Her husband comes home

In the languid hush that followed their union, Nereus and Gloria lay entwined upon the disheveled linens, their bodies slick with the remnants of passion. Her head rested upon his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath, while his fingers traced idle patterns along her spine. The chamber, once alive with moans and the creak of the bedframe, now held a serene quietude, broken only by the distant calls of villagers and the murmur of wind through the vines. Gloria's form, marked by the flush of ecstasy, bore the evidence of their fervor—her thighs glistening with the copious essence Nereus had spilled within her, a pearly rivulet seeping forth as testament to his unyielding predilection.

Yet tranquility shattered like fragile pottery upon the hearth. The door to the abode burst open with a thunderous crack, admitting a shaft of midday light and the hulking silhouette of Gloria's husband, a potter named Darius, his face etched with the weariness of toil. He had returned unforeseen, perhaps drawn by some errant whim of the fates or the early cessation of his labors at the kiln. His eyes, widening in disbelief, fell upon the scene: his wife, bare and entangled with a stranger, the marital bed defiled, and the undeniable proof of betrayal leaking from her ravished form in viscous trails that stained the sheets.

"What treachery is this?" Darius bellowed, his voice a roar akin to the forge's fury, his fists clenching as veins bulged upon his weathered arms. Rage contorted his features, transforming the mild artisan into a vessel of wrath. "You dare profane my hearth, you wretched cur? And you, Gloria—my own wife, swollen with this intruder's filth!"

Gloria gasped, scrambling to shield her nudity with the tangled linens, her face paling as horror supplanted the afterglow. "Darius, I beseech thee—'twas a moment of weakness! The gods tempted me!"

Nereus, his mortal instincts sharpened by exile, sprang from the bed with the agility of a hunted stag. He snatched his tattered chiton from the floor, donning it hastily as Darius lunged forward, seizing a nearby clay vessel and hurling it with vengeful ****. The pottery shattered against the wall mere inches from Nereus's head, fragments scattering like omens of doom.

"Out, you vile seducer!" Darius snarled, advancing with balled fists and eyes ablaze. "I shall flay the hide from your bones and cast your remains to the crows!"

Barely clad and heart pounding, Nereus evaded the first swing, ducking beneath the potter's arm and bolting for the door. He burst into the sunlight, his feet pounding the dusty path as Darius gave chase, bellowing curses that echoed through the village. Villagers paused in their tasks, staring agape at the spectacle: the beggar pursued by the enraged husband, weaving through alleys and over low walls. A glancing blow from a thrown stone grazed Nereus's shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood, but he pressed on, his divine heritage lending him just enough swiftness to outpace the lumbering artisan.

At last, breathless and unscathed save for bruises and the sting of humiliation, Nereus collapsed beneath his familiar olive tree on the village outskirts. The ancient boughs offered scant solace as he caught his breath, the adrenaline ebbing to reveal a tumult of emotions. Contentment lingered like a sweet aftertaste—the memory of Gloria's yielding form, the hours of rapture that had briefly restored a fragment of his former glory. Yet conflict gnawed at his spirit: what fate awaited her now? Would Darius's wrath turn upon her, meting out punishment in blows or exile? The thought twisted like a thorn in his side, a reminder of the havoc his desires wrought even in mortality. As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across Thespia, Nereus pondered his path, adrift in the currents of regret and lingering satisfaction.