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"I know what you're doing."
Drift startled at the sudden noise, whipping around and clutching at her heart. Upon registering the figure — hooves, long, red hair, bright tassels: Cleo, no doubt — she visibly relaxed, and shot the satyr a bright smile.
"God's above, Cleo, you scared me! I'm just picking some herbs I think will help the others — you're welcome to join me if you like."
She continued her work, gentle humming filling the air. The herbalist seemed so happy and relaxed, completely oblivious to the growing tension around her. Cleo dug her blunt nails further into her own arm, desperately willing her body to stop shaking.
"Help them how?"
Drift paused her work again, turning to face the satyr with yet another blinding grin, this time presenting the plant she had found. Cleo usually felt warm and reassured in the woman's presence, but this time she was met with a cold chill down her spine.
"This is Anthriscus sylvestris, but my mother always called it Fairy Lace. I use it all the time at home to treat patients with breathing issues, and with what's going around here I thought it might be useful. I can make some salads with it and hopefully ease some people's symptoms."
"Really?"
"Yeah." She tossed the plant into her basket and rose, resting it on her hip. "I feel a bit bad honestly — I study medicine; I should be able to help these people! But... I'm a bit useless without all my supplies. You've been helping with your song, and Nobody's been hunting game, but I haven't done much other than trying to comfort them with some music. I was hoping the hills out here would have some useful herbs, and luckily they do!"
They both stood there in silence for a moment, the cold wind stinging this high up. Drift was still smiling, a near perfect façade, but Cleo could see through it now she knew what to look for: her jaw was tight, and she was gripping the basket hard enough for it to creak, almost like it was about to snap in half.
Part of Cleo wanted to accept that, to pretend it was fine, but she couldn't. Not now that she had her confirmation.
"Mother Die."
"Hm?"
"That's another name for it, right? Cow Parsley, Fairy Lace, Mother Die."
"I think so..." Drift shifted almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, yeah it is."
"Do you know why it's called that?"
She chanced a look at the woman's eyes, hoping to see confusion, innocence, maybe even a bit of humour — but there was nothing. Her smile was still fixed, but it didn't reach her eyes. They were serious, trained attentively on Cleo.
"Beats me."
The satyr reached across, dipping her hand into the basket and pulling out the plant Drift had been holding. The stem was crushed and the leaves crumpled. She held it between them.
"It's to stop children from picking it and eating it. You scare them, tell them their mother will die if they uproot it, so they leave it alone." She swallowed thickly. "Cow Parsley's fine to eat, but it looks exactly like a different plant, one you don't want kids messing with."
The herbalist cocked her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "And what plant would that be?"
"Hemlock."
"Conium maculatum... Huh. Well, that's not ideal! I guess that's something to be on the lookout for—"
"Drift." She grit her teeth, and waved the plant around. "I'm not stupid, I've lived in the forest my whole life. This is Hemlock, look, it's even got purple spots on the stems!"
The herbalist leaned in to inspect it, gently lifting it so she could see better. She made a surprised noise, before letting go.
"Shit, Cleo, do you think? Can you help me go through the ones I've got so far— I didn't even know they looked the same, they don't grow—"
"Cut the shit! You're telling me that you, a medic, an expert in identifying plants, can't tell the difference between Cow Parsley and Hemlock?!"
She put down the basket, and for the first time Cleo faltered. She looked genuinely shaken and teary, like a child being scolded.
"I'm sorry — I didn't know! I really, really didn't! I guess I'm just... I've only been out of my apprenticeship for a year and I still fuck up, but that doesn't mean I would do something like this!"
She almost caved: that's the worst part. She wanted to: to steady her shoulders and offer her comfort, to promise she didn't think she was capable of hurting people. But she couldn't. She couldn't steady her, because she wasn't shaking. Tears pooled in her eyes, but none fell. She looked like a wreck, but Cleo always had a knack for knowing when someone was lying, and her alarm bells were ringing too loud for her to ignore. So, she steeled herself.
"Don't play dumb with me, Drift — I know what you're doing!"
"I don't know what you mean!"
"You're poisoning them! I smelt something was off with the food you made the other day, so I followed you out here—"
"Please, Cleo," she grabbed the satyr's wrist with both hands, bringing it to her heart, "don't you trust me?"
Yes, she she wanted to cry, but it was wishful thinking. Everything in her wanted to let her guard down, to trust in the sweet medic who cooked and cared for her competition, but something just wasn't right. Whenever she looked at her she felt... something. Something nagging and insistent, unwilling to be ignored. She had tried to brush it off as paranoia — who wouldn't have trust issues in a place like this? — but the more she examined it, the more she recognised it
It was fear.
Thump, thump, thump. Drifts heart wasn't racing, not even slightly. It was steady and relaxed compared to Cleo's, which felt like a jackrabbit about to burst from her chest. This was all just another act: a wolf masquerading as a sheep.
"Stop it!" She cried, wrenching her hand out of her grip. "Don't fuck with me, Drift! You're pretending— pretending to be their friend and pretending to help them but you're the one causing the sickness in the first place! You're lying to them all— tricking them!"
Her shouts bounced off the hills, echoing around her. Something shifted, and Drift seemed to realise she was fighting a losing battle; Cleo would not budge from her accusations. Accepting defeat, she dropped the act, wiping away the fake tears.
"Yeah," she remarked calmly, like she was admitting to cheating at cards, not attempted murder, "I am."
Cleo felt sick. Here she was, shaking like a leaf in a winter storm, terrified, while the other woman was just... unbothered. She looked bored, and Cleo felt her blood boil.
"...Why? Tell me why or I swear, Drift, I'll tell them all—!"
"All right, all right, calm down — I'll tell you!" She sighed, running her fingers through her hair, messing up her braid in the process. Despite the obvious stress she remained composed; there was no hint of fear, or anger, or even guilt. Just... disappointment, like Cleo was some minor inconvenience.
Maybe she was. She was starting to realise she really didn't know anything about this woman, and they were isolated far off in the hillside. For the first time she looked at the sickle hanging from the herbalists belt, and wondered if its' purpose really was just for harvesting wheat.
"Me and you, Cleo... we aren't fighters." She began. "This place is packed full of hunters, gladiators, and soldiers: trained fighters who would cut us down in an instant. You saw how easily Nobody got taken out in that arena— and he has combat experience. Us? We're fodder: people that exist to pad out the bottom of the rankings, the easy pickings before the real show starts.
"But one thing I've learned is that if the odds are stacked against you, the only way to win is to rig the game." A light sparked to life in her eyes, and she broke out into a malicious grin.
"So what?" Cleo asked, creeped out at how gleefully she was talking about poisoning. "You kill them before they get to the arena?"
"No," She rolled her eyes, and quickly pinched the Hemlock back out of Cleo's hand "the God's wouldn't appreciate that: they want their entertainment after all. I'm just dosing them enough to keep them weak so that if I have to face them in the arena, I stand a fighting chance."
She stared as Drift admired the plant in her hand. "And when they find out?"
"They won't," she remarked softly, twisting the plant around, gaze not shifting, "how would they? You're the only one here with any kind of herbal knowledge, and no one would suspect lil' ol' me. I mean—" she slipped back into her sunny façade, eerie in its realism, "I'm Apollo's champion! I'm here to help, and heal, and I would never wanna hurt my buds!"
Cleo took a step back involuntarily, and Drift began to giggle. Even like this she was bright, but not as she usually was. The herbalist had always reminded her of a sunbeam, warm and gentle on your back, but now all she could see was a forest fire. She was razing this place to the ground, and Drift seemed to delight in the destruction. The repulsion she felt was curbed by a sick sense of awe: a horror so fascinating she couldn't tear her eyes away.
For the first time, she wondered what it would feel like to burn.
"Plus, it's not like you'll tell anyone."
"Says who?" She croaked, still enraptured by the natural disaster before her.
"Says me, silly! Why would you? — I'm taking out the competition without you having to lift a finger. It's like you said: only one of us is getting out of here alive. I'm just speeding up the process and tilting the scale in our favour."
"Our favour?"
"Yeah!" She cocked her hip playfully, once again resting the basket on it, like a sick parody of before. "I didn't poison your food— wait, did you give your portion to Nobody?" She snapped her fingers. "That's why he's not sick! Ugh, that makes so much sense — I was really scratching my head over that one. Thought he had some weird immune system or whatever."
"Why not me?" She asked, giving up on suppressing her shaking to gesture wildly. "I don't get you! Why single me out, out of everyone! What have I done to deserve it?!"
"Oh Cleo." she sighed, cupping the satyr's face with her hand. She hated how soft it was, how warm and comforting. She hated how her eyes slipped closed out of reflex. "I like you! Do I need to have an ulterior motive?"
"Yes." She mumbled into her hand, squeezing her eyes tighter. "Maybe I'm weak, maybe you knew I'd find out, maybe you need my powers."
"Maybe." They nodded, gently circling their thumb in a soothing motion. "But I don't think you want to believe any of that."
"...I don't."
"Then just believe me, or, better yet, help me. Back me up if they get suspicious, turn them all against each other. It's really easy, honestly: they all hate each other anyways. You can turn me in — I can't stop you — but just know how it ends: with both of us bleeding out in that amphitheatre."
"Don't you feel bad?"
She pulled her hand away, looking more serious than she'd ever seen. She was striking like this; her hair whipping around in the wind, the sun haloing it from behind. She looked more flame than woman, flickering in the evening light.
"Morals are for dead men." She cracked a smile, tucking a strand of Cleo's hair back. "Besides, if they're not smart enough to remember who my God is, that's their problem, not mine."
"The sun, music, poetry, medicine—"
"Plague, and disease. People tend to forget about those until it's too late."
"... Who are you, Drift?"
She smiled, taking Cleo's hand and gently leading her back down the mountain.
"Just someone that wants to live, Cleo. Nothing more, and nothing less."