Mark
Mark hadn't slept.
Not a blink, not even the shallow half-doze he'd perfected during the war. His body screamed for rest, but his mind refused it. Every creak of the cabin walls, every shift in the howling wind, was enough to pull him back from the edge of sleep.
He sat in the rocking chair by the door most of the night, boots planted firmly on the worn planks, staring at the pale glow of coals in the hearth. When the fire dimmed, he would add some juniper to it. When Artemis stirred faintly in the early hours of the morning, he would check her pulse, adjust her blankets, or change the cool cloth on her forehead.
The goddess still hadn't moved much. Her breathing was steadier now, her fever less harsh; she was no longer hovering on that cliff of life and death. The fight was no longer in her body, but her mind was another matter. Multiple times during the night, she had called out Apollo's name. He had met her icy gaze many times, weapons in hand; no one knew how lethal she was better than the Mark. But now, looking at the young goddess, seeing her cry over a dead sibling just as humans did, Mark hated how it unsettled him.
Hours bled together until the gray light of dawn crept in through the cracks in the shutters.
He stood from his rocking chair and stretched, his shoulders aching from days of tension. His fingers brushed the fresh bandage on her arm, checking for warmth or swelling. The stitches on the worst of her wounds, the spear graze on her ribs, and the deep cut along her thigh, were holding. The splint on her arm hadn't shifted. There were no signs of fresh bleeding.
He exhaled, slow and even, before turning toward the small table in the kitchen. A single stub of candle still burned there, wax pooling at its base. He sat on the stool by the window, letting the morning rays warm him. Finally, after a few minutes, he pulled a battered leather satchel from beneath the table. From it, he drew folded scraps of parchment, a nearly empty inkwell, and a short quill with a frayed feather.
The calendar marked the beginning of the month, a day he routinely wrote to his former comrades. The best of the best during the war, names that rivaled his own, legends that still walked the world.
~
He started with Selene, a medic. She was able to channel a slight bit of divine power and chose to use it to heal others. She worked in the backlines during the war, not a place where you would typically meet the Aces of the human side. Still, after a really tough battle that ended with the death of Phobos, Mark and Dorian needed some rest and recovery. Placed in her care, Mark learned many things, including how to raise children, for which Selene already had two.
Selene,
The cabin's holding well; your husband did a good job with the roof. Supplies are low, but we're managing. Miu's grown another inch; she keeps stealing my boots and tripping over them. I still remember the time you warned me about raising kids in places like this; turns out you were right. I haven't been able to travel south since the last patrol swept the valleys, but I hope the coastal city has been kinder to you than the mountains have been to us.
— M
He folded it neatly and set it aside.
~
The next was Dorian. The tone shifted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of Mark's lips despite himself. The first of Mark's eventual party, Dorian was a master archer and somewhat of an idiot. Often creating more problems than solutions, he was a man Mark had come to trust with his life.
Dorian,
Are you still keeping count of the arrows missed? I'm at three out of forty-six this month. Miu thinks that makes me the worst shot alive. Compared to you, she might be right. Last I heard, you and Emma had another kid, congratulations, I guess. Send me a picture next time if you can. I could use the reminder that somebody got a happy ending out of all this.
P.S. The silver fox is currently in my care, and could use a friend in the weeks to come.
— M
~
He tapped the edge of the parchment against the table before moving on to Mara. That one was shorter; typically, Mark left out any personal inflections in these letters. Mara was the general under whom Mark had served, although there was no real connection; however, she was a leader who had earned his respect. On occasion, he would provide her with an update on the activity in the region.
Mara,
Haven't seen movement from the eastern pass yet, but I'm keeping an eye on it. If you hear anything from the old network, let me know. Even if it's nothing new, keep me in the loop. Silence makes men stupid.
— M
~
Mark hesitated before the fourth letter. His hand hovered over the parchment longer this time.
Lyrelle.
The name carried weight not hers, but the one tied to it. Her cousin Kess. The elven huntress had been a part of their party before the elders had sacrificed her to Ares. Lyrelle had been up north when that happened and took the news rather rough. With the war at a standstill, she had become a hitman of sorts, hunting down the traitors who sold Kess out.
Lyrelle,
Still no word from the mountain tribes. The snows are thinning, though, so it won't be long before the paths open again. If I find any information on Kess's bow, I'll send it your way first. I know it won't bring her back, but… sometimes holding something is better than holding nothing. Hope you're still doing well.
— M
~
The final letter sat unstarted for several long minutes. Mark wasn't even sure if he should write it.
Elias, the broken demigod, torn between his loyalty and his morals, had decided to side with the humans. This decision led to Zeus publicly executing his wife and daughters. Dryads, they had no way to run, ruthlessly, Zeus tied them to their own trees before torching them in Greek fire.
He was the only one who hadn't written back in months.
Mark stared at the blank page until the candle guttered low. Finally, he scrawled the words, rougher than the others.
Elias,
You still out there?
No update. No signature. Just that.
He set the letter down and pressed a hand over the stack, remembering the events that this group had been through.
When he looked up, sunlight was spilling across the cabin floor, pooling near Artemis's cot. Her breathing stayed steady, but her face twitched faintly, some dream flickering behind her closed eyes.
A soft rustle from the far corner pulled him from his thoughts.
Miu stirred under her blanket pile, a tangle of blond hair and too-big sleeves. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, blinking blearily at him.
"Mark?"
"Morning," he said quietly. " Did you sleep all right?"
"Mm, I think so." She yawned, stretching her arms overhead. Then her gaze drifted to the figure in the bed. "Is she still sleeping?"
Mark followed her eyes to Artemis. "Yep. Still asleep."
"She's very pretty," Miu said after a moment. "For someone who almost died."
Mark snorted softly. "That's… one way to put it."
"Is she really a goddess?"
"Yeah."
Miu tilted her head. "Does that mean she's dangerous?"
Mark hesitated, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. "… That's what everyone keeps telling me."
Miu frowned. "You don't sound sure."
"That's cause I'm not a kid, now come on, we have to go send off some letters."
She nodded solemnly, as if that settled it.
By late afternoon, when they returned, Artemis's fever had broken almost completely. Her breathing had steadied into a rhythm that sounded nearly peaceful, though Mark knew better than to call it that. The gods never truly needed to rest; that's why they were so active during the war.
The silence of the cabin had grown heavy by then, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. Mark kept his hands busy — mending a torn strap on his pack, sharpening a dull blade, sweeping out stray pine needles tracked in from the night before.
When the light began to fade, he decided to make broth — something light enough for Artemis to take if she woke.
Miu insisted on helping.
"Do goddesses even eat soup?" she asked as she crouched by the pot, slicing a potato, face scrunched in concentration.
"Pretty sure they do," Mark said, tossing in dried roots.
"What if she doesn't like it?"
"Then we can make something else."
Miu accepted this without question and went back to stirring, humming an old ditty Darian used to play her softly as the smell filled the room.
When the broth was finished, Mark cooled it by stirring slowly, ladled it into a wooden bowl, and set it aside. He wasn't sure if Artemis would wake, but it was better to have it ready.
"Can I give it to her?" Miu asked, curiosity sparkled in her emerald eyes once again.
Mark hesitated. He'd been firm about keeping her away from Artemis out of caution. But Artemis hadn't stirred once in two days. And Miu's curiosity wasn't going anywhere.
"…Alright," he said at last. "But go slow. If she moves, call me."
Miu grinned, clutching the bowl in both hands as she padded toward the cot. Mark stayed by the hearth, one hand never straying far from the knife on his belt.
The cabin was silent save for the soft creak of Miu's footsteps and the faint crackle of the fire. She reached the bedside, peering at the woman who had once been their enemy and now lay half-broken in their care. Artemis's silver-streaked hair spread across the pillow, pale face slack in uneasy rest.
"Hey," Miu whispered, voice trembling with curiosity. "I brought you some yummy soup."
She set the bowl carefully on the stool beside the bed and reached out with tiny fingers to adjust the blanket.
The small movement was all it took.
Artemis's eyes snapped open, a flash of silver in the dim light.
Her hand shot up, clamping around Miu's wrist with startling strength.
Miu gasped, eyes wide. Flailing her free arm, she knocked the bowl over, broth spilling across the floor.
"M-Mark!" she cried.
Mark was already moving. The chair fell to the floor as he surged forward, knife drawn in his left hand, right hand grabbing Miu by the waist.
"Artemis, let her go!"
Silver eyes met brown, a myriad of emotions flashing across her face, confusion, fear, recognition all at once. After a moment, she opened her hand, releasing Miu.
"Where am I?"