Ione had gone, her eyes alight with renewed hope. She loved him still… She would do as he asked. She worried over him, but believed that Persephone might help him gain favor with Olympus once more. He held on to no such hope, but had not said as much to her. He’d been too hungry, too desperate to fill his own stomach.
Yet she had been gone too long. No message had come, no news as to her whereabouts. He’d sent his men, those few that remained, to find her. But she’d vanished.
Had she spoken the truth? Had Poseidon wearied of coming to her aid?
Did it matter?
He sighed, the slight motion forcing pure agony through his entire body.
“My lord,” Kadmos spoke, his words startling Erysichthon. It would be all too easy for one of his enemies to defeat him now. If he cared.
Erysichthon stared in the direction of the man’s voice. He blinked, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to focus. Kadmos, a large dark figure, bobbed then faded before Erysichthon. He sighed, blinking again and again. “Did you bring it?”
Kadmos’ voice was low. “I did, but…”
“Give it to me.” He reached out, taking the metal handle with an unsteady hand. “You do me honor by staying with me, Kadmos. You and Barak are the best of men. Go now, and do not return. I command it.”
Barak’s voice boomed, “We will stay with you.”
He shook his head. “You will do as I demand. Find Ione. Keep her safe. She will need looking after.”
There was silence then, one he hoped meant their acquiescence.
“Go,” he murmured. “Go and do my bidding this last time.”
He blinked, his vision clearing long enough to see their dark shapes moving further from him. He had no hope of seeing her again, but he would give her all he had. Kadmos and Barak were all that remained of his vast court. How quickly his people had turned from him. Did they think he’d meant to leave his men untended on the battlefield? His hate knew no bounds. Those men, loyal to him, had been left to rot. None had funeral rites, none given passage to the Underworld. Because of Hades… Because of Demeter. He was no less a victim than those who fell to the Persians.
But no more.
He sat, gripping the knife’s handle, willing the strength to do what must be done.
The fire snapped, echoing in the empty hall. His stomach growled, forcing him to his knees as the pain rolled over him again and again.
“I curse you, Goddess,” he hissed to the empty room. “I curse you to an eternity of suffering.” He sat heavily, too weary to try to stand. “As you have cursed me.”
Demeter… It was her fault. She’d done this to him, made him too weak to search for Persephone. She’d crippled him so. He could not take more than a few steps before his own bile rose up to choke him. Such spasms made him retch violently or his bowels empty uncontrollably. He could not seek revenge. Not in this body.
But without it.
He smiled, taking the handle in both hands.
Cutting his leg was easy. He no longer feared pain. He knew what he must do; Demeter had told him as much. She would see him die at his own hand, feasting on his own flesh. He saw no reason to delay such an end. The strip of flesh he sliced fro
m his thigh felt no different from any other cut of meat. True it was not braised in onions, or charred on a spit over a fire to roast. But it was meat nonetheless. Meat that his body craved above all things.
He blinked, but his vision did not clear.
Perhaps it was easier this way. Not seeing it, not knowing what he bit into. But once his teeth tore into the flesh, he did not care. The taste was too much, more potent and delicious than any meal he’d partaken. He gobbled it down, cutting more, larger and deeper than the first.
He felt the warmth of his own blood pooling on the floor beneath him. A chill touched him.
“You will never rest easy, Demeter. For my death frees me from your curse. But you…” He swayed, feeling lightheaded as he hacked into his other leg. “You will never be free of me.”
He rested, listing to his side and propping himself upon his elbow. He ate quickly, his hunger consuming him anew.
But he did not have the strength to cut again, his arms were too heavy. His lungs seemed to shrink, drawing in a breath too shallow. He gasped, but could draw nothing in.
“I will never give her up. Never. Persephone is mine…” He cried out, emptying his lungs. He fell back, fighting. His heart thrashed, pumping erratically, searching escape from his chest. He could not lift his hands, he could only lie still. His breath was gone, his eyes feeling tight, his skin heavy. Panic rose, fear gripped him. And the cold… If he’d had the strength, he would shiver. He could not escape… He lay, feeling the darkness pressing more heavily upon him.