but she needed confidence the tyrant wouldn't turn and target someone else. Gods, she didn't want to die, but she also didn't want to witness his death, either.

Looking down, Amalfi knew it was a stupid plan. She'd known from the moment it'd landed in her mind with a dull, life-changing thunk that it was a rather awful idea. It was even more stupid now that she was stuck on the cliffs; her heart churned and heaved where it'd fallen down her spine.

But she could see the injured man as the tides tried to reclaim him. She could see him—a strange blight on a beautiful beach—and he wasn't moving anymore. Besides, he wouldn't be the only casualty if the beast turned back around.

So Amalfi let go.

Next time I go somewhere as beautiful as Italy, someone please remind me to get a better camera/phone. And some photography skills. That would be helpful, too.

But anyways, I'll sprinkle in some pictures from my 2022 trip occasionally. You can see one in the header now.

Also, I'm overwhelmed with the responses I got when I reposted the chapters! I have no idea what helped me revamp them like that, but everyone seemed to like them a lot more. Here's hoping I can repeat/continue it. I sort of added some of my usual, signature prose and stopped trying to force a style that isn't mine. Still, I worry there was more to it, some divine intervention of the writing gods, so now I'm terrified I won't be able to do it again. Yay! Fun!

- H