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They sit by a small fire outside her tent, gazing up at the stars. As the constellations flicker above, they take turns naming them. It is a game they easily fall into; a continuation of the competition they established from the moment they met.
Neither leads nor trails the other. Her knowledge impresses him; being several centuries older provides no advantage; she is a worthy contender.
“Andromeda, Princess of Ethiopia,” she says, with ease, “Cassiopeia, her boastful mother, and Perseus, the man who saves her from the creature sent by Poseidon and upon seeing her beauty, falls madly in love with her.”
Noting the taunt in her voice, Zavala’s attention shifts from the sky to Safiyah.
“Not a fan of the myth, are you?”
The dwindling fire grows as she tosses a handful of twigs into it. “Those types of stories never appealed to me.” When he asks her to explain, she says, “A Greek prince saving an African princess? In the books I’ve read, that narrative is very much ingrained in history. There’s nothing laudable about hubris.”
He ponders her words. “I suppose it’s how they always saw themselves—as heroes of their own story. If you were able to, how would you write it?”
A wicked smile forms as she crafts her own version of the story.
“As Perseus approaches Andromeda with premature victory, the sea monster’s tentacles emerge from the ocean and wrap around him, dragging him down into the sea! Meanwhile, Andromeda, having already formulated her own clever plan of escape, produces the knife concealed beneath her dress and cuts her bonds, freeing herself, then plunges into the ocean to slay the creature and save Perseus from drowning. Afterwards, the king and queen give him a ship to sail home and they continue to live in peace, undisturbed by aspiring heroes desperate to prove themselves.”
Zavala chuckles, entertained by her new and improved retelling. “Indeed, your account is far more interesting than what the author had in mind.”
Safiyah beams, pleased with herself. “Thank you.”
A sudden pang from the wound she sutured days before causes him to wince; it soon dulls to a negligible discomfort. At first, he thought to have Targe accelerate the healing process right after leaving the medical tent, but decided against it when he realized this wound was unlike any other wound he suffered. In the same way it would leave a scar, her kindness left a mark upon him. Each ache was a reminder of it. Of her.
“You mentioned your family before,” he says, “Did you learn these myths from them?”
“No. They didn’t care for them.”
Curious to know more, he asks, “What were they like?”
Safiyah doesn’t answer right away. Answering his question requires careful preparation; her own wounds did not fully heal. They never would.
“Dad was the kindest, most generous man I’d ever known. He made me want to be a doctor, I think—everyone he met, he healed in some capacity—a broken heart, a bad day, even a bad meal. And bless him, he never shied away from the aftermath of a bad meal.”
Zavala’s soft laugh accompanies her own before they fall silent.
“And your mother?”
“She was never the same after he died. My sister, too. We used to be close, but…we withdrew from each other. He was the thread that wove us all together. The happiness we shared died with him.”
The quiver in her voice is barely noticeable when she stops speaking, but he knows she is still grieving. It stirs him to reach towards her; his hand a gentle curve, like the underside of water lily; he cups her chin, turning her to face him. He brushes away the crescent path of tears on her cheek.
“Happiness still lives within you. I felt it, just now.”
Her hand touches his in unspoken thanks. Something deeper swells between them, and she considers whether she misspoke on the myth, for his luminescent eyes, glowing with the intensity of a full moon, renders her powerless.