My shoulders ached fiercely, and my muscles burned with each step. I gritted my teeth as my snakes danced around my head in twists and turns, somehow even more impatient than I was to get home. My breath heaved and sweat dripped down my forehead. But at last, I emerged from the tree line and made a noise of relief at the sight of the familiar temple carved out of the stone. 

It had taken several hours to pull the soldier from the site of the battlefield back to my home in the center of the island. The place where I was born, where I had lived all my life, and where I would most likely die was a simple but beautiful temple carved into the base of the Shoulders, the twin peaked mountain that loomed over the rest of the island.

My mother had called it that because the two identical peaks of the mountain looked uncannily like the great shoulder blades of some giant man poking out from the earth, as if he had slumped down in that spot and never gotten back up again. I used to wonder when I looked up at the peaks if the name was more than mere coincidence, if the mountain was truly the body of one of the legendary Giants vanquished by the Olympians in that ancient war. My mother had merely shrugged when I'd asked, saying she did not know the answer. Having no one else to ask, I was left to debate the mystery with my own imagination.

The façade of the temple was expertly carved into the dark gray limestone. Perfectly symmetrical, lined columns decorated both sides of the intricate doorway, which was patterned with designs of climbing ivy, ripe grapes, and olive branches. I pulled the sled through the beautiful doorway, beneath the baleful eyes of the short-eared owl carved above it.

It was irony, or I suppose Fate, that I lived inside a temple dedicated to the goddess who had cursed me. Though dark and abandoned now, the temple to Athena had once been lively and active with the devoted priestesses who lived here, murmuring prayers and burning offering to the grey-eyed goddess of war and wisdom. My mother had been one of them, before I was born.

The bronze shields scraped against the hard stone floor as I dragged it inside the temple. The inner chamber of the temple was much larger inside than it appeared from without. The tallest of the island's orange trees would have just scraped the flat stone ceiling, which towered far above my head. A small pool shimmered against the far wall, a perfect square of clear, cool water. Along the walls, several bronze tripods and silver braziers sat unused and dull. The instruments hadn't been used for burning incense or offering libations in many years, yet mother had refused to get rid of them. The chamber was filled with similar clutter that I had collected over the years, just in case I might need them one day. The remains of a torn sail taken from a beached ship, a small collection of knives and other weapons recovered from intruders, compasses, paintings, ink pots, and various other trinkets the inhabitants of the island had left behind when they'd fled. When you were alone and isolated for as long as I had been, you learned to salvage anything and everything.

I brought the sled next to the bed pressed against the far wall, the wool blanket still unkempt and messy. The plain wooden pallet was low to the ground and covered by a thin mattress made of straw and rushes. I rolled my shoulders, wincing at the burn in them, and then turned back to the soldier.

His condition had not changed from what I could tell, which was both good and bad. It meant that he was not yet dead, which was about as much as I could hope for. However, it also meant his wounds continued to bleed steadily. I frowned, noting the paleness of his face. If he had already lost too much blood, there wouldn't be much I could do.

I lifted him by the shoulders, grunting with effort, and deposited him onto the bed none too gently. I cringed as his body haphazardly tumbled onto it, his arms bent under him at an uncomfortable angle. But when I peered over him, he still drew breath. I breathed out a sigh of relief and straightened him out, placing his arms at his side.

My heart hammered inside of my chest, sweat pouring down my back from nerves in addition to exertion. Now came the real test: whether or not I could actually save his life from his battle injuries. I dashed over to a stout wooden box in the corner of the room and threw open the lid. Small vials of ground herbs, bottles of liquid concoctions, and tightly packed antidotes filled the box, some of the last remnants of the healing potions my mother had made before she died. I knew how to make some of them myself, but my mother had been a skilled healer and many of the most complex recipes were beyond my skill and knowledge. I was relieved that the young soldier's wounds wouldn't have to use up the rarest of them.

I sifted through the contents of the box until I found what I needed. A long, thin needle and a roll of tightly wound flax thread. A glass bottle filled with a mixture of honey, yarrow flowers, and vinegar and a press of neatly folded linen bandages. With these simple tools of healing, I could save a life rather than destroy one.

I hoped with all my heart for success, but I did not pray to the gods- I never did, not even to my own father. I didn't trust their help.

I returned to the bedside, bringing a wooden stool to sit upon while I worked. My snakes continued to dart around my head, tongues forking and eyes flashing, but I willed them to calm. I needed complete focus for this task.

The soldier's face was contorted in extreme pain once more, his sharp brows bunched together and his lips turned down into a grimace. Blood stained his face from the wound on his head, his curly hair thick with dried blood. Despite his gruesome appearance, I quickly judged the wound on his chest to be the worse one. The danger of the head wound seemed to have passed, but the large gash across his chest still tipped his life into the reach of Hades.

I brought out a knife and cut the leather straps of his breastplate, then carefully removed it. The action didn't seem to cause him any pain, but I could see that cutting away the tatters of his linen undershirt would be more tenuous. The white cloth, sticky with sweat and blood, was stuck to the edge of the wound. I needed to cut it away before I could begin healing it, but the process was sure to be unbearably painful.

My mind raced. He had already lost too much blood- I needed to stitch the wound immediately. Steeling myself, I decided to make it as quick as possible.

I grabbed a fistful of the shirt and sliced at it with the knife in short, swift strokes, moving with speed and purpose. He screamed out for the first time, his voice hoarse with the notes of pure agony. He started to thrash too, straining his neck and tossing and turning violently. I had no way to tie him down, and I scrambled to cut away the last piece of the shirt as fast as I could. I honed my focus on the task, struggling to work around his violent movement without accidentally worsening the injury. After what felt like a lifetime, it was done. He let out one more pitiful whimper of pain and then fell back against the bed, his body going limp.

I dared a fleeting glance at his face, doubting whether he was really finished. His graceful features, a second ago contorted in pain, were now blank and motionless, a puppet cut from its strings. He was well and truly unconscious now, the pain having overwhelmed him. I felt a stab of pity even as relief coursed through me. Tending the wound would be much simpler now with his mind asleep, but I shuddered at the idea of him suffering through so much agony. I murmured my gratitude to my mother's spirit, if she was watching, and dove into the work of cleaning and stitching the bloody gash.

I carefully applied the salve of honey, yarrow, and vinegar to the wound, a concoction that would ensure it healed well without festering and rotting. It was the last bottle of it I had, but that at least I could recreate once I collected all of the proper ingredients.

Next came the stitching itself. I was familiar enough with the technique from the temple's books and medicine and my mother's instruction, but I'd never actually done it myself. Once, when I was little, I'd run from my mother's side to play on a pile of large boulders at the base of the Shoulders, the result of a recent landslide. She'd frantically warned me not to be so careless. Back then, of course, I'd been young and defiant and willful- I disobeyed her. Predictably, I ended up tripping and falling, cutting a large gash in my forearm when I landed. Mother had led me home, where she'd quickly and efficiently stitched the wound closed. It had healed perfectly, not even leaving a scar. I inhaled deeply and tried to channel her now, trying to let my hands move as hers would have, with grace and expertise.

My stitches were not quite as neat and perfectly symmetrical as my mother's would have been, but nevertheless I performed the job well. I pulled the thread tight and tied it shut with a strong knot. A line of parallel white bumps, like the spine of a small animal, marked the soldier's torso. The gash was closed and no longer bled.

I sat back on the stool, breathing deeply. My snakes danced around my head, and I didn't even bother to try and make them calm down. My hands trembled in my lap as I looked at them. They were still wet and red with the soldier's blood, as was my dress. It wasn't the difficulty of the operation that made me so shaky, but the stress of it, the uncertainty and fear. Never before had someone's life been held in the palm of my hand like that, as if I was one the Fates who stretched the golden thread of his life on my loom. But instead of snapping the thread with my scissors, I had managed to weave it into a living, breathing tapestry. It was a power as heady as it was terrifying.

Shaking my head to clear it, I stood to my feet. I retrieved a wooden bucket and filled it at the pool, the water brimming to the top. I poured the contents over my hands to clean up. The water was cold, making me shiver, but it washed away the blood from my hands. My dress I would have to deal with later.

I refilled the bucket again and let it drop heavily at the soldier's bedside. Water sloshed over the top, spilling to the floor. I dipped a rag into the water, wrung out the dregs, and began to clean the dried muck and blood from the soldier's body. He truly looked almost like a monster of the underworld, drenched as he was in so much blood. All he needed were glowing red eyes and I could believe he was a real demon, one of the undead servants of Hades.

The thought of him opening his eyes sent a cold reminder down my spine: what was I to do next? I had felt such pride and revelry in my act of saving his life that I had been content to put aside what came after. Now that time had arrived, and I was at a loss.

I had saved him a gruesome death from his wounds, but if he awoke too soon and looked upon my face, it would all be for nothing. He would be stone in an instant. My hand faltered as it wiped the blood from his forehead, glancing at his face with rising apprehension. His eyes remained closed, the lines of his face relaxed and his breathing slow and even. He had fallen into sleep. I continued cleaning the blood, some of my tension releasing but only slightly. He would have to wake up sooner or later, and by then I had to have a plan.

I decided that I would carry him back to the beach and leave him there, fleeing before he had the chance to open his eyes and see me. Let him assume some water nymph had healed his injuries and then returned to the sea. If he had any sense, he would stay to the beaches, waiting for his ship to return for him.

My face morphed into a concerned frown. If his ship returned, would it really retrieve him and leave peacefully? Or would the men welcome the chance to search the island, not ceasing until they found me here? That was not a scenario I wanted to imagine.

And besides, why would they even return for him at all? Why come all the way back for one soldier, who they most likely assumed dead? Perhaps I was giving those men too much credit.

He could build his own ship, if he realized no one was coming for him. Yes, that would work out nicely. If he built a ship and sailed off, he would be free to go and live the life I had given back to him, and I could continue to exist on my island undiscovered and undisturbed. It was the best outcome I could possibly hope for.

However, building a ship took time. He would have to venture inland, searching for food and the tools to construct his boat. In such time, it was not improbable that he would stumble upon the temple and find me...

I chewed on my lip in frustration as I began to clean the blood from his matted hair. It was still risky, but it was my best choice. Perhaps I would lower my pride and pray to my father for the first time in my life. If anyone could bless a man with a strong, seaworthy vessel, it was Poseidon, god of the sea.

I squared my shoulders, making my decision. That is what I would do. With any luck, if the gods took pity on me, it would succeed.

I was a fool to believe that, after all this time, the gods would suddenly begin to show me pity.

My snakes noticed something was wrong first. They hissed in unison, weaving and twisting madly. I broke out of my reverie of plans and possibilities, focusing my attention back on the young soldier.

His brow creased and his eyelids fluttered- he was waking up.