Chapter 12: The Shroud

For nearly twenty-four hours, Niko had been locked in the small, dark outhouse. The air inside was thick and musty, tainted by the smell of his sweat and waste. In one corner, he had relieved himself, ashamed and disgusted but too exhausted to care anymore. He hadn't been able to wash, hadn't eaten a thing, and any thought of sleep had been impossible. The sound of the family's weeping had kept him awake, the sobs of Elena's mother piercing his heart like a knife. Yannis, though, had been silent. That was what terrified him the most—Yannis' silence.

He had spent the long hours in a fog, trapped in a self-pitying trance, unable to escape the relentless whirl of his thoughts. Guilt weighed heavily on his chest, pressing down like a physical force. Elena was dead. Gone because of him. The images of her bruised, lifeless body haunted him—her makeup streaked with tears, her face pale and cold. The grief he'd seen on Yannis’ face when they found her was burned into his memory. It was a grief so raw, so overpowering, that it seemed almost inhuman. And Niko knew there was no forgiveness for what he had done.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the door finally creaked open, but when it did, a strange sense of relief washed over him. There was no longer any need to sit and wallow in the dark. His fate was about to be decided, and in a way, that was a mercy. He had long since given up on the idea that there was anything he could say to defend himself. He was ready to face whatever awaited him.

Two men stepped inside, their faces hard and expressionless. Without a word, they grabbed him by the arms and pulled him to his feet. His muscles screamed in protest after being cramped in the same position for so long, but he didn't resist. He deserved whatever came next.

They bound his wrists tightly, the coarse rope biting into his skin and making his wrists burn with pain. It was rough, and unkind, and it scratched at his flesh as they yanked the knots tighter. Yet, strangely, Niko found a kind of twisted relief in it. He welcomed the pain. He deserved it.

Next, they threw a thick woollen blanket over his head, covering him completely. The fabric was rough and itchy, rubbing harshly against his face and neck, but again, he didn’t mind. The discomfort was almost comforting. It gave him something else to focus on, something other than the unrelenting guilt that gnawed at him from the inside out.

The men guided him out of the outhouse, and he stumbled forward, barely able to see beneath the heavy fabric. The world outside was cold, the night air biting against his skin as they led him away. They walked in silence, save for the shuffling of feet on the ground and the occasional snap of a twig beneath their boots. The village streets, normally alive with chatter, were eerily quiet.

Under the cover of the blanket, Niko could feel the chill creeping into his bones. His mind raced, but there was no room for hope, no possibility of mercy. He knew what this was—the beginning of the end. He was being escorted to his judgment, just as his father had been, years ago.

He had nothing to say, no words that could possibly undo the damage he had caused. And even if he did, no one would want to hear them. The silence between him and the men escorting him was thick with meaning. There was no need for words. Everything that needed to be said had already been spoken in the weeping of the family and the grief-stricken silence of Yannis.

As they led him through the village, Niko couldn’t see the faces of the villagers, but he imagined them turning away, pretending not to notice the small procession. This was the Cretan way. Some things were too sacred, too painful, to be witnessed openly.

They moved in near silence, the only sound the steady, unrelenting footsteps of the men beside him and the distant wind howling through the mountains. The air grew colder as they ascended higher, and with every step, Niko felt his heart pound harder in his chest.

He stumbled, once, twice, the uneven ground tripping him up beneath the weight of the blanket. But the men didn’t let him fall. They grabbed his arms roughly and pulled him back up, steadying him without a word. Each time, he felt their grip tighten, reminding him of his place.

Niko’s thoughts spiralled as he walked, his mind consumed by the faces of those he had let down. His mother had always tried to protect him. Zoe, who had never seen this side of him, thank God, the reckless fool he had become. And Yannis… Yannis, who had shown him nothing but love, who had been so happy to have him as part of the family. And now, Yannis was the one he had wronged most deeply. There was no forgiveness for what Niko had taken from him, and Niko didn’t expect any. He didn’t deserve it. His heart pounded in his chest as they ascended higher and higher, the sound of Yannis’ laboured breathing the only thing breaking the silence.

With every step, the night seemed to grow colder, the air thinner, as if the mountains themselves were judging him. 

Finally, at the summit, they pulled the blanket off him. The cold air cut into his skin like knives, he stared at Yannis in disbelief. The mountain winds howled, and the night sky above them was vast, indifferent. The stars, so bright and unmoving, seemed like distant witnesses to his trial, uncaring and eternal. 

Yannis, standing tall and resolute, spoke.

"You will stay here," his voice gravelly, worn by grief and rage. "Without food. Without water. If the gods will it, you will survive. If not, then it is their judgment."

Niko’s legs trembled, though whether from the cold or fear, he couldn’t tell. His body, exhausted and unwashed, felt as though it was already shutting down. He could hardly look Yannis in the eye, the shame and guilt too much to bear. Elena’s face flashed before him - her wide, trusting eyes now empty, her bruised and lifeless body crumpled in the cave. The memory clung to him like a second skin, suffocating him.

He stepped closer, his face inches from Niko’s. “There is no forgiveness. There is no forgetting. You will stay here, alone, and if the gods see fit to spare you, then you will live with this guilt for the rest of your days. But you will never come back to my village. You will never see Crete again.”

Yannis wasn’t done, his voice lowering, the icy wind carrying his words like a whisper. "Before we leave you," he began, "there is something you should know. Something that explains why your mother never returned here, and why this curse has been passed down to you."

Niko’s heart pounded harder. He had always known there were secrets, dark truths that his mother never spoke of. He had felt it his whole life—an unspoken weight between them, a sadness that never fully went away. But now, hearing Yannis speak of it, he realized he had been blind to just how deep it ran.

"Your father," Yannis continued, his eyes hardening as he spoke. "Nicholas. He... he brought shame upon this family, upon my sister, upon us all. He took a woman into the caves, just like you did with Elena. Your mother was already carrying you, and he—" Yannis' voice faltered, the pain and anger threatening to break through. "Someone followed them, tried to catch him. But your father, that coward, got away. He fled, knowing full well the shame he'd caused. Knowing we would never forgive him. He didn’t even wait for you to be born before abandoning his responsibilities, abandoning her."

The words hit Niko like a blow to the gut. His father, a man he realised now he barely knew, had set this chain of events in motion. He had cursed them all, from the moment he ran.

"My greatest concern," Yannis went on, his voice trembling with barely contained fury, "was for your mother. She loved Nicholas, despite everything. And I... I allowed her to leave. To escape this place. But I knew, in my heart, that it would be the last time I’d ever see her. Us Cretans... we don’t forgive easily. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be standing here now. And now, you’ve gone and repeated his sins."

Niko’s throat tightened, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. This - this was why his mother had never returned. This was why she had carried such a heavy sorrow with her to London, why she had never spoken of her past with any warmth or longing. She had been running, too. Running from this place, this legacy, this curse.

Yannis stepped even closer, his face inches from Niko’s. For a fleeting moment, the hard lines of his grief softened, and Niko saw the pain of a father who had lost everything. "You are my blood, Niko," Yannis whispered, his voice breaking. "But my daughter... my Elena... I cannot let this go unpunished."

With that, Yannis took a step back, his grief transforming once more into a hardened resolve. He turned his back on Niko. One by one, the other elders followed Yannis, their faces grim, their silence heavy with the knowledge that what had to be done was now in the hands of the gods and the unforgiving wilderness.

Niko was left alone, standing at the summit, the night closing in around him. The blanket of stars above seemed even farther away now, the mountains below him like jagged teeth ready to swallow him whole. The cold had already seeped into his bones, his body shaking uncontrollably, but the real chill came from within.

As Yannis’ figure disappeared into the darkness, Niko collapsed onto the rocky ground, his knees buckling under the weight of his guilt. He had taken a life. He had failed to protect Zoe, and now, he had failed Elena. The cycle of guilt and shame, of betrayal and loss, had come full circle. He was living out the curse of his family - his father’s sins, his own failures.

Niko’s mind was consumed by a single, unrelenting thought: this was where it all ended. Alone, in the wilderness, at the mercy of the elements, he would either survive and carry the weight of his sins forever, or he would die here, his body claimed by the same earth that had taken Elena.

And in the silence of the mountains, the wind carried the faintest sound - a whisper, perhaps imagined, of Elena’s voice. Or was it the voice of the gods, passing their judgment? Either way, Niko knew that there would be no forgiveness, not from Yannis, not from the gods, and not from himself.

He had a choice to make: to give himself over to the elements, to let the wilderness claim him as part of the ancient punishment, or to fight to survive, to live on in exile, carrying the weight of his guilt and shame for the rest of his days.

Niko looked up at the sky, the stars shining coldly above him, and he made his decision.