She did not answer, so he turned to her once more. Her green eyes were so brilliant he found it hard to hold her gaze… such green eyes, so lovely.
She glanced sidelong at the tree, but said nothing.
His eyes searched the tree, staring up into the branches. He froze then, understanding. His gaze bore into hers, his anger swift and sudden. He’d stumbled upon a secret meeting, between lovers. He’d heard her song and knew the words well. She’d sung of love. And promised never to forget him… Such a promise, given so eagerly, convinced him that she must be here with her lover. Her coward of a lover hid, leaving her alone.
She blinked, the line of her throat tightening as she swallowed.
He was staring. Why was he staring? He stiffened, his muscles going taut and hard.
“Your injury?” Her head tilted, her gentle features growing concerned. “Did you hit your head?” She moved closer to him.
She was too close, was coming even closer. He frowned, willing her to stop. Instead, she reached up, as if to touch him. He stepped back, stunned, holding his hand before him.
“Your hands.” She pointed, blinking when his gaze met hers. “You’ve blood on them,” her voice was soft, wavering.
His voice startled even him as he spat out, “It’s not my blood.”
A slight furrow creased her brow, her eyes going round. “Oh… Well,” she ventured. “Good… that’s good.” She smiled, seemingly well pleased, and rattling him all the more.
The damnable urge to smile found him, though he pressed his lips flat. He’d no time for such distractions. First the souls wandering in the meadow, now this… this vision. He could delay no longer. Zeus had summoned him, had summoned all the Olympians, a rare event. And yet, he was here, staring at this peculiar girl, far from the Council Chamber.
“How did you… What happened?” she floundered. “Whose blood is it?”
Enough. He would ascertain that her cowardly lover was, in fact, hiding here and leave her under his protection. His eyes traveled over the tree, inspecting its mighty branches before searching the meadow again. “Are you alone?”
Her gaze followed his, her curiosity evident to see. She lifted her hand, shielding her eyes as she inspected the meadow. “Are you seeking someone?”
He sighed, exasperated. But her face stopped his sharp response.
Her green gaze lingered on the meadow. The bloodstained, flattened grass stood eerily still, too matted to sway in the warm afternoon breeze.
“You are a soldier.” She glanced at his hands then stared up at him. “Were many lost?”
He saw the furrow of her brow, heard the sorrow in her voice, and answered gently, “Not many.”
“Did you… Was it horrible?”
His eyes searched hers. “Horrible? Is dying for the sake of glory and honor horrible?”
“No, oh no.” She shook her head. “But surely the fighting itself is neither glorious nor honorable?”
Her insight surprised him. Beauty was not her only asset, then.
She paused, uncertain. “I… My apologies. I’ve no knowledge of war or battle, glory or honor.”
Yet she understood the truth, the travesty, of it. “No?” he asked curiously.
Who was she?
She blinked, swallowing as his eyes swept over her face.
His voice was hard. “I ask again, are you alone?”
She shook her head, staring at her feet.
He waited.
“I am not,” she said slowly.