#Rumors around Othrys

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Luke: Big Boy Conversations II

           They couldn’t meet up until the sun was setting. As usual, things around camp got in the way: settling fights that broke out, making sure the mortal cleaning staff didn’t go on strike with all the monster ooze, getting Helios and Morpheus to stop playing matchmaker. This last one was particularly difficult. The former sun driver believed he could still see all things and knew what was best for people and Morpheus could subliminally message potential matches in their dreams.

         Very annoying.

         By the time the centaurs dropped Axel, Luke, and Jack on the cliff’s edge with a cooler full of drinks and snacks, the stars had risen into the sky.

         Luke handed the centaurs a six-pack of low-alcohol beer to appease them and make sure they didn’t get too drunk. Riding with an intoxicated mount? A terrible idea. As soon as the centaurs found out that half-bloods could buy alcohol for them, Luke and Jack had to set regulations about RWI. Riding While Intoxicated.

         Axel wasted no time. He took a water bottle from the cooler, sat down on the edge of the cliff, criss-crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.

         Jack twitched. As happy as he was that Luke agreed to work on his mental health with Axel’s help, Jack couldn’t sit still for meditation. To keep himself from distracting his friends, he would hum, sing, or play an instrument. Tonight, he’d brought a sitar.

         Luke was disappointed to see Axel immediately go into meditation mode. He wanted to talk to these two about something. “I’m not going to be able to focus today,” Luke decided.

         Axel cracked an eye open. Up here, he never looked at Luke with fear or suspicion. Probably because he could shove me over the cliff faster than I could say, “Zeus sucks.”

         “Your life would be a lot easier if you could get along with Alabaster,” Axel said, as always, a little too on the mark. “Though, his hatred does have some merit. Keeps you on your toes during training.”

         Jack snorted, strumming a calming tune on his sitar.

         That was why Luke started meditation in the first place. Luke had hit Alabaster. Not during training and not at a time that Alabaster felt he could hit back. Luke hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t remembered doing it until he saw the welt forming on Alabaster’s cheek a day later.

         Luke wondered how many of his troops he’d hit in a blind rage. When Luke expressed this to Jack, scared he’d hit Jack, Jack had suggested talking to Axel. Apparently, Axel’s biological father thought Axel had anger management issues. Despite Axel’s resentment when discussing his father, it was obvious he liked the meditation.

         “I’m tired of him saying my plan won’t work. He doesn’t know Thalia and he doesn’t know Annabeth. Neither of them will fail us,” Luke said. Instead of joining Axel in his criss-crossed stance, Luke picked two beers out of the cooler. He offered one to Axel.

         Axel shook his head. He stretched his legs out in front of him and dangled them over the edge. After a moment of fishing around in his pockets, he withdrew a cigarette and lighter. “I don’t drink,” said the fifteen-year-old as he cupped his hand over the cigarette to light it.

         Jack paused his strumming. He held the sitar by the neck so he could fold his arms. “Where did you get those and who started you on them?” He reached to grab the cigarette from Axel’s lips.

         Axel swatted his hand away, a dangerous game so close to the edge. “The convenience store. Santiago. Buzz off.”

         Santiago was Axel’s blood father. That ended the conversation. Jack withdrew his hand and returned to strumming. Now, the tune was sadder. ‘Think of what those will do to your vocal cords,” Jack said.

         “Didn’t you want me to be the raspy background singer?” Axel said. He glared at his “dad” and blew a puff of smoke straight at him. The wind whipped it up the coast, twisting the swirls away before they reached the son of Apollo.

         Luke frowned, thinking of what little he knew of Axel and Pax’s biological father. A month ago, when the boys were joking around in the upstairs pools, someone—Matthias?—commented how cool it was that Axel and Pax already had tattoos: Mayan hieroglyphs that peaked out at their hips. When asked how their parents had been cool with it, Axel left without a word.

         Twenty minutes later, Alabaster and Pax ran to grab Jack, saying Axel had peeled off his tattooed skin with a hunting knife. Jack had panicked to Luke that one of his boys had hurt himself. When asked, Pax would only say that the tattoo reminded Axel of his biological father.

         Luke shook off the memory, focusing on the conversation at hand.

         Once Axel was sure that Jack wouldn’t comment on the cigarettes again, Axel turned his attention back to Luke. “It’s good to have people that are willing to point out potential problems in a plan,” Axel said with a shrug. The Witch Boy. Right.

         Luke downed half his bottle. He sat beside Axel on the ledge, scowling off. He admired the fact that Alabaster was willing to criticize anyone, including the Titan Lord. That pissed him off even more. “It’s not hard for Alabaster to be ballsy about it. A third of the army is related to him. And that trust-fund bastard owns half the ship. He knows he’s untouchable.”

         Meanwhile, Luke had… what? Friends who didn’t believe he was doing this to help them? That didn’t know what was the best for them? A mother driven to insanity by his asshole of a father, neither of which could or would do anything for him. His mother had barely been able to give him a blessing for… for what he had to do.

         Besides, with his money and his relation, it didn’t matter how Alabaster acted. He could be the creep that lurks in the lab and no one would notice or care. Monsters, gods, and demigods alike were watching Luke, looking for a weakness, for something to mark him as unworthy.

         You are unworthy.

         Luke shuddered.

         Then, why didn’t Kronos pick someone else?

         He shook off the thought, trying to keep calm. He took another long swing, tossed his beer bottle to the side, and grabbed the one he’d pulled for Axel. They would get to that, to what he really wanted to talk to them about. For now, he wanted to pretend they were just hanging out. Had he ever had that with friends? Been able to hang out when he wasn’t on the run for his life?

         Or sanity, that voice cooed.

         “And then he talks about Thalia like he knows her,” Luke said, remembering where they’d left off. Alabaster being an asshole. Right.

         Luke’s hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed. Axel narrowed his golden eyes. Jack played a few tense cords. “He thinks the plan with Thalia will fail,” Luke continued, like he didn’t sense their concern. “But, Thalia, she’s strong. After all her Dad put her through—put us through—she’ll see the way. I’ll bet she’s just biding her time to convince Annabeth. Annabeth was fed their lies for years, so she’ll need some persuading. She’s so stubborn.”

         He laughed, thinking about the bounce of her curls. As Axel tapped some ashes into the whipping wind, Luke shoved Axel’s shoulder. “What about you? What girl is keeping you from exploring the beauties we have here?”

         Jack had been whining for weeks that Axel didn’t have interest in anyone. Although Pax was silent around Luke, apparently the little brother was the opposite, babbling about the awesome and gorgeous demigods and creatures aboard the ship.

         Axel shrugged and frowned slightly. His gold eyes drifted off to the distance. Out on the water, they could see the bright lights of their cruise ship, docked offshore.

         “You spend a lot of time with Mercedes,” Jack said lightly behind him.

         Axel cracked his neck. His expression went blank. “The only mistress Mercedes has time for is her spymaster project. Her eyes are only on Ajax and me because we’re useful.”

         Jack made an indignant snort over the sound of his sitar. “That’s not enough for my boy—”

         Luke reached backwards to slap Jack’s foot. If Jack wanted the Pax brothers to open up to him as a friend, he had to stop the dad talks.

         “I doubt that,” Luke said. “Though, hard to say with that girl. She’s such a stiff.”

         Axel covered a smile by taking a drag on his cigarette.

         Despite the number of times Pax swore to others that Mercedes was a prankster with an evil sense of humor, Luke had only seen her strict, curt, dry, and tense. She’d spent the last few months rubbing it in Luke’s face how badly they needed a spy unit in New Rome and how shitty their defenses were against enemy spies. Humor or no, she was proving her worth. Though, Flynn would be livid if Axel became a spy instead of a member of the Assault and Battery Unit. Assuming Axel had time to be part of anything with Jack’s crazy projects keeping him busy.

         Luke blinked, realizing how popular this kid had become.  

         “Come on, man. You’re really good with the girls. Even Ethel likes you. And that prickly Echinda doesn’t like anyone,” Luke said.

         The smile vanished from Axel’s face. “It’s because I meet her on her terms. You can’t rush her. She’s… she’s still recovering. You gotta let her decide how close she wants to stand and you gotta remember not to block her exit from the room.” Axel pulled his knees up and leaned his chin against them. “That miscarriage was insult to injury for her. And don’t even get me started on separating her from Charlie. Child of the Big Three or not, Charlie is five.  The kid should keep using the Hyperborean giants as a jungle gym, not being prepped to replace Thalia and Percy if they fail.”

         Luke gritted his teeth. He didn’t know Charlie, the daughter of Zeus, had been told she could be the child of the prophecy. He wondered if that was Alabaster’s work or one of the other Titans.

         “You seem to know a lot about how to work with people like Ethel,” Luke said carefully.

         Axel puffed up his cheeks and popped them. The smoldering on his cigarette had burned down to the filter. Casually, as though he was going to press the butt into the ground, he lowered his hand, then pressed the hot tip under his shirt, into his hip and the scar tissue of the former tattoo.

         Axel didn’t even flinch.

         Between Jack and Axel, Luke wondered what it said about him if he preferred to befriend crazy people.

         Jack must not have noticed Axel’s movement. He continued to play his sitar, adding a soft hum into the breeze.

         Axel released the cigarette and hugged his legs tightly. “It’s hard for me to accept that the women around me aren’t being paid or threatened to enjoy my company, or that they don’t want something from me,” he muttered, “I don’t like to talk about it.”

         The music stopped again.

         Luke frowned. Why can’t we have a normal talk about hot chicks? He didn’t even want to think about what had happened to Axel and Pax to give Axel that impression.

         Jack hopped down beside Axel, keeping his legs as far from the cliff’s edge as possible while also sitting beside him. He slipped an arm around Axel’s shoulders in a comforting gesture. Luke expected him to say some meaningless dad cliché. Instead, Jack said, “Luke, you should show him that picture Silena gave you of Thalia and Annabeth.”

         A grin twitched back onto Luke’s lips. He could tell Jack the same stories about Thalia and Annabeth every night for a month and Jack’s eyes would still light up with delight. That’s what they often did at the Monster Mash bar, to the point where the bartender, Dean, got tired of them and would kick them out.

         Luke fumbled for the photo he’d kept in his wallet for the last few months, since Thalia returned to camp. He had to make a copy to keep in his room, because this one’s edges were so crumbled.

         The picture was at Camp Half-Blood, outside Cabin One. Thalia looked confused at the photographer. She still wasn’t used to the idea of a camera phone. Annabeth looked so happy.

         “It’s weird to see Thalia look so young,” Luke said, grinning, “I kept thinking she’d come back looking older. She’s actually nineteen, I think.”

         For a panicked moment, Luke couldn’t remember how many years had passed. The times he’d displeased Kronos, when the Titan Lord showed him centuries of pain during moments of sleep, time stopped having meaning.

         “She’s cute,” Axel admitted, staring down at the picture. His brow furrowed. “She’s my age. And Annabeth…”

“She’s growing into a beautiful girl. Give her a few years.” Luke couldn’t wait to tease her about it, imagining the way she’d scrunch up her face, all annoyed and adorable and fierce. “We just need to remind her that the world needs to be rebuilt, and she can rebuild it to fit her wildest dreams. We’re going to be in high demand for a good architect. Then, she’ll be happy. That’s all I want.”

Axel’s tone was careful when he said, “She looks closer to Ajax’s age.”

         “She’s older than Pax,” Luke said. He struggled to remember their ages. Pax looked so young and Annabeth looked older than she was.

         “By what, a year?” Axel snorted.

         “She’s mature for her age,” Luke snapped. Why did Luke feel so defensive? Awhile ago, he’d stopped referring to Annabeth as a little sister, but she was still young, right?

“Annabeth is Luke’s little sister,” Jack chided Axel, like he’d read Luke’s mind. Jack ruffled Axel’s hair.

Axel slapped away Jack’s hand.

         She was like a little sister, right? Luke just wanted to make a world that she would like and to protect her. He could never think of Annabeth like that with Thalia around. Weirdly, he guessed it was how Flynn felt with the Pax brothers. She may have had whomever she wanted, but, with Jack around, she would never want or need to think of Axel and Pax as anything more than their obnoxious children.

         “I’ll bet Thalia and Annabeth wouldn’t approve of how you’re getting information from Silena,” Axel said.

         Luke shrugged, folding up the photograph. “We need a spy. It’s hard to trust her though. I mean, she’s a daughter of Aphrodite. She must know I’m not in love with her. I’ve never said I was. And she’s beautiful and a camp counselor; she can’t be that deprived of attention that she needs it from me.”

         Luke frowned, remembering how Silena was thrilled with the dove broach Beckendorf had made her. She had unabashed talked about it when he’d found it fumbling with her clothing.

Luke refused to feel guilty. He wasn’t the one cheating a new crush. He wasn’t the one cheating his camp. All he could assume was that Silena really wanted the Olympians to burn, but she didn’t have the heart to leave the camp. She’d heard the stories about him poisoning Percy and about poisoning Thalia’s tree. He’d never denied them. She was the one choosing to ignore them.

         Axel stretched out his legs, straightening them completely over the cliff’s edge to show off the animalistic arch to his calves. He cracked his neck to one side. “Hey… Luke, Jack.”

         Both boys perked up.

         The wind whipped Luke’s face harshly. He thought he could hear someone shouting aboard the boat, their voices carried up with the breeze. Axel waited long enough that Luke could count enough stars in Centaur constellation to get angry at Chiron.

         “Someone who slays the Ophiotaurus… if they have the power to destroy the gods, wouldn’t they have the power to take out the Titans too?” Axel asked slowly.

         That was a dangerous question.

         They remained silent as they inhaled the salty air. Luke tossed his empty bottle to the other one. He fished into the cooler for a third, wondering if it would be unwise to speculate.  

         Axel couldn’t pledge his soul to Kronos. He wasn’t Greek. That made Kronos think he was untrustworthy. It made Axel one of the few people Luke felt like he could trust. But, what if Kronos mucked through Luke’s memories? Could he? How pathetic was Luke if he feared speaking against Kronos when Kronos wasn’t around?

         Luke bit his lip. He wondered if he could have handled criticism from other people, like Alabaster, before Kronos poisoned his thoughts. He’d handled criticism fine from Thalia and Annabeth and even Chiron before all of this. Was that pride his? Or Kronos’?

         Queasiness warned him not to take another sip of his beer. I’ve only had two, he scolded himself. The sense of helplessness made him gulp until his head felt light.

         “Luke?” Jack asked slowly.

         Axel and Jack were waiting for an answer, like Luke knew everything about the universe. He didn’t. He didn’t know anything without Kronos. He was just some pawn piece abandoned by his father and his friends. Kronos’ puppet, Alabaster had said, only worthy of Hermes’ attention when you’ve become a threat during your temper tantrum.

         Thalia will join, he told himself to shake off the nausea. She’ll join, and she’ll help you remember who you are. We can fight this war together, even if that means fighting the Titans later.

         “Hey… guys…” Luke said. It was something that had been on his mind, lurking in the background when Kronos wasn’t around, something he’d wanted to bring up but... he’d been too scared. With the light buzz in his head and the way his chin wanted to droop, he found some courage. “If Kronos erases me, if I try to hurt Thalia or Annabeth, will you kill what’s left of me so I can’t hurt them?”

         “Luke!” Jack squeaked. His voice sounded near tears. “You—you saved me. You gave me a world where I wasn’t just confused—”

         Luke was about to force a laugh, to change the subject like he’d been joking. His lip began to bleed where he bit it. He should have known Jack was too soft to handle the thought, let alone the action.

         A hand clamped over Luke’s shoulder. He glanced into Axel’s golden eyes. Axel’s other hand had clamped over Jack’s mouth, shutting him up.

         “I will,” Axel said. His gaze was steady. “I would hope you’d do the same for me if I ever hurt my family.” He swallowed. “The family I choose.”

         This time, it was Jack’s turn to slap Axel’s hand away. “Axel Jackson Pax!”

         That wasn’t Axel’s real middle name, or Luke certainly hoped it wasn’t. When the Pax brothers refused to give their middle names, Mercedes had supplied them with that, her face stern as usual. Luke wondered if that was a custom in… where was she from? Morocco? To take the father’s name as the middle?

         Whatever it was, Jack loved it and decided the two Hispanic boys really had the middle name of Jackson.

         “You lay a finger on Luke and you’ll have the worst case of chicken po—”

         Luke was happy Jack’s shrieks would cover his response. He gripped the hand Axel had on his shoulder. “Thank you,” Luke said.

         Axel nodded and released him, looking uncomfortable with the display of gratitude. Luke could guess why. He had just said thank you for offering to kill him. Probably not a common topic amongst friends.[1]

         “And you won’t be able to walk with the spinal meningitis—”

         “Jack, you could never intentionally make someone sick,” Axel teased. “You’re always panicking about doing it on accident.”

         Those words silenced Jack. Luke wondered if Axel thought it was a rumor that Jack had killed his whole family with a song.

         Luke stretched so he could casually lean forward to check on his friend. The redhead toyed with his bracelet: a braided electric base string. His brilliant eyes held that distant glint, the one he got when he forgot to take his medicine. Flynn and Phil had been pretending Jack didn’t need his medicine anymore. Luke struggled with the fact that they were lying to him.

         Jack wasn’t like his mom. The medicine did help, right?

         Pushing the old anxiety out of his head—he didn’t need to worry about Jack on his day off—Luke leaned back, taking another swig of his bottle. He couldn’t really taste it. Since Kronos had infiltrated his thoughts, simple pleasures like eating and drinking seemed to deteriorate. One day, there will be nothing left.

         “What did you really bring us out to talk about?” Axel asked, folding his legs criss-cross style again. “Since you’re clearly so interested in breathing exercises.”

         Luke wanted to say it was girls: Thalia, Annabeth, Flynn, and whomever had stolen Axel’s heart. It wasn’t.

         His heart rebelled against his mouth. They needed to have this talk. Somehow, it was harder than asking them to kill him. He took another gulp of beer, feel the carbonation fuzz against his tongue.

         “In order to…” his words failed him. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Thalia failed them or if they couldn’t capture the Ophiotaurus. He didn’t want to admit that this was one more thing Kronos was making him do, another thing he had no control over. “I need to get the Curse of Achilles,” he said finally.

         Neither boy spoke, waiting for Luke to elaborate.

         When Luke took his time to inhale the dulled scent of salt water, Jack whispered, “Aren’t curses usually to be avoided?”

         Luke wanted to laugh hysterically, but knew that would worry Jack. “To get it, I need to go to Hades,” he said in response.

         “I hear you’re not exactly popular there,” Axel said.

         Luke nodded. “And I need to bath in the River Styx. I want people I can trust to go down with me, some of the best fighters and best healers. However, I need Flynn here. She’s one of the only ones that can keep order. The Titans respect her.” Luke bit his lip, tasting the slight twang of blood. Sometimes, she’s respected more than me.

         Axel puffed up his cheeks and popped them. “I’ll have to find a way to convince Ajax to stay here.”

         Luke knew that would be a complication. The littlest Pax would die on a trip below. Jack pointed out the bigger problem.

         “I won’t be able to convince Flynn to let me go. And none of us can lie to her.” The redhead frowned. Jack couldn’t lie to Flynn by choice. The rest of them would have the truth forced out of them under her melodious wrath. If Luke really wanted Jack along, they would need to kidnap Jack without prepping him, claim it was Kronos’ idea, and accept any punishment she’d unleash upon them after they returned.

         “How soon do we need to go?” Jack asked.

         Luke forced himself to stop biting his lip. “Before I take Atlas’ burden.”

         What if they say no? Luke trembled at the thought. He could order them, but he wanted them to come of their own volition. They were his friends, right? Or are they only your friends because you’re Kronos’ puppet?

         Axel laughed.

         Luke balked, glaring.

         The youngest of the three clutched his stomach. “Alright, alright, right, Jack?”

         Jack joined in on the crazed revelry. “What else are legendary heroes for? And you’ll definitely need a bard to lighten the soul when you go somewhere so gloomy.”

         Luke wondered, for a second, if this was a surprise attack from children of Dionysus. They were agreeing to go through laughter?

         Axel patted Luke’s back again. “You’re a demanding guy. It’s not every day I have a friend ask me to kill them, then follow that by asking me to go to Hell and back for them.”

         A bitter smile slid onto Luke’s lips. “It’s good to keep my troops on their toes. Prepares you for anything.”

         All of them laughed.

         “I have one request,” Jack said. His voice shook with repressed chuckles.

         The other two settled down to listen.

         “Next time we come up here, let’s just talk about girls. We can invent a really hot one for Axel to fancy. It’ll make Lou Ellen and the other girls all jealous when the rumors spread.”

         Luke loved that idea: not just that they could torment the girls crushing on Axel, but that he’d be himself again soon, able to differentiate Kronos’ thoughts from his own. That these days won’t become less and less frequent. That what makes me me won’t dissolve. He tried to force the worry out of his head as he, Jack, and Axel flopped back onto the ground to stargaze.  

Thalia will join, Luke thought. She and Annabeth will see that it’s better to start the world anew, to make a beautiful place where we can all be happy without living under the massive shadow of Olympus.

         Staring out into the brilliant constellations, Luke thought, My friends won’t abandon me again and together we’ll make an unstoppable team.

 ***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned in two weeks for a little novella where Pax and Lou Ellen show why you can’t leave younger siblings unattended.

(Sorry for all the breaks between shorts! Thank you for all of your support throughout my pauses. <3 It really helps to keep me going!)

  [1] False. Author Jack and friends had frequent conversations about who would be willing to murder whom in the event of a zombie apocalypse or entrapped starvation. Author Jack is gangly and would not be good pickings for cannibalism, but would also likely starve first, so frequently oscillates in line for cannibalistic choices.  

[elpisofhope]

Selene, Apollo, Hades/Persephone :p

Selene

Full Name: SeleneGender and Sexuality: Cis girl/Asexual homoromanticPronouns: She/herEthnicity/Species: Titaness of the moonBirthplace and Birthdate: On a mountain close to Othrys, sometime in the winter 480 some years agoGuilty Pleasures: Talking to herself and making mental arguments and getting really into them, she practices talking to people with herself.Phobias: Things changing on her, the future, dyingWhat They Would Be Famous For: Being literally the sweetest girl, next to Hestia, in the entire Shelter, supposedly having skin made of cheese, and most flags found stuck on body (all rumors started by Hermes)What They Would Get Arrested For: OC You Ship Them With: HAPPINESS? A GOOD MARRIAGE?STABILITY? THE STATE OF BEING ALIVE AND WELLOC Most Likely To Murder Them: The main antagonistFavorite Movie/Book Genre: Comedy, drama, and adventureLeast Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Action Talents and/or Powers: Literally able to create balls of light out of her hands, absorbing the sun’s rays and turn them into moonlightWhy Someone Might Love Them: Being a good hand in helping in what she can, a pure kindhearted soul.Why Someone Might Hate Them: She doesn’t know how to speak up and her kindness and stubborn nature can turn rotten rather fast. Bad with communication.How They Change: Breaks apart from her past and learns to become independent while still holding her family loosely together.Why You Love Them: Literally a perfect freckled angel who did nothing wrong. She just wants a happy family and closure wow I would love to give that to her but I don’t think I can. :/

Apollo

The rest is going under a read more this is getting long

Full Name: TECHNICALLY his full name is Apollon but we call him Apollo hereGender and Sexuality:  Cis male/bisexualPronouns: He/himEthnicity/Species: God of archery,plague, music, healing blah blah blahBirthplace and Birthdate: Mount Olympus and idk idcGuilty Pleasures: Feeling people’s bodies to make sure he’s more muscular, pretending he’s performing a concert in front of millions of people who love himPhobias: Being abandoned/alone/not good enough, his oracle powersWhat They Would Be Famous For: Being a jackassWhat They Would Get Arrested For: Being a jackassOC You Ship Them With: HermesOC Most Likely To Murder Them: Hephaestus one dayFavorite Movie/Book Genre: Action and adventure, comedy, anything he can enjoy with Hermes and Artemis Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche:Talents and/or Powers: Pinpoint perfect aim, the ability to heal any wound, cause any disease (he could bring back the black plague if he wanted), play any instrument, perfect pitch, and can actually summon a little bit of lightWhy Someone Might Love Them: If you can dig deep down, like really deep down, like REALLY deep down, LIKE REAAAAAAAAAAALLYYYYYY deep down, he’s a genuine guy who just fears rejection and is a giant dork. He gets attached to things he likes quickly.Why Someone Might Hate Them: JACKASS!!!!!How They Change: He learns to stop being so dependent on what others think of him so much. Why You Love Them:He’s a really complex character with a reason as to why he does everything the way he does. Plus he’s very easy and pretty to draw.

Already did Persephone

Hades

Full Name: Hades, Haides, Aidoneus, but let’s go with HadesGender and Sexuality: Cis male/heterosexual but currently not lookingPronouns: He/himEthnicity/Species: God of the underworld and the riches of itBirthplace and Birthdate: The Palace of Cronus a really long time agoGuilty Pleasures: Abnormally long baths/showers and soap operasPhobias: His kingdom falling around him, claustrophobiaWhat They Would Be Famous For: Being the chillest guy with the grumpiest resting b*tch faceWhat They Would Get Arrested For: Looking at someone funny just because of his faceOC You Ship Them With: No oneOC Most Likely To Murder Them: Who the frick would hurt him he did nothingFavorite Movie/Book Genre: Horror and DramaLeast Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Comedy and drama (yes he hates and loves drama movies)Talents and/or Powers: Turn invisible and hide away from all the haters B/Why Someone Might Love Them: He’s a big softie uncle who just tolerates and accepts. A good ruler who just wants to nap.Why Someone Might Hate Them: He’s literally king of the underworld, they think he’s Satan.How They Change: He didn’t want to share the Underworld with Kore but now he’s okay with her and the Underworld feels cozier with all the flower beds around.Why You Love Them: His face. His face.

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Jack: Silenced II

           When he thought about rolling over to see Flynn making her bed, Jack smiled. Her muscular figure would be silhouetted by the rays of dawn coming through the window, a tan blur against the black obsidian of Camp Othrys.

She walked around in her underwear in the morning. Luke said it was invitation. Jack knew it wasn’t. It was a marker of tested trust, Flynn’s willingness to be vulnerable knowing that Jack wouldn’t make the first move or ogle her. At least, that’s what Prometheus said when Jack brought up his concerns.

But, when Jack rolled over, there was no Camp Othrys, no line of Flynn’s weapons against the wall. His electric bass guitars were gone, as were all of his sketches of the Orpheus Metal band posters. (They were terrible—Pax had made better ones.)

A harp and loom lingered against one cavernous wall. There was a built-in fireplace roaring, providing some respite to the chilly air. The ceiling was crystalline, reflecting purple, emerald, and blue against the white bedding. Someone else’s bedding. It smelled like someone else.

Jack sat up, shoving the feather pillow away. He clutched at his hair, finding that someone must have trimmed it. He choked at the gap in his memory.

They had fought the Romans—an aerial attack against the Princess Andromeda. Jack was snatched by an eagle. Screams. Flynn’s roar of fury. He remembered falling in the water…

The clothing he wore was white, baggy, and cotton, too much like his hospital garb from the first time Steve, his step dad, institutionalized him. This prank has gone too far, Steve had said, angry Jack would dare scare Ashton and Shelby by claiming the walls were screaming. Jack’s skinny jeans and band shirt were gone. What if all of it had been a hallucination: Camp Othrys, the Princess Andromeda, the monsters, the gods.

Jack choked back a sob. This. This wasn’t the hospital. Jack dug his nails into his pockets, the material too thin and delicate to keep him from clawing his legs in a panic. No Mr. Sunny. His pillbox, and all of his medication, was gone. How much time did he have? He knew the withdraw symptoms: vomiting, hypersalivation, diarrhea, diaphoresis, insomnia, agitation, and rapid psychosis.

He had woken in a cold sweat, but a cold sweat didn’t always mean withdraws.

Rapid psychosis. Jack’s heartbeat thudded in his head. This felt real, but everything always felt real—that was the problem. There was a distant song—lovely and eerie, just abstract enough to question its authenticity.

His stomach churned with ignored hunger. A platter with tropical fruits, bread, and a mug of water lay beside him. Jack knew enough about mythology and fairy tales not to eat something unless you were directly invited and only if you knew that the owner of the food wasn’t a witch with powers to trap you eternally.

She must have undressed me. That girl with the caramel braid. Unease squeezed away any hunger: a stranger had taken off his boxers while he slept.

When Jack got to his feet, his legs trembled and his head pounded. He slipped a blanket around his shoulders. As he wandered towards the cave entrance, he passed a shelf filled with dried and drying plants that smelled of Alabaster’s laboratory. Several ancient tomes lined a desk beside it. One was open to a page illustrating human anatomy with words in… Minoan, if Jack had to guess. Some of the titans at Camp Othrys wrote in the dead language. Jack turned the page and flinched. There was an inked sketch of him, sleeping. He turned the page back.

Was it him? Or had his brain filled in the gaps?

It’s starting. Monsters. He was going to start to see and hear monsters again. Not the real ones. Not the friendly ones on his ship. Not the ones that came to his monster seminars about how demigods were friends, not food. Innocuous, innocent things would become sinister and comfort would lilt to paranoia.

         But there were no monsters outside the cave. Just her.

         The sun’s amber and coral hues broke against the ocean’s horizon, bleeding into the water and clouds to unite them into zigzagging, heavenly passageways. Crepuscular rays danced through their holes, making this girl’s hair glow as though one more constant in the coming of dawn. She stood, singing, at the edge of a beach. Her bare feet made lumps in the sand, compounding with each flush of the tide; if she forgot herself for long enough, the earth would reclaim her.

         Jack swallowed. In the oncoming lighting, he could see the silhouettes of flowers—so many flowers. There was a maze of roses, larkspur, delphinium, lilies, hollyhock, and sunflowers, all reaching towards the sky and curling about with a careless grace that looked both wild and tamed in their pattern. Some whisper cooed that these flowers didn’t belong together, making Jack fear they’d bow and bury him if he dared to walk through.

         But he needed to walk through to get to the beach, to follow the siren call. He hesitantly passed the first rose bush, expecting it to jump into Alice in Wonderland levels of criticism.

         “Jack!”

         The call made him jump away from the roses. After an exhale, he realized it was the girl, not chatty flora. He rushed past the rest of the flowers.

         “You’re already up,” she said when he reached her. The comment sounded more surprised than the disappointment he’d detected last time. Her white, sleeveless dress and braid fluttered in an ocean breeze. The effect made Jack’s blanket feel like an epic cloak.

         He gestured to his clothing and back towards the cave. “Thank you for the hospitality, Ms…” He trailed off, frowning. His throat felt worn. He’d have to do his warm up exercises. At least there was plenty of salt water to gargle. “How did you know my name?”

         “Ms?” she echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Oh,” she giggled, “You talk in your sleep.”

         Jack didn’t—or no one ever said he had before. Pax (and Axel under the guise of worrying over Pax) had slept in his room when they’d had particularly bad nightmares. That sounded like something Pax would abuse, even subconsciously, and would result in Flynn taping both their mouths shut.  Morpheus liked to keep a strict record of who talked in their sleep, so he could play with demigods that slept through Alabaster’s lectures.

         Jack swallowed. “Um, Ms., I hate to be a bother, but I had a pill box in my pocket—”

         “I disposed of it. I don’t allow plastics on my island and the contents had been soiled by the ocean.”

         Jack choked. That was the first gift Flynn gave Jack—the first time he realized all his ballads, poems, and offers to carry her books hadn’t just annoyed her. She and Phil had been teaching him to carry it on his own, a marker of independence that made him proud, even if Flynn double checked every hour to assure he hadn’t overdosed on anything. Most people didn’t trust him with important things, but she and Phil were entrusting him with that.

         “You won’t need them here. Ogygia itself can soothe you—”

         Trembles shook from Jack’s core to his fingertips. “Ogygia,” he whispered, taking a step backwards. The beautiful horizon tilted. His hair felt course as he tugged at it. “You’re—you’re Calypso the Seductress, detainer of men—”

         Before the words left his mouth, he turned to flee. The sand slipped under his bare feet. The blanket tumbled from his shoulders, disappearing with the sight of that horizon. Jack ran towards the retreating darkness of the island, away from the sunlight that sparkled in that glowing hair.

Others at camp found Homer and Hesiod’s work boring, but he’d put the Odyssey to proper music and knew most verses. He knew of this nymph-goddess.

Each step made Jack’s body feel leaden. His panic numbed with an encroaching exhaustion. He shouldn’t be this tired—he knew his body. He healed fast. This weakness—how could she—did she—?

Jack’s legs failed him while racing through the gardens. Rose canes loomed over him and curled around in a canopy of thorns. In their sharp and cloy embrace, consciousness hazed to nightmares.[1]

 ***

Pain pinched Jack’s cheek. He jerked away, expecting to see Pax with a super glue tube and fake mustache to make Jack “look more esteemed.” That prank had not gone well. Turns out, Flynn did not like Jack with a Western train-robber look and she did not like how the fake black hairs tickled when he nuzzled her.

Instead of Pax, he saw Calypso with a small bandage that she must have ripped off his face. There was a tiny, brownish-red scab on the other side.

Jack sat up and jerked back from her. They were back in the cavern, on the mattress made of white fluffiness. She had a basket of tiny bandages at her side.

“Calypso the—”

“Don’t.” She placed her hands on her hips, glaring. Considering how she knelt beside him, her regale stature was impressive. “I get messages from the gods, you know. They call you Jak-Jak the Scourge of New Rome, Jak-Jak the Plague Bringer, Jak-Jak the Corrupted Spawn of Apollo. Need I go one? Shall I assume you’re here to plague me? To give me cancerous sores? Shall I make assumptions of your person off hearsay, like you have done with me? How long ago did Homer and Hesiod write that libel about Odysseus?”

Her eyes watered.

Jack frowned. Had his name really traveled that far?

A tear streaked down her perfect cheek: a raindrop down the smoothness of a statue. Rumor had it that Pax could cry on command. What if she could too?

Or, what if she was a good Samaritan helping out, decried, like many women had been, by the histories written by men?

Jack exhaled, telling himself to relax. He tried counting, the way Axel told him to when he got confused. Axel would be furious at him for this kind of assumption, for upsetting a mythological creature based off hearsay. There were lots of fabled monsters at Camp Othrys that were friendly (when well fed. Jack had to make rules about demigods being in the dining hall during monster feed time).

“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Calypso,” he said, looking down at his hands. There were more little bandages tapped across his forearms. From a quick examination of his skin, the thorn pricks had already healed and scarred over. The base guitar chord was still braided in a bracelet around his wrist. He touched the scars there, finding ridges where he’d healed Lucille and Lou Ellen’s skin by peeling off his own. That new kid, Ethan Naka—something, had joked that Jack’s arms would start to match Flynn’s burned face. Jack gave him a case of chicken pox for that. No one was allowed to talk about Flynn’s face, except Flynn herself and their son, Pax. Pax, only because he was a sweet little munchin and the only person other than Jack that could make Flynn blush.

Calypso gently touched his chin. Jack didn’t flinch back this time. “It is alright.” And, she ripped off another bandage. Some hair came away with it, making Jack wince.

Everything seemed… clearer. Sharper than it had in years. His thoughts raced with a hyper clarity that scared him. “What else was wrong from the myth?” he asked, observing the cavern in a new light. The cool breeze that rustled the white curtains was refreshing, intermixing the gentle sweetness of flowers with the herbs in her cabinet. He frowned at the tomes there. Had he imagined the drawing of him?

She dabbed a cool, wet cloth against his stinging skin. Sadness lined her eyes. She hesitated. “I don’t know what you know of this place, brave one. The island is a phantom island, my imprisonment for helping my father in the first Titan War. Time does not have the same meaning here as it does elsewhere.”

Jack glanced past her, to the roaring fire in the wall’s inset fireplace. There was a pot over the flames, boiling furiously. He swallowed, despite her earlier assurance. “You’re not going to… eat me, are you?”

“Eat you, my sweet?” Her eyes seemed to dance.

“Well, that response reaffirmed every fairytale fear that I had.”

Her laugh was melodious. She must have thought that had been a joke. It was not. “I’m afraid we mostly eat vegetables and fish here. There’s a scarcity of cannibalism on the island.”

Jack nodded, somewhat comforted. That hadn’t been in the original tale, but you never knew with Greek mythology. He didn’t want to be rude (again) but, if this was the Calypso, he had an important question. “How do I get off the island?”

“Jack, a terrible fate awaits you off the island. I cannot, in good consciousness, allow you to leave until you are healed, well-rested, and well.” She gestured to his lanky frame.

Once again, Jack considered pointing out that this was his natural state of stick-figure Jackness. He let the offense slide. In the Odyssey, she said something similar to Odysseus. Staying here would worry Flynn, Luke, and the boys, but he had no way off the island unless he lucked into some abandoned boat or cartoon-barrel. In the Odyssey, Calypso gave Odysseus a bronze axe so he could build his own raft. Jack doubted he could lift an axe over his head without falling backwards let alone build a raft with it. Greeks were master ship-builders. Jack was a master builder of group-therapy sessions for monster support, metal bands, and stories to make Luke, Flynn, and his boys smile.

Besides, Calypso helped Odysseus only after she held him captive for seven years and he provided her a son (or several, depending on the author). There were no sons on the island, unless they were hiding in the cartoon-barrels. Maybe the ancient authors truly had discredited her.

“I can stay,” he said hesitantly, “but only for a few days. Flynn, Luke, and my boys need me.”

Calypso’s lips pursed and her gaze softened, making her look both relieved and troubled. She glanced away. “You’re so young to have children.”

“Oh, we adopted.” Jack beamed. “Luke says they’re too close in age to be my sons, and Axel says I’m not allowed to both be the head of our metal band and his father, but they’ve taken well to it. They haven’t started calling me dad yet, but I’ll work them over.”

Calypso looked confused. “Metal band?” she repeated.

Jack leaned forward excitedly. “We already played once at the HMM—a bar for monsters—er—a tavern.” He scrambled to find words that would translate to ones she would recognize. “The crowd loved us. Clops threw a goat at us!”

“A goat?”

“Yeah! A goat’s this four-legged—” Jack fumbled, realizing that’s not the part that confused her. She repressed a smile at the pause. “It’s a really big deal to have a monster throw a goat at you instead of trying to eat it. Kind of like when people throw their underwear at the stage and about as sanitary. Much lighter impact.”

“What?!” Her face scrunched in disgust. The expression was almost cute. It put Jack at ease. This was the first time he felt like she wasn’t acting or hiding anything. “People have thrown their underwear at you while you’re performing? Is that… normal?”

Jack considered this. “I don’t really know. It never happened to me when I did solos in the church choir—” Well, once after service but that was a little different. One of those instances where the boy denied it happened the next day. “—but Pax—one of my sons—talks about it like it’s a marker of success. I think they’re mostly thrown at Axel. He’s a handsome boy and a hearthrob amongst demigod and monster alike. Plus, he’s the guitarist, and the angsty one, and people always love angsty guitar players.”

The look of confusion deepened. Jack absently tugged a lock of his hair, wishing it was a little longer. “It’s like a lute—oh, wait, that was 13th century. Uh, it’s a fretted stringed instrument—anywhere from four to nine strings though standard is six, and you play it by plucking or strumming with one hand while fretting with the other—or picking. Or bapping the body. Uh—how about I make you one? All I need is a box, a longish piece of wood, some sticks, and some of your uncut harp strings.”

I can make an instrument, but can’t make a boat. Not for the first time, Jack wondered why Luke and Flynn wanted to keep him around. He managed to use his powers to save Axel, Pax, and Alabaster (though, really, he thought it was mostly Flynn. She was so incredible). But he still didn’t feel like he was great at the killing department, regardless of Phil’s continuous encouragement. Even during the interrogations he and Flynn had been conducting on Romans, he flinched and shrieked when someone’s finger was broken. Despite all this time, he hoped Flynn and Luke found him useful.

Calypso nodded slowly. “Will you teach me how to play?”

Jack nodded enthusiastically. “The positioning might seem weird, but you’ll pick it up easily. From what I’ve heard of your singing and harp-playing, you have perfect pitch and a natural grasp on music—”

She tucked a lock behind her ear. “You like my singing?”

He tilted his head quizzically. “Of course. You’re incredibly talented, both naturally with your voice quality and the amount of work you’ve put into perfecting your craft.” Jack supposed that’s what he’d do, too, if he had an eternity to work on anything. An eternity of music—the foundations for paradise. Maybe that’s why God is said to have a choir of angels and how he crafted souls: by singing them to life. “Each word you sing weaves a secondary layer of emotion—both melodious and melancholic, interweaving multiple stories into—” He frowned, feeling his explanation lacked poetic value—ah!

“’Tis sweet, when mournfulness enshrouds

The spirit sorrowing and pale,

And gather round the angry clouds,

To take the harp and tune its wail.

‘Tis sweet, when calmly broods the night,

To wander forth where waters roll,

And, mingling with the waves its voice,

To rouse the passions of the soul!”

When Jack was done, she stared at him, her eyes wide and her expression unreadable. He frowned. “I—sorry—” he said, his insides churning. Had he done something wrong? He didn’t feel confused right now. The world felt so much clearer. An uncomfortable dread settled into him upon realizing something for the first time: not everyone burst into poetry at random. How stupid had he been to not know that before?

“No.” She put a hand on his. Her eyes watered. “I—that was beautiful. Did you—”

Jack blushed and pulled his hand back. “No. It’s by John Rollin Ridge, a famous Native American poet. I was just reciting.”

She cleared her throat and looked away. “I—let’s get you a box. I wish to hear this guitar of which you speak.”

 ***

Normally, Jack felt such mania for whatever project he focused on, everything else fell in the background. As he twisted the tuning pegs of his guitar (sabotaged off Calypso’s extra harp) his mind scattered with worry.

This newfound clarity was almost overwhelming. There was so much wrong in the world for him to mull over. Each time he stopped singing, it hovered on its peripheral, like a night terror lurking along the receding rays of the sun.    

Between each question from Calypso—she enjoyed hearing updates from the outside world—he’d hum or sing the ballads he’d composed about Flynn’s ventures. Calypso would pause her work on the strings and stare at him with that unreadable expression.  

After she finished with the sixth string—winding them of her hair—she sat closer to him. They worked in the shade, where the woods met the beach. Some distant whisper warned Jack that more time had passed than the evening angle of the sun, but he couldn’t be sure. The sun was all he had to go off of, and he wasn’t used to the awareness of passing time. Normally, Jack felt the passage of existence through the crystal notes of a song, the annoyed flash of Flynn’s smile, Pax’s giggle, or the upwell of elation at the end of monster help session, measuring life in crescendos and decrescendos of energy and joy. Jack didn’t like wanting to look at a clock, especially now that there were none. That was always someone else’s job.

“Why did you adopt children?” Calypso asked it with the practiced calm of an over-thought question.

“Flynn can’t have children.” Jack had to be gentler with these strings than the metal ones from home. He wondered how their sound would differ, and hoped it would ease the 2,000—4,000 year transition in music for Calypso.

“She’s barren?”

“So says the goddess of childbirth.”

“And this doesn’t bother you?”

Another reason Jack couldn’t stay long: it was almost the weekend before he vanished and he and Flynn would need to go to her Nainia’s apartment to sing to her, as they did every Sunday. The kind grandmother’s health was failing and Jack knew they needed to visit more often. “Why should it?” Jack frowned, repeating the question in his head. “Well, it did when I first found out. I wanted a family. Then, I adopted[2] the boys, and now we have one. And, it wouldn’t matter even if she could. We’re not… physical. Recently, we started curling up without clothing, but nothing else. Just snuggles.”

Jack felt his cheeks flush, both at the memory of Flynn snuggled up in his bunk (she never let him near hers; she wanted a place of her own) and that he’d told Calypso about it. Was that something else people didn’t normally blurt out? To Luke or Phil? Sure. To Calypso the Seductress, the Detainer of Men…

Her cheeks rouged. Shame crept along his awareness. You weren’t supposed to blurt stuff like that. Negative two on the Jack social protocol scoreboard.

“Oh… um… But you’ve already adopted—have you two not been married long?” She struggled to maintain eye contact.

Something pinched in Jack’s chest. “Um… she’s not really into the idea of marriage, but we’ve been dating for…” With no clocks on the island, he didn’t know how many days he had been unconscious. Normally, Jack could recite the length of time down to the minute. The thought of Flynn’s blush when he asked her to prom. The day before he met Luke. The day Jack accidentally killed his whole mortal family with a song.

That memory hadn’t resurfaced in so long, not since he was sobbing into Flynn’s arms over it. How could he banish it from his thoughts? It wasn’t like the thoughts of his half-siblings he killed—the other children of Apollo. No. They deserved it. They had reaped the favor of their father since birth. The cessation of that favoritism brought the world back to order, the way things should be to balance the scale that an unfair god created, like correctly a flat note to perfect harmony. But his family… Had he ever even had a funeral? And did it matter?

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Calypso asked.

The funeral part did bother Jack. It took him a moment to retrace the pieces, sliding his fingers along the guitar string. Flynn. Sex. Marriage.

Flynn would puppet and charmspeak boys into their room to humiliate and toy with them, but, she wouldn’t take Jack. Jack never wanted to pressure her, but icy insecurity crawled through him at the thought. What was wrong with him? It didn’t matter that Prometheus said Jack and Flynn viewed sex differently: Jack, as an expression of love; Flynn, as subjugation. Jack didn’t understand that. All he wanted was to be everything Flynn needed, and he didn’t understand why she could puppet others but wouldn’t puppet him. If that’s what she wanted—

         The string snapped and lashed him across the cheek.

         He shrieked and jerked backwards. Blood trickled down his skin. A full string wasted—an instrument piece dying before it could sing its first song.

         Something cool touched his face. Humming filled his ears. The lashed skin tingled and Jack wondered if this is how others felt when he healed them.

         When Jack blinked to clear his vision, Calypso knelt beside him. Her too-perfect face rested in a gentle, knowing smile. The strap of her white dress slid onto her shoulder, tickled by the length of the braid. For the first time, she looked like the goddess of the island—something about the subtle shift in confidence.

         Jack flinched when he felt her spider fingers in his hair. She must have put them there to hold him steady for a cheek-cleaning. “You ran from me when you first found out who I was. Do you—did you really think I could make you forget Flynn?” The question could have been rhetorical, but there was enough real curiosity to make Jack tremble.  

Fear coiled his confidence, the same fear present when Luke lost himself to Kronos or his anger. If Calypso lost her temper…

         “Odysseus never forgot Penelope,” Jack whispered, “So the stories say.”  

Could that fear come from the possibility of forgetting Flynn? Do people only experience fear when they’re experiencing doubt or uncertainty?

At the watery glisten of her beautiful almond eyes, an idea made Jack sit up and almost clock foreheads with her. She startled at the sudden movement. “And you never forgot Odysseus!” Jack cried. “Calypso, do you always fall for the people on your island?”

Calypso hesitated. A tear broke from the dam along her eyelashes. “I… I try not to say anything when travelers first come…”

“Have you heard of platonic love?”

Her brow furrowed. Her melancholy faltered to confusion. “Platonic? You mean… relating to Plato? Or the idea that abstract objects are objective, timeless, and are non-physical and non-mental?”

Jack would need to ask Alabaster about that later. “Uh—well, I want to be your friend. You’re really nice, but you don’t need to fall in love with everyone you meet, or at least not romantic love. Let’s be friends! I mean—have you ever heard of a rebound?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you ever fully moved on from Odysseus. So, we should talk about him. Tell me what you loved and hated about him and why you fell for him in the first place.”

Calypso’s expression darkened. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Exactly! You never forgave him for hurting you or yourself for loving him. Both are still hurting you. So, let me be your friend. Let me help you get over him without being a replacement for him. And, after this war is over, we can still be friends! Either we decapitate Zeus and his lackeys and his power no long holds you to the island, or we can keep in touch. I know the myths say I can’t come back twice, but I’ll bet I can Iris Message you. I mean, you have rainbows and Iris can go anywhere rainbows can.”

Her lips cracked to protest. Upon considering his words, she stared off at the coastline. “No one has thought of that before.”

Jack beamed. The fear was gone. He shoved a hand between the two of them (awkward due to the close quarters). “Let’s shake on it?”

Calypso glanced from Jack’s hand back to his face. Curiosity perched her lips. “You’re… one of the oddest men I’ve ever met, Jack Flash.”

Jack blushed. “I get that a lot.”

Cautiously, she shook his hand.

At the time, Jack didn’t think to make her swear on the River Styx.

He should have.

 ***

author’s note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This series is going to continue! I’ve just been struggling to focus on writing with some crazy stuff going on at home. ^.^’‘‘‘ Thanks for your patience and continued support!

 Footnotes:

[1] So, Homer’s Ogygia is as Riordan described it. I needed to at least alter the flowers so Jack wouldn’t immediately recognize where he was. Also, flowers for symbolism because I’m a tool.  

 [2] I kept accidentally writing, “kidnapped” here. Not too far off.

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

This story comes soon after the Roman ambush on Alabaster’s laboratory. After the Pax brothers and Alabaster defend the lab until reinforcements show up, the question hangs in the air: who revealed the location of Alabaster’s lab? The Spy Master is assigned to find out or, at least, find a scapegoat.

 Mercedes: Interrogation Letdown

           If you asked Mercedes, she would say that she didn’t drink coffee. Her hijab always smelled of the robust aroma, one that wafted memories of her mother, of her mother’s lips as they pressed Mercedes’s forehead in a morning goodbye. Another day of work. Another disposable cup of coffee. Another hour to torment her brothers as Mercedes corralled them ready for school.

         There were few personal items in her Camp Othrys cabin, but two of her most valuable were a rug (for when she went to “tend to the Hecate garden” in the chapel) and a small French press.

         Few were awake early enough to witness her trek from Fajr prayer to the Spy Wing. There, she dumped some coffee beans and hot water into the glass container. After capping it, she would lean over the golden lid to inhale the fumes. Normally, the French press, accompanying mug, and coffee were all cleaned and away before anyone came in.

         Today, she set her coffee mug in the center of the interrogation table. Steam curled up between her and Pax. She tapped her pen against her Othrys notebook. She hoped her irritation was prominent enough to cover up her worry. Pax didn’t need to know she was worried about him. It would get into his head, inflate it, and he’d become the next astronaut to circumnavigate the world and her anger.

         This silence was one of her and Pax’s many games: invite him into the spy wing, give him no clear instructions, then ignore him for thirty minutes. At the end of his twitching, squirming, and sprawling across the table, she would ask him which three suspicious activities she had done. She would ask for the exact timestamp for each.

There weren’t always three. Sometimes there were none. Sometimes there were eleven. She wanted him to question her authority, and she wanted him to use his brain, something many people found abhorrent, she knew. At least Pax could be bribed into it.

         Today was not one of those exercises. However, she didn’t correct his assumption that it was. She enjoyed his rapt attention and silence.

         At the top of the page, as she did in every page of this notebook, she scrawled, “To me, death is nothing but happiness, and living under tyrants nothing but living in a hell” and “The end justifies the means.”

         Pax, as suspected, broke first. “Are you going to drink that?”

         “No,” she said, “It’s there for the aesthetic.”

As per usual, Pax couldn’t tell if she was serious or sarcastic. That’s exactly where she liked him. His face scrunched up in his I’m Over-Thinking expression. Mercedes loved it. Pax’s unending chatter put her at ease. Ever since he went to Tartarus, his liar’s tells had become obvious. If she waited long enough, he’d rat himself out.

That’s why she left Pax’s interview for the end. He was uncomplicated and comforting after the morning’s slog.

Underneath her paper’s quotes, she wrote, Suspects.

“Did you decide it wise to tell someone about Alabaster’s super secret layer before its defenses were activated?” With others, she couldn’t be so direct. With Pax? If he thought he was at fault, he would crumble to guilt.

Instead of falling apart, he fell onto the table. The coffee mug jerked, the brown liquid sloshing against the white, ceramic sides. She forced herself not to grab for it, to maintain her composure as cool and collected.

“Oh! Mercedes! Do I have to answer more questions about this?” He peaked at her through his fingers, his amber and black eyes glistening. “Axel and I didn’t know the location until we got there! We were just told we’d be Alabaster’s pack mules for the day and we’d do less of a half-assed job that the empousas would.”

From the information she’d collected, this was correct. Mostly. Alabaster verified it: he hadn’t told the Pax brothers anything until moving day.

However, Axel, after several rounds of questioning and clearing his throat, admitted that Alabaster had given him a rough approximation about the plans and location. This either meant Alabaster was willing to lie for one of his “meat shields” or that he had forgotten that detail. Alabaster had come to their interview with a stack of papers meticulously chronicling each time he’d mentioned the lab project over the last three months. If he had forgotten, Mercedes was a Zeus fangirl.

Mercedes had checked his records and found that Alabaster had altered them. He probably thought she wouldn’t notice, but….

But Mercedes knew Alabaster. She knew all of them. It was her job. She knew that Alabaster rubbed the upper left corner of pages when he was thinking. Several pages from his records had unmarred corners. The penmanship was sloppier on those pages. (He forgot to dot an “i;” an atrocity in Alabster’s book of How to be a Hard Ass.) The margins were five millimeters wider than the other pages, something he would balk as being a behemoth waste of space. He likely rewrote those pages, omitting that he told Axel anything. And he thought he adjustments were small enough that she’d overlook them.

From Pax’s reaction, neither Axel nor Alabaster had told him.

“Pax Two, you’re—”

“I know, I know.” He sighed, slumping back into his chair. “I’m excreting salacious facial sweat onto your interrogation table.”

She forced her lips not to twitch. “Sebaceous,” she corrected and immediately regretted it. It brought her joy to envision adult Pax on a CSI crime scene, taking fingerprint samples and discussing how “salacious” or “lustful” the evidence was to the appall of all of his coworkers, all left to theorize about his sex life.

Mercedes was always pleasantly surprised by how carefully Pax listened to her and remembered what she said, even if he did mispronounce a word way out of their grade’s reading level.

“How did you detect the Romans?” she asked. Part of her wanted to be proud of him: he was her trainee, after all and he thwarted the Romans with his snooping.

“One of them shot Sphinx.” The playfulness was gone. He stared at the coffee mug’s rising steam.

Mercedes set the pencil down. Her instincts said to touch his hand or give him a hug.

Impartial, she reminded herself, tracing quotes in her notebook. I’m supposed to remain impartial. Not to think about Lou Ellen crying when she went to the lab, where Sphinx used to live. Not to notice Pax shamefully avoid his best friend’s gaze, horrified Lou Ellen might blame him for not saving Sphinx.

I’m as impartial as a campaign poster.

Mercedes often caught herself daydreaming about ending this war without any deaths. This was the problem with being a spymaster: you had friends on both sides of the war. Little divided you other than a sense of loyalty or cultish idealism. When most Romans defected from Camp Jupiter, they left everything and everyone. But, Mercedes was the spymaster. She needed contacts. She could never truly leave either camp.

No one had won this fight, though New Rome definitely lost. Alabaster no longer had his lab, half-a-decade’s worth of priceless magical artifacts, and one of his spell books. The full death toll wasn’t in on the Roman side, but they had lost a lot of people. Mercedes still needed to verify the death of their prisoner. Rumor said that he had consumed a suicide pill during Jack and Flynn’s “questioning.” Lucille and Mercedes normally did the interrogation. They kept the interrogation humane. Jack and Flynn didn’t.

Mercedes shivered. She didn’t like Flynn and Jack doing interrogations. She didn’t like that Jack’s mind was waning alongside Luke’s.

On top of that, rumors swept the Roman legion of a new monster, this creature that had awaited the legionnaires in the Mist of the Witch’s Layer. No doubt, this was a rumor started to preserve some soldier’s honor, to make the Pax brothers and Alabaster seem an insurmountable foe instead of three panicked kids. From the way Pax retold the story now, he had no idea about the impression they had made.

Pax was retelling the events—enumerating the soldiers, recalling their location, their armament, their words—when he choked. “I couldn’t kill her, Mercedes. Is that bad?” He puffed up his cheeks and popped them. His eyes were glassy. He had been talking about a soldier that he’d caught in a noose. “Good thing to know I’ll always go for the high five. I’ll never leave you hanging there.” The last words broke with a hiccupped sob.

Impartial. You’re impartial.

Mercedes gripped the handle of the mug. The warmth was fading from the ceramic. She lifted it. What was left of the heat and the scent of tangy undertones—she exhaled, shuddering. How would she get through this talk without hugging Pax?

He shouldn’t have been at this fight. He ought to have been failing out of middle school. Really, he ought to be playing with a pegasus at Camp Half-Blood. She tried not to consider how their relationship would differ if he was.

She set the mug back on the center of the table. “No. A propensity for murder isn’t a skill I value and… and the availability of a compassionate heart is a rare delicacy on this ship, despite what Luke and Kronos preach.”

Pax’s watery eyes went wide. He sniffled. His gaze shot around the room before resting back on her. “You don’t like Luke very much, do you?”

Mercedes scowled. “That is a dangerous accusation, Pax Two. I feel for him the same way I feel for my father.”

Irresponsible. Power-mad.

Luke had made her exchange her fear of one monster for another.

She did not always see eye-to-eye with Axel; she’d been to one of his cage matches and was unfond of the sensationalized violence he so easily exhumed. However, she’d never been more relieved than the day he stood between Annabeth—a bound and gagged, thirteen-year-old girl—and her would-be molester. That changed her mind about Luke forever.

This was not a conversation to have aboard the ship.

“I made you something,” the words exploded from Pax. It startled Mercedes and reminded her of the time that Pax smuggled thirty containers of pudding from the cafeteria in Matthias’ spandex boxers. The seams ripped, much like Pax had sputtered these words: clumsy and a little too excited to escape.

Trust Pax to easily dodge a conversation and to make you think about someone’s underpants.

He withdrew something from his jacket pocket. A bulge had inhabited that it since he’d returned from Tartarus, though she’d assumed it was some kind of safety blanket. Knowing Pax, it could have been a preserved piece of skin that hadn’t properly reattached to Lou Ellen’s hand.

When he unfolded the brown silk, Mercedes stopped breathing. While scrunched up and crinkled, the embroidery was still beautiful: all pink and gold thread. It swirled in an elegant floral pattern along the square’s edges. He made this?

“And—I—I made you a magnet pin to hold it together so you don’t need to be worried about piercing the material…”

When he fumbled in his pocket again, Mercedes could feel her lip trembling. Before he looked up, she shut her jaw and dabbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. By the time he had set the items on the table, she managed her expression into a neutral one. She added Practice Facial Expressions to her list of spy exercises for his training. Vitally important if he ever had the karma of training a mini-him later down the road.

“I made a different one and ruined it when I practiced pinning it. Can you show me how to put one on right? The fabric slides and goes everywhere so I can’t test it properly. You won’t tell us when your birthday is, and I’ve been wanting to make you one for awhile, and this is one of the many things I wanted to do to make it up to you...”

His voice trailed off. Although he tried to keep his eyes sheepishly on the table, they kept flicking up to check her reaction. His information cataloguing demeanor was so obvious: wide-eyed excitement, the hint of a smile curling his lip, a slight lean forward.

Mercedes couldn’t keep her hand from shaking when she reached for the fabric and magnets. He would notice the weakness; she had taught him to notice.

Both sides of the magnets were decorated, one a subtle brown that matched the hijab and another with bold gold and pink paint to match the embroidery, presumably to either blend or use as an accessory. Both were coated in a smooth gloss, likely for comfort. From what she could see, there was no trick or prank attached. Just a small, thinner section, where he must have fiddled with the fabric when talking to her.

This was one of the nicest things someone had done for her since she got to Camp Othrys.

His words echoed in her head. I wanted to make it up to you. To make up for lying and going to Tartarus.

         “This is an acceptable start, Pax Two,” she said, “This does not mean you’ve dissuaded my wrath. Continue to grovel and do not expect any items in return.” If he thought she was mad, he was less likely to do something so stupid again. Mercedes almost swore. Technically, Pax was younger than her, even if by less than a year. She ought to give him something, even if it was a few pennies, for Eid al-Fitr. He better not look at that as an apology acceptance.

         Pax’s conniving smile broke into a goofy grin. “Gifts are not gifts if you’re expecting something in return.” He sounded like he was quoting a childhood mantra, adding in a little jingle.

         “Then they’re transaction pieces,” she agreed absently. Mercedes folded the fabric and attached the magnet to assure she didn’t lose it. She shoved the gift out of sight, under the table. If she looked at it for too long, he’d catch her smiling. She was furious that some part of her wanted to be somewhere private, so she could examine the embroidery in detail.

         She began again, “The investigation—”

         Pax whined and sank right back onto the table.

         Mercedes waited until he quieted his whining. “Did you notice anything suspicious? Oh competent assistant of mine? Or were you too busy examining Alabaster’s assets.” She flipped her notebook to a previous page, one with two columns of names that were subdivided into tables. “This is my list of people who found out or were told. Who would you find most suspicious? Who do you think can’t keep a secret and to whom would they relieve the secret’s burden?”

         She read it aloud from a second copy before he could point out that he couldn’t read:

 Involved in the planning process: Alabaster, Matthias, Lou Ellen, Hecate, Prometheus.

Involved in construction: Matthias, Alabaster, a rotation of blind-folded minions under Matthias (see back)

Knew the location: Alabaster, Matthias

Found out the location: Flynn, Jack, Luke/Kronos, Phil, Pax One, Pax Two, Mercedes, Morpheus

Two days of constant interviews had taken its toll. Tension clenched her jaw, something she didn’t notice until Paxton forced her to relax. Had she had water since before Wudu? Her mouth felt dry.

         Paxton began to babble, “Matthias is a great secret keeper. I still don’t know how he shaved an underwear pattern into Phil’s—”

“Pax Two.” She meant to stop him from going off on a tangent. He took it as an accusation.

“Who, me? I’m a huge security flaw.” He gave her a sly smile. “I tell you everything.”

“That’s amply evident.” Since his return from Tartarus, he felt the need to tell her each time his color switched from green to transparent.

Pax tapped the lower part of the paper. “You forgot the centaurs. They didn’t know until we got there, but they did find out.”

Mercedes applauded this observation with silence. This would indicate that she had not forgotten the centaurs, but wanted to know if he would. This type of testing was so customary to Pax that he continued unhindered.

“Oh! And that sun god—the old one? Hecate’s friend that can see everything under the sun, like Greek Santa. How come he gets the privilege of being Greek Santa but the sky god doesn’t? If I were Zeus, I would want some those powers re-sorted

         “Helios,” Mercedes said. She had forgotten him. Rumors of his power (near-forgotten at the likes of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter) were rampant in the Othrys ranks. Helios sometimes claimed his powers didn’t work because he didn’t have the sun chariot, but she would need to be sure. Mercedes sat very still. Would she need to interview another titan? One she did not want to see?

         “You forgot about him.” Pax sounded cheery.

         Slowly, Mercedes nodded. “I had. This is why it’s good to keep parasites around. Sometimes they keep things in their digestive systems longer than the host. Or, maybe, sometimes hosts need partners more than parasites.”

         Elevating Pax’s position—that was a conversation for another day.

         Mercedes felt sick. She wanted to accuse a friend of espionage as much as she wanted to volunteer them for an interactive presentation on degloving. No one had given her much to work with, but most didn’t fit the bill.

Matthias had gone in rambling circles during his interrogation. The main thing saving him? He was too clever and resourceful. Had he wanted to capture the three boys in a building that he had designed, there would have been an attack of chloroform-coated underwear automatons.

Prometheus, likewise, would not have been so sloppy. He, as he admitted, would have gassed the boys or poisoned them.

Alabaster and Lou Ellen suspected Lamia. Apparently it would be easy for such a powerful witch to locate the magical objects transported there. Mercedes had Lamia on a different suspect list.

Luke, in his ever-increasing paranoia, thought it was Alabaster who set himself up. A charming disposition to cover up Luke’s insecurities, but Mercedes knew that Alabaster had no use for subterfuge. His family made up a third of the army. If he wanted, he could have the Princess Andromeda make port in San Pedro Bay with a Welcome Legions of Rome! sign.

That left an option Pax should have pointed out but never would.

Axel.

He was close to all the right people: Luke (formerly. Mercedes blamed their falling out on a lack of shared interest. Axel didn’t have the propensity for pedophilia and domestic abuse that Luke had), Alabaster, Jack and Flynn, and, of course, Pax. By being close to Pax, he was close to Mercedes and all of Mercedes’ documents. He was one of the only souls aboard the ship not pledged to Kronos—incapable since he was full-blooded Maya.

There was no point in interviewing Flynn. Flynn could tell Mercedes that she was innocent; with her charmspeak, Mercedes would believe her. Any argument against Flynn would have to be cautiously researched, compiled, and brought to Lucille, Prometheus, and Luke in full secrecy.

For that matter, Lucille could be a good option, but there seemed no reason: she was happily courting Ethel and had taken Charlie on as her own daughter. She didn’t feel right… Although, Mercedes guessed Silena Beauregard wouldn’t feel right as a spy for Camp Half-Blood, and Silena had been cheating on Beckendorf and getting campers killed for at least two years now. Having children of Aphrodite around was always dicey. Thank god the Roman editions weren’t as powerful.

Although it was unwise to be too close to anyone with Mercedes’ job, she wouldn’t want to accuse Lucille without hard evidence. Lucille made sure no one bothered Mercedes about her hijab, just as Mercedes assured that no one bothered Lucille about her relationships with women.

Mercedes watched Pax’s gaze flicker over the symbols on the paper, pretending to read them.

She didn’t think Pax would accuse his half-brother or his surrogate mother, even if those were the most logical conclusions.

Pax set the paper down. His rounded cheeks puffed into a frown. Insecurity wrinkled the edges of his eyes as they gazed intently into hers.

Mercedes took in a deep breath. Would he?

“Mercedes,” he said, sounding grave, “I’m thinking about having my first kiss—well, my real first kiss.”

“Ya Allah, save us from the sins and hellfire,” Mercedes mumbled, exhaling. The tension eased out of her muscles as she restrained a laugh.

“I’m thinking about Alabaster, though Lou Ellen says he might not be ready yet. But, that’s like saying she shouldn’t try to make a move on my brother during our victory dance party, and she should totally make a move on my brother.”

As he spoke, Mercedes collected the list of suspicious names, tucked it into her flip notebook, and closed it. She rose, took her cup of cold coffee, and dumped it down a sink along one wall. As the brown liquid splattered against the white porcelain, she sent a mental prayer of safety for her mother, brothers, and friends back at home.

No one seemed to realize she eavesdropped on her comrades as much as she spied on her enemies. If there was one thing she knew, Alabaster was not ready for intimacy, with anyone, let alone with Pax. And Axel would certainly have a heart attack warding off Lou Ellen, who, she knew for a fact, Axel thought was too young for him.

“I want it to be perfect. Jack agrees and he’s been brainstorming with me. He said he doesn’t remember his first kiss and that makes him really sad and Flynn won’t tell me about hers. But, it has to have great atmosphere—music! And maybe outdoors—maybe with a garden—but what if something goes wrong? I’ve been practicing on my hand—You know, to make sure I’m not the worst while keeping the purity of the first kiss—and I’ve been asking for advice all around, from Lucille and Prometheus won’t tell me anything, he just laughs in his ‘I’m a titan who can predict the future’ kind of way. And what if it isn’t perfect?! Like, I want it to make Alabaster happy and make me happy and be a good story for future Pax generations like Jack wishes he had a good story for me!” Pax rose to his feet to follow her around the room.

From the frantic cadence of his tone, she knew, with relief, they were done for the day. The part of Pax’s brain capable of none-meandering thoughts had a clear timer and that alarm had gone off.

She walked back to the table, gathering her notebook and new hijab. The fabric felt so soft when she tucked both against her chest. “Too many expectations lead to inevitable disappointment. What if you’re a bad kisser?”

“What if I’m a bad kisser?” Pax’s eyes widened. He puffed up his cheeks and popped them.

“Planning isn’t in your nature. What if nothing goes according to plan?” She ushered her stunned friend towards the exit of the Spy Barracks.

Pax stumbled alongside her, eyes clearly visualizing the worst case scenario. “You’re right! What if nothing goes according to plan?!”

“What if you make a big fuss over something that won’t matter and you worry yourself needlessly?”

“What if I—hey!” Pax’s features scrunched up into a pout. He folded his arms.

Mercedes sighed. Like Alabaster, she didn’t have time for experience in this field and couldn’t offer much advice. As someone who ran spy operations, and someone with a cute, unpredictable parasite pouting in front of her, she knew things tended to fall apart in correlation with how hard you tried to keep them together. “You can’t control if something goes wrong, Ajax, and you can’t control how Alabaster will react. If things go wrong, then you’ll find someone else later, whose lip sensitivity is closer to that of your palm.” She pointed to his right hand, the one she assumed he’d been practicing on.  

“But what if—”

Pax went quiet.

Mercedes had, much to her own surprise and skipped heartbeat, leaned forward. His nose was cold when it pressed against hers; his lips, warm. There was a faint hint of something citrusy, like he had drunk orange juice for breakfast. Fortunately, no reek of bacon.  

Several jittery questions flashed through her brain: What constitutes as a “real” kiss? Was I supposed to close my eyes? It’s awkward if I keep them open, right? How long am I supposed to do this for?

The insecurity shook her nerves—it shouldn’t have. This was Pax. And they were just friends. Just two friends who spent 90% of their time together.

His eyes had gone wide with shock. His gasp sucked air from her before he gently exhaled.

Four seconds was plenty, plenty enough to make her face feel hot. Mercedes saw movement out of her peripheral—either he was about to push her away or pull her close. She didn’t wait to find out. She withdrew, absently fussing with her notebook and hijab like she’d finished another closing procedure. Both items had almost slipped from her grasp.

Pax looked lost. His mouth moved a few times, before remembering how to form words, “Why did you do that?” The question was quiet and uncertain. Not angry.  From his hesitant tension, she got the feeling there was more he wanted to ask, but was scared.

Mercedes quirked her lips into a smirk. “Because, no one will believe you when you tell the story later.”

His mouth moved a few times more times; Mercedes resisted the urge to remind him that they were no longer kissing.

In the most delayed startle she’d seen, he jumped. “But—wha—it—Mercedes!” he cried in protest. Mercedes ushered him outside the spy barrack’s door while he was still floundering for words. “I—but—” He huffed. “I wanted to share my first kiss with someone who hadn’t had theirs!”

Mercedes paused in the doorway, widening her grin. “You just did.” And, she shut the door on his face, locking it. Mercedes pressed against the wall, flipped out her dulled mirror, and tilted it to watch him through the window.

Pax paced back and forth across the entranceway, paused, raised a hand to open the door again, threw his hands up, and dropped them. After six seconds of standing there, he touched his lips and blushed. The blush remained as he walked, unsteadily, away from the Spy Barracks.

He’d be pouty with her for another week. To keep any ideas out of his head, she’d have to pretend she didn’t know why. She unfolded the hijab to admire the embroidery. This must have taken Pax weeks to make. She pressed the silk against her face, enjoying the smooth coolness. The slickness would be a pain—she’d have to wear an undercap to keep it in place.

She thought about how hard her mother would slap her if she ever found out Mercedes had kissed a boy. At home, she would have been forbidden to see Pax or, at least, be forbidden to spend time with him without a chaperon—no, it would be fully forbidden. Pax was raised Catholic. There was no potential for—

The elation in her chest crushed when she glanced down at her notebook. This was a botched job. There was no time for any daydreaming or—had she been flirting? Luke expected a report from her by the end of the day, and she needed to give him a name in that report. If she didn’t—

Mercedes tried not to think about the hunger in Luke when he stared at Annabeth, the way he’d smacked Phil across the room, the times she’d stumbled into Jack healing his own battered face with a hushed, “Don’t tell Flynn or the boys. They won’t understand that Luke has bad days the same way that I get confused.” The way Kronos’ darkness seemed to spread through the underlings like a contagion, through how Jack and Flynn had future plans to torture-heal-torture any new captives (for Jack, as some displaced revenge against Thalia for failing his friend; for Flynn, for fun) and the increased violence and spectacle of Axel’s now labyrinthine cage fights.

And here she was, holding a gift against her face like she could have a Catholic Maya boy as a sweetheart even if she were at home. People died and were seriously injured because of her lack of oversight—how dare she. What else had she clouded from her vision?

Pax is a good suspect. He has access to all your files. But, he had no reason to alert Axel and Alabaster to the ambush. Breath choked in Mercedes’ throat. And she couldn’t do that—she couldn’t do that to Pax or herself.

She knew this—suspecting friends—came with the job. But, that had been a distant thought when she—terrified and desperate for some good to come out of the inevitable slaughter of her Cohort—realized she would make the perfect spy for Camp Othrys. Before she knew the ease of Lucille’s smile, how special Pax could make her feel, how horrifying Flynn was.

Pain spread along her forearm. She dug her nails in. Underneath were the lines of her Roman tattoo, of Mercury’s symbol and her bars of service. The marks didn’t vanish when she pledged her soul to Kronos, when she forsook any chance of joining her real family after death. Was there a chance Allah would understand? To what extent could you step into the dark to stop tyrants and false idols before you were consumed?

When she inhaled sharply, she could almost taste the scent of her centurion’s perfume, a smell as comforting as her mother’s brewing coffee. She thought about that home—Rome. About her real home in Spain. About her real name, the one she had to abandon, and the one she took upon joining the legion, now reserved for her contacts in New Rome. She could never keep a name. If she did, and something went wrong, if she couldn’t do her job right, legionnaires or titans might find her real family and kill them.

Like not finding a satisfying suspect for this report.

Life seemed complicated when she lived in Granada, helping to raise her brothers while her mother worked. It seemed more complicated when she had to abandon them to keep the monsters away. Tiny Mercedes could have never predicted life would get worse.

Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.

But, she didn’t feel that right now. She’d been so careful not to feel anything. And then Pax gave her this stupid hijab and she was dumb enough to kiss him.

Her breath felt tight; legs, weak. She had to lean against the wall for support. How many homes can you have before none of them are a “home?” How many identities can you wear before all of them lose meaning? How many times could you pledge a soul before it shatters?

         There were no answers to these questions, and Mercedes still had to pick from one of her friends to throw to Luke as a scapegoat and sacrifice.

Mercedes slid to the floor, pressed her face completely into the hijab and sobbed.

 Authors note:

Thank you for reading! I’m sorry for the hiatus--I aim to get back to a bimonthly schedule.  Every time I edited this piece, it just didn’t feel right/good enough. I hope you enjoyed anyway! I also hope all of you are well and being gentle with yourselves! Stay tuned for one of my first (sorta?) fluff pieces, Alabaster’s Delicate Dance of Chance (hopefully during the month of October >>’‘)

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Ajax: Fidget Spinners X

         The next part of the fight was kinda gross. There were a lot of feathers, some brain goo, some monster miscellaneous bits. Pax would not recommend eating while watching reruns of the fight on Hephaestus’ reality TV show.

         Pax now understood why it was preferable for monsters to dust immediately. The demigods tried not to kill many monsters at Camp Othrys—a “fish are friends, not food” mentality. He had only seen a handful of monsters get killed. Axel tried to protect him from seeing a lot of violence (even though Pax argued endlessly that nothing would be as brutal as the fatalities in Mortal Kombat). There were rumors about monsters that didn’t dust immediately.

         Pax could now verify that it was disgusting.

         When Axel called for Pax to come on top of Prometheus’ rock, Pax wanted to request two Ziploc bags to slip over his hands.

         Lou Ellen giggled. “These might work better,” she said, withdrawing some latex gloves from a pocket.

         “Ah, ever prepared to handle corpses,” Pax said.

         “Vital to a Witch’s Survival Kit,” she said. “Alabaster says it is always prudent to be prepared.”

         Pax wanted to ask if she wanted to keep one for her hand. In their excitement of Axel’s victory (and the ensuing gross out afterwards), she forgot to keep it tucked under her armpit. When Pax glanced at the stump, he could see that the skin around the edges had blacken and wither inward, towards the bone.

         Everything smelled like it was rotting down here, but Pax got a whiff that smelled particularly of eau de roadkill.

         Pax wanted to keep both of them from panicking and cheer her up. “At least, if it becomes permanent, we can get you a cool pirate hook,” he said.

         Lou Ellen didn’t giggle. She looked away and tucked her stump back under her armpit.

         Pax paused in scaling the rock. He frowned, trying again. “I’m sure it’ll smell better if you air it out a bit. Body odor plus rotting corpse. Not a good smell to lure my brother—”

         “You can’t tell Axel,” Lou Ellen said.

         That scared Pax. Lou Ellen only would only say that if there was of a permanent problem.

         “It was more important for us to save Prometheus while we were down here. Then we wouldn’t need to take another trip and avoid Hades. Prometheus will be really important to the war effort, and your brother really looks up to him…” Lou Ellen trailed off, seeming unable to convince herself it was worth it now that she could join a gangrene gang.

         Pax almost sputtered. “Please tell me you did NOT fall head over—” He gestured violently towards her stump. “—hand hard enough for Axel that you sacrificed a limb so he could go fanboy at someone in Tartarus!” Pax could barely handle Axel being courageous and stupid and that was Axel’s modus operandi. The witches were supposed to be reliably clever and focused on self-preservation—like sane people.

         Lou Ellen’s face went flush. She didn’t look embarrassed, just sad. “I—I knew I might lose it as soon as I did the spell wrong, when I left my hand with Jack. But I knew my invisibility spell wouldn’t hold on you if we got far away. I had to come back for you and Axel.”

         When Pax thought about it, how Lou Ellen’s invisibility spell let them trick Hades and how her cotton ball conjuring saved them from splatting onto Tartarus’s unforgiving ground, Pax realized that they would have probably died without her. Considering everything Lou Ellen had done in the last day and how much magic Pax had seen her cast at once, she was probably depleted. Had her hand been rotting since the beginning and she been hiding it with what little incantation she had left before summoning all those cotton balls?

         There was only one thing that Pax could think to do: he pulled Lou Ellen into a hug. “The Pax family owes you a hand for the big one you gave us,” he said, trying not to let his voice tremble.

         She released one sob into his shoulder. Despite the reek of rot, Pax felt comforted by her scent. It was similar to Alabaster’s, faintly herb-like under the sweat and grime. “Just promise me that your brother will take me on a date after this,” she choked.

         “That is definitely a thing within my power to promise,” Pax said, petting her tangled black curls. “Think about it: we’ll be able to guilt Axel into anything for months—”

         “Ajax! Still need your help up here!” Axel’s voice called down.

         Lou Ellen grabbed Pax’s shoulder with her good hand. “You can’t tell him,” she whispered, “I’ve only got minutes before the spell can’t be reversed, and there’s no point in spending that time panicking.”

         Pax wanted to disagree. He rather liked the idea of panicking. Leaning back to examine her face, he could see the resolution in those green eyes. She didn’t want to spend the last few minutes panicking when they there was no obvious way to save her hand.

         “Ajax, I can tell you two are whispering down there. Plan pranks later. I need you up here!” Axel voice drifted down again.

         “I’ll give you something that’ll leave you bald for months,” she said, the tears now dried up. Her threat came with a forced giggle.

         Pax choked back his own tears. “You wouldn’t do that. My hair is a trademark. I’m a mascot for Camp Othrys—”

         She shoved him towards the boulder with her good hand. Lou Ellen snatched up the latex gloves that they had dropped when he hugged her.

         Pax had completely forgotten the blood on the rock. He swallowed, slipped on the gloves, and turned to climb, hoping Lou Ellen’s stump wasn’t completely consumed by rot by the time he came back down.

 Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed—well, as much as you can enjoy Tartarus. Also, last week, I lied. Now, you can stay tuned to meet Rocky!

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

The Versatility of a Guitar String II

 Phil told them to whistle while they worked.

Jack had never been so scared to whistle. Knowing his luck, Apollo would want to wreak vengeance on Jack for killing Apollo’s favorite son. If Jack so much as meeped, all the squirrels in the forest would probably be stricken with sickness and rain from the trees.

         While clutching Ryan’s sheet-wrapped ankles, stumbling through the near-darkness of the forest, seeing the ghostly gold glow of Luke’s blond hair as Luke gripped Ryan’s wrists ahead, Jack had to wonder if Flynn was having as much luck on her first mission.

Go to recruit someone?

Kill someone instead.

Phil seemed to think they were equivalent.

         “It was a good preemptive shot. This guy would have never turned to Kronos’ side, so you deprived the Greeks of a great healer.” Phil trotted beside them. “And you did it when everyone was shouting at the campfire, so no one could hear. Had Luke and I not been coming over to check up on you, we’d have never known. You’ve got some natural talent here, kid.” He gave Jack’s cheek an affectionate nudge before returning to Ryan’s bag of belongings.

         The satyr had already pocketed Ryan’s ID, spare cash, and spare drachma. When Luke demanded why they needed to spend the time to gather all of Ryan’s things, Phil said, “People are less likely to see what’s no longer there.”

         Pain ached through Jack’s hands, back, and bruised knee. He wanted to ask Luke if the older boy was alright, but Luke had been terrifyingly quiet during the whole walk. Once, Luke mentioned he could sometimes hear Kronos’ voice when he wasn’t sleeping. Jack feared Kronos and Luke were talking at that very moment, discussing how to get rid of a troublesome new recruit.

         What Luke said, instead, make Jack jump. “Dryad incoming. Phil, take the reigns.”

         By “reigns,” Luke meant “dead dude’s hands.”

         After an awkward second of musical chairs with a corpse, Luke separated and ran ahead, into the trees. Jack couldn’t see what Luke had been talking about, but heard Luke switch his charming voice on, “Oh! Hey, Juniper! Too late? Nah. Curfew couldn’t keep me away from your beautiful branches.”

         There was giggling, some hushed conversation, then a sudden rustling of foliage and more giggling. If Jack had to guess, Luke was playing a game of chase with the dryad, luring her away from their destination.

         Confusion crept over Jack’s mind about Luke and Juniper’s interaction and he wanted to ask Phil about it. He was scared this was his typical misunderstanding of the world: where he heard things that didn’t happen or made facts real that weren’t. But, Flynn, Luke, and Phil said everything he heard was real. After all, the monsters were real.

         And anything would be better than focusing on the upturned, inch-long curve along the sheets that must have been Ryan’s wrapped nose. One edge of the sheet had untucked and swayed ominously with each uncoordinated step. Jack was terrified a gust of wind would rip it open, revealing Ryan’s stare. Worse: it would be the same stare that his parents had when he found their bodies.

         “I thought Luke was dating Ms. Beauregard?” Jack said softly.

         Phil snorted. “If Luke were a god, he’d keep a scoreboard against Zeus.[1] That’s why I’m hoping we can get that Thalia girlie back soon. She’ll set him straight.”

         Jack tore his gaze from Ryan’s covered face and to the back of Phil’s head. At camp, the satyr didn’t wear any clothing, so this scene could have been taken out of a Greek play. “So, Thalia is like Luke’s Flynn,” Jack rationalized. “What was Thalia like?”

         Phil shrugged, making Ryan’s body tilt. “Don’t know. Luke won’t talk to me much about her.”

         That was weird. All Jack wanted to do was talk and sing and gawk over how awesome Flynn was. But, would Jack think that way if she’d been turned into a tree? She’d almost died once protecting him. What if she actually had?

         His shivers increased, making Jack almost lose his hold on Ryan’s ankles. He wanted to ask how much further this “Labyrinth” entrance was. His parents always taught him it was rude to ask such questions.

         The more he was learning, the less he ought to care what his parents had to say.

         “Hey, uh, don’t mind Luke, with him swatting you and all,” Phil said. At first, Jack didn’t know what Phil was talking about. Then he remembered the slight ache at the back of his skull, where Luke had smacked Jack for screaming. It wasn’t the first time someone had smacked Jack for being confus—not for being confused. Jack wasn’t confused. He had to keep reminding himself.

         “Luke’s under a lot of pressure. He’s still mad about losing the Master Bolt to Ares—he’s looking at it as his second failed quest. Then, this Poseidon punk comes in, fulfilling his little sister’s dream of going on a quest and taking his satyr along on that quest—” Jack vaguely remembered Luke mentioning that his friends, Annabeth and Grover, weren’t around. “—and proves to be as powerful a pain in the ass as everyone thought he would be. He resisted Kronos’ pull into Tartarus…”

         Phil sighed. He let go of one of Ryan’s wrists, letting it dangle limply along the ground, so Phil could make a flippant gesture. “Rumors are betting that Percy can survive having Ares come after him. If he does, that means Luke needs to either recruit or kill Percy, and, I mean, the kid’s under a lot of pressure. I don’t think that Luke’s killed someone in cold blood before. He’s not ready to start.”

         In cold blood. Is that what Jack had done to Ryan? Or was that a murder of passion? He couldn’t remember if there was a difference.

         Phil must have noticed Jack’s lack of answer. He waved his free hand dismissively again. It looked like the first motions of a musical number with Phil’s fingers reaching towards the sky and Ryan’s fingers trailing the tree trunks and ferns. “Listen to this old goat chatter. How’re you and Flynn doing? I heard you two lovebirds managed to score a room together.”

         The tease in Phil’s tone made Jack blush up at the sky. He let the gentle tug of Ryan’s ankles direct his shambles, hoping he wouldn’t misstep and trip onto the body. Goofiness made his insides flutter away from their current activity and back to that morning, allowing him the tiniest bit of disassociated respite. Although they had been aboard the Princess Andromeda for awhile, sharing a room with Flynn made him giddy, especially waking and looking across their cabin to see her curled up on her cot or doing morning stretches.

         “I don’t think boys and girls are supposed to share a room, but Flynn is really good at working around the rules,” Jack said. It took her all of ten seconds to convince Luke about the arrangement.

         “A charm speaker getting her way? No,” Phil teased, “Luke just has a soft spot for you.”

         “Really?” Jack asked. He assumed Luke thought he was a nuisance, especially when he screwed up like he had today.

         Phil laughed. Jack couldn’t help but feel like he’d missed out on a joke. “Oh, kid. You’re funny. I’ll bet its nice sharing a room with a daughter of Aphrodite. Makes it easier not having to sneak around your local pastor or teacher, huh?”

         Jack glanced down to see Phil quarter turn and wink at him.

         Then, the satyr walked into a branch.

         Phil cursed in ancient Greek. Jack only caught every few words. The other demigods said he’d catch on quicker to the language the more he heard it.

         Heat spread through Jack’s cheeks. He’d accidentally—or, he at least thought it was accidentally on Flynn’s part—walked into the room when she’d been changing. He always knocked and announced himself, but she must not have heard him. Now, he knew she either wore boy shorts or thongs, depending on the pair of pants, and a double layer of sport bras to keep her chest contained for fighting.

         He had seen her bras once before, the day she saved him from a monster at school. She almost died by goring. At the time, he’d been too focused on keeping her alive to be flustered over how her tan skin looked against the dark grey fabric.

         But, he wasn’t about to say any of that to Phil.

         “Uh—we don’t—we haven’t—” Jack sputtered. “She only is—um—with guys that she can command—” What had Phil called it? “—that she can charm speak.”

         Phil stopped walking beside a giant pile of rocks. They seemed to creep up out of the forest. The moonlight had easier access to them now, making Ryan’s bed sheet glow. “Not that you would know, but she never charm speaks you?”

         Jack’s arms shook. Until they stopped moving, he hadn’t noticed how heavy the corpse was. Maybe that was Ryan’s vengeance: getting heavier with each step, the subtlest of haunting. He tried to focus on the image of Flynn’s face instead of Ryan’s white sheet.

         “She knows she doesn’t have to.” Even if Jack sometimes wished she would. “I would do anything she wants. I would die for her. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings.”[2]

         The first time Jack had quoted that to her, she’d socked him good in the arm. Last time, she had snuggled against that arm. Jack swooned to think about the warmth of her against him.

         Although it would be much easier with how stationary they were, Phil didn’t look at him. “Would you kill for her? Like this? All over again?”

         Jack’s trembling became violent, jittering Ryan around like a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. No matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t remember the feel of Ryan’s squirms, or the way his struggles had eased. Why was that memory so blurred? Wasn’t it supposed to scar itself into his mind forever? “Yes,” Jack said, “But I’m not very good at it.”

         Maybe he shouldn’t be good at it. Though, was it bad if he was? If there was one thing he had learned from his pastor, it was that everyone had a purpose. Maybe they did in the Greek world. What if his purpose here, the thing he was good at, was—

         “I think you’re a real natural. It’s a pity you can’t drag her uncle out of Tartarus. I’d love to see how you’d kill him,” Phil said.

         “What?” Jack asked. Had he heard Phil wrong? Flynn had never told Jack about anyone other than her grandmother, and a quick explanation that her father died when she was a toddler. Drug overdose. Why she kept Mr. Sunny, his weekly medicine box, instead of letting Jack carry it around.

         Instead of answering, Phil said, “Help an old goat toss a body, would ya?”

         Phil made a big show of groaning and swearing as he gestured to a crack between the rocks.

         The slit would have been invisible if Phil hadn’t pointed it out. The slit of darkness was so narrow, Jack doubted Ryan would fit inside.

         “So, we just shove him back there?” Jack asked.

         “Yep. A monster will creep through this part of the Labyrinth and get a free snack. Think of it like… you’re giving some lucky fellow a winning lottery ticket or feeding the homeless,” Phil said.

         They propped Ryan’s body against the rock façade, so Phil and Jack could awkwardly shove him through the opening. It would have been easier for someone living to crawl through, especially since Ryan’s body was stiffening and jerked occasionally. Jack told himself it was just his imagination. He was used to ignoring weird details like that, like the absolute sense of calm he kept getting from seeing a dead sibling.

         They shoved Ryan’s upper torso through with little problem. The legs were more difficult, requiring Phil to swear and jam and twist them.

         There was a sickening crack from one leg and something gave.

         Jack tried not to scream.

         None of it bothered Phil.[3] He kept pushing. Jack’s last sensation of Ryan was the leather of Ryan’s shoe. Then his dead half-sibling disappeared into the blackness of the crack. And that was it.

         Phil had been right. The Labyrinth—whatever it was—seemed to eat him immediately.

         With that finality, exhaustion overtook Jack. He collapsed onto the ground outside the entrance, expecting Ryan’s corpse to squirm back through, clawing out of his white sheet.

         Nothing.

         There was something chilly in his hands that burned against his blisters.

         Jack held it up, finding the guitar string still wrapped around one palm. He must have trailed it all the way from the cabin, parallel to how Phil had let Ryan’s hand drag.

         Phil frowned down at him, leaning against the rock wall. “You should keep it, as a memento or whatever sentimental shit mortals do.”

         Jack swallowed. Slowly, he tied the cord around his wrist like a bracelet. It bit into his skin. He tried not to think of how that would feel around the neck.

         Phil sighed. “Listen, kid. Ryan really did need to die regardless. But, you can’t go around killing all your problems. That’s some old-school hero mentality and it isn’t 2,000 BC anymore. Next time you get upset, take a few breathes and come talk to Uncle Phil.” He pointed a thumb to himself.  “We’ll discuss if you can or can’t kill the person. And then…” He pointed that thumb towards the Labyrinth entrance. “Uncle Phil can help you with the body and throw a party afterwards.”

         Jack nodded. He remembered his mother fussing over his association with Flynn, saying she was a bad influence. She would have called the SWAT team on Phil.

         Someone burst out of the woods, making Jack jump and Phil let out a quick shriek.

         “Holy Hera, kid, learn to announce yourself! It’s not like we were just petting puppies over here!” Phil snapped, clutching at his chest.

         Luke was mid-pulling his shirt back over his head. He combed his fingers through his hair, which looked silvery in the moonlight. Twigs and leaves fell out of the blond and joined the bits on his shirt and pants. He looked much more relaxed than the panic he’d left with. “Everything taken care of?” he asked.

         Jack stumbled to his feet and tried to answer. But, “yes” couldn’t be the answer, could it? He’d just killed someone. That wasn’t just “taken care of,” was it?

         Phil stood up straight and patted Jack’s back. He slung an arm over Jack’s shoulder, dragging him forward so he could sling his other arm around Luke. The satyr was much shorter than the two boys. “I was just telling Jack that he needs to take the initiative if his girlie is dropping him all these hints. Wouldn’t you agree, Luke?”

         Luke’s blue eyes darted from the Labyrinth entrance back to Jack. Jack wished Phil were a bit taller, so he couldn’t see Luke’s critical stare. When Phil tried to corral them forward, Luke wouldn’t budge.

         Phil sighed. “And, I’m thinking we need a little celebration. Jack took out Camp Half-Blood’s up-and-coming healer that would have never converted. Beers are on me, kids.”

         That broke Jack’s attention. He felt the color drained out of his face. “I’m too young to drink.” And his medicine wasn’t suppose to mix with alcohol.

         Almost to himself, Phil muttered, “Kid who committed murder doesn’t want to break the law. He’s too young, he says.” He stared up at Jack, skeptically. “You know, your ancestors were drinking before they came out of their mother’s skirts.”

         “Didn’t you just say I shouldn’t be acting like them?” Jack asked, unsure what Phil wanted from him.

         Although Luke tried to hide it, he cracked a smile at Phil’s exacerbation.

         “Alright! Fine. Shirley Temples on me, you little brats,” Phil grumbled. “Luke, that little dryad of yours suspect anything?”

         Luke took a step forward with Phil. “Juniper has no idea you guys were here.”

         The way Luke talked about the dryad unsettled Jack. Yea, Flynn had been with other guys when Jack was crushing on her and writing her songs. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d go off with other guys now that they were dating, but Flynn wouldn’t hide it from him. Jack had to wonder if Ms. Juniper and Ms. Beauregard knew about each other.

         Phil led them away from camp, further into the woods. “I know a great bar we can go to. We’ll get the centaurs to take us. We’ll be done in a flash, that way, Luke, you can be back and acting all menacing or whatever. Ha! It’s not like you’re going to be sleeping—”

         Luke made a face. Jack remembered Phil mentioning something about nightmares. Was Luke still having them?

         “—and I’ll take Jak-Jak back to camp, and he can take our advice on his girlie. What do you think, Luke? Should he take the initiative or no?”

         Luke took another glance behind them, where the rock pile had disappeared in the trees. He frowned. For a moment, Jack thought Luke might turn to him with the same disgusted disappointment Steve, his step-father, had when Steve had to pick up Jack from school. Those were the days when Jack had “an incident” as Steve called them, when Jack’s paranoia and confusion left him sobbing in a corner.

         Instead, the consternation in Luke’s expression faded. He brushed some dirt off his pants. “She’s really into you. I’d say to go for it.”

         Just like that, they were talking about girls instead of bodies. Being a half-blood was weird.

         “See, Jak-Jak—oh! Hold on!” Phil dramatically tilted his ear to listen. He lifted his hands off their shoulders in a flourish. “I have important satyr things I must attend to, else old Mr. Douche Bag might get suspicious. But, uh, you kids go have some fun on your own.”

         He fished the money he’d stolen from Ryan and shoved it into Luke’s hands. Jack hadn’t realized that Phil intended to celebrate Ryan’s murder with Ryan’s own money. Jack couldn’t decide if that was efficient, horrifying, or both. “The centaurs can still take you and I can swing by to pick up Jack in two hours. Now, kids, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

         A sentiment that, from Phil, must have meant nothing.[4]

         He waggled a finger at them.

         With that, he dashed off into the trees.

         They walked in silence for the first fifteen paces.

         Jack didn’t realize he’d been slowly tightening the guitar string around his wrist. The metal didn’t want to stay taught.

This felt like the times his parents had shoved Jack onto Shelby or Aston, his two little siblings. They would whine, not wanting to babysit their older brother. One time, when Shelby wanted to talk to one of her friends instead, she told Jack they were going to play hide and seek, then locked him in a closet. “To protect you from the monsters.”

         “Look… dude,” Luke said, breaking the silence. “I meant to check up on you and Flynn sooner. It’s been busy. And I can’t decide if I want this Percy kid to survive or not, and he keeps doing stuff we didn’t predict. It’s just been complicated, you know?”

         An hour ago, Jack wouldn’t have. Now, he thought about what Phil said, about Luke’s best friends favoring Percy, about Kronos punishing Luke for stuff he couldn’t control, and about how naturally talented Percy was rumored to be. Jack loosened the guitar string, examining the way it left deep, dark indents in his pale flesh.

         “It’s really hard when someone else has better luck than you. Especially here. ‘Luck’ must really be a product of some divine intervention, right?” Jack muttered. It means some god loves the luckiest the most. “I guess we gotta make our own luck, huh?”

         Luke glanced at him, his blue eyes widened in surprise. “Yea. Yea, we do. Um… look, it’s just… With your medication, your smile—you remind me of my—of someone I knew. Especially how you went from being a good kid to—to what happened back there.”

         Jack wasn’t sure what Luke meant by the first part, but he knew what he was supposed to say. Queasiness clenched him. “I—I’m sorry. I’ve never done something like that before. I don’t want to—”

         The older boy awkwardly patted his shoulder. “No, dude, it’s cool.”

I’m not going to abandon you like the gods would. I’m not going to let them do to you what they did to her.” Ferocity glinted in Luke’s gaze. Desperation crept into his voice. “Phil said you’re not actually crazy. This is reversible. That outburst—it was probably because you’re weaning off your medication, right?”

         As far as Jack knew, Flynn was giving him the same amount of medication that he’d been taking previously. There was no way to know if it was still working as well. He still heard voices, saw monsters, and felt an urgent wrongness that left him trembling with no known source. But, he was on a boat for monsters. His family was dead. He’d just found out that everything he knew—that he was crazy, that God loved him in a special way, that violence of any kind was abhorrent and should be punished—was wrong. Maybe that should have been in the demigod orientation program.

         Jack didn’t want to talk about it. “Is there a way to turn that Thalia girl back from being a tree?” he blurted. He hoped Luke wouldn’t push it. Whomever he’d been referencing must have been personal to Luke, but Jack wanted an easy conversation. Too much had happened in the last few hours and Jack still wasn’t comfortable with how calm he felt.

         Luke smiled mischievously, looking more like his siblings in the Hermes cabin. “I have a plan.”

         The air seemed to sizzle hotter, making Jack aware of how much he’d been sweating. They must have crossed the border for Camp Half-Blood. Everything felt like it hopped up by ten degrees. The foliage looked more parched, probably from the erratic weather they’d been having all summer.

         Jack jumped as an idea jolted him out of his gloom, far easier than he felt like it should have. “We—we should set up a celebration for it! Thalia seems really important to you—and I’ll bet the monsters and demigods would like something like that. It’s the one thing the Princess Andromeda is missing: a relaxing, fun thing that brings everyone together, something that isn’t competitive that would encourage the monsters and demigods to interact more, like a dance or a concert!”

         With how horrible everything had been, Jack hadn’t been getting many exciting ideas. He hadn’t meant to prattle on. He bit his lip, expecting Luke to tell him that was stupid or impractical.

         The tiniest part of him had some hope. How nice would it be if Jack got to make up for missing prom by dancing with Flynn at a celebration? Especially if Luke got to invite Thalia and she—what had Phil said?—set Luke straight.

         Instead, Luke let out a genuine laugh, looking more surprised. “A concert? Not a bad idea. Thalia would probably love that.” He examined Jack with new interest.

The two stopped walking at a yellow diamond traffic sign posted in the middle of the woods. A centaur was depicted in a black outline, holding one thumb up like a hitchhiker. Jack found himself wondering if there was a centaur transportation system around the whole world that he’d never noticed before.

“You know, if you come up with more ideas like that, I might set you up as the coordinator for morale boosting and demigod-monster relations,” Luke said, jamming his hands into his pockets and kicking at the dirt. “Some of the new recruits have been complaining that the appeal of a cruise ship fades fast when you’ve got monster slime in all the pools. Kinda hard to swim in.”

Jack grinned, bashful. Most people didn’t like his ideas. Even Flynn glared him when he brought up forming a band or making a reality TV show. “I—I would like that. The morale boosting, not the slime pools. I’m not great at fighting.”

         “Not with a sword,” Luke agreed, eyeing the guitar string unraveling from Jack’s wrist. Base strings, Jack realized. It’s too thick to be guitar string.

         Jack clenched his fists, feeling the sting of his cut palms. He didn’t want to think about what happened or ruin this uncanny tranquility inside of him. “Can you tell me all about Thalia?”

         Phil had said that Luke didn’t talk about Thalia much, so the chances were low. Jack still had to try.

         Luke shuffled his foot one more time. He exhaled. “Uh… yea, man. We can talk about her.”

         The centaurs arrived soon after Luke started describing her. The more Luke talked about Thalia, the less Jack remembered the feel of Ryan’s shoe when he tossed the corpse into the Labyrinth. By the time they got to the monster bar—Jack, a Shirley Temple; Luke, an Irish Car Bomb and three beers[5]—Jack was giddy thinking about this potential party. He could almost look at a crumpled napkin without thinking about the bump of Ryan’s nose under his wrapped bed sheet.

         With that night, Jack and Luke set an unintentional tradition, going to the monster bar every other week. That was the first time Luke took Jack out to celebrate and party after Jack killed a sibling. It wouldn’t be the last. Jack couldn’t care about that. All he cared about was how he’d found himself the perfect friend.

 ***

Hey everyone! Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. (Mel asked how I made murder buddies adorable. They did it themselves.) My brother got married last weekend so sorry for the delay! Stay tuned this Fri/Sat (Wait? Tomorrow—shit! Must. Find Time. To. Edit.) for the intro of a certain set of brothers with a penchant for acrobatics and weasels in Axel’s Say No To Cruise Ships. (And a quick thanks to @chumo-cookie for inspiring me to post/write/be more than a blob today. May many Pax hugs find you and may your wallet stay by your side when they do! <3)      

            Footnotes:

 [1] Mel (betaeditor)’s one request, “Just don’t change into weird things… and actually, don’t keep a scoreboard.”

[2] Shakespeare. Sonnet 29.

[3] Mel betacomment, “I would be horrified to know what bothered Phil.” Jack, “High shelves on a liquor cabinet and a disorganized kitchen.”

[4] My brother said this to me a lot growing up. He also threw house parties when my parents were out of town (my dad liked to double back and infiltrate the parties to freak the partiers out), ended a lot of fights, snuck a lot of girls into the “fort” we built in the woods behind our house, and plenty of other admirable activities. Exquisite role model.

[5] Mel betacomment, “I READ BEARS AT FIRST AND GOT SO CONFUSED!” Jack, “Agrius comes in NEXT short story.”

[jflashandclash]

The Fall of the Sun: Traitors of Olympus

Six: Alabaster

A Sunny Promenade Where Everyone Wants to Kill Me

             When Alabaster left Cabin Eleven, his cheeks felt like they were on fire. The jeering from the Hermes occupants shouldn’t have bothered him so much—they were children that likely didn’t know that allegations of cooties actually meant that one had a parasitic bug infestation. Something else must have been unsettling him, and, in this particular case, beyond the fact that he was in Camp Half-Blood and NOT destroying the son of Poseidon, he suspected it was his attachment to Kally.

           Everyone close to him warned him that he was reckless: his mother, Axel, Luke, and Claymore.

           But, suffering from a severe infatuation after two real encounters? And acting on that infatuation? Eros and Aphrodite might as well come out of hiding to bow for applause. He did not like being their puppet and letting them distract him from what he should have been focusing on.

           His heartbeat thudded inside his head, his lips tingled, and he could still smell Kally’s scent beneath the sweat and blood: a shampoo or soap with mint and eucalyptus undertones. He could perfectly visualize the hope and excitement on her face when she spoke of a third camp, one not Roman or Greek.

           Maybe it wasn’t just Aphrodite and Eros.

           He didn’t have time to think about that right now, or whether or not one could love without the influence of those gods. He and Axel had discussed it before. Both of them liked to think someone could still fall in love without godly meddling, but that could have been their stubbornness clinging to independence from the gods.

           Alabaster felt a little nauseous to think that Axel had probably been referencing his love for the praetor during those conversations. Had he really been interested in her for that long?

           Alabaster didn’t have time for this. He should have been focusing on his transit in enemy territory.

           Most campers didn’t pay him heed. They seemed to think he was a mysterious Roman unit. The daughter of Ares and Rodriguez had gained more control over the camp. The Greek chaos had become more organized.

           As Alabaster walked past the other cabins, readily identifying to which god they belonged, he heard the chatter of units scurrying by,            

           “—counselor meeting outside the boundary—“

           “—true about Percy? Is he really—”

           “—Jason can barely walk. Anyone hear what happened to h—”

           Another set of campers, this one equipped with medical kits, a stretcher, and stethoscopes—likely Kally’s siblings—raced past.

           “—five dead campers. Each from a different cabin.”

           “It’s like someone systematically—”

           “—ghosts did some serious damage to the Roman—”

           “—Chiron still not up—”

           He stopped outside the cabin with the eerie glow of green torches: Cabin Twenty. There were spells inscribed on each stone, although half of it was gibberish that Alabaster readily identified as Minoan, likely written by Lou Ellen. One of the stones read something like, They think I’ll turn people into a tree, but really I explode glitter. The black tome-like doors were enormous and took up most of the façade.

           Originally, Alabaster had planned to map this out, so he could return from the Big House and restock here.

           Staring at Hecate’s cabin, he felt himself tremble in rage.

           He couldn’t go inside.

           As part of the deal to pardon Hecate for her involvement in the Titan’s War, Alabaster had been banned from Camp Half-Blood and from “polluting” the minds of his siblings. If he went inside, he’d have to accept that it would only ever be once and only because the barrier was down. He’d have to accept what few siblings he had left had been tricked into worshipping the corruption of Olympus.

           Although he told himself it didn’t bother him, that he didn’t care how a group of Olympic-lovers would live, that he had no business seeing how his siblings thrived, Alabaster learned he wasn’t as indifferent as he had hoped. He didn’t want to see what he could never have again.[1]

           Alabaster shook his head, writing the weakness off as exhaustion. He reached into his pocket to withdraw a Reese’s Stick that he’d swiped from Pax. The wrapper crinkled as he tossed the candy into the torch fire. This was a measly sacrifice. He’d have rather given Percy’s head, but this would have to do.

           While the green flames wicked around the bars, crackling into sickly, black smoke, he prayed, Mother, Morpheus, please grant the Pax brothers peace and distraction in their slumber. You owe them that at least. And… Alabaster bit his lip. And, please grant this to Kalypso Kassand, the daughter of Apollo.

           The dark tendrils twisted into the face of a winking man before being dusted by the breeze. At least Alabaster knew Morpheus heard him.  

           “I think I modeled if off of your laboratory,” someone said beside him.

           Alabaster caught a girl’s hand in mid-reach towards his nose. Although she hadn’t started the incantation, Alabaster could feel the Mist build up for something like a limb removal.

           When he glared at her, that piercing headache returned.

           Lou Ellen mimicked his wince of pain. Those brilliant green eyes, the same shade as his, twinkled playfully and painfully as he shoved her hand away.

           Alarm sank Alabaster’s stomach when he couldn’t remember what she had just said. Something about this cabin’s construction? From the blank stare of her pale face, she had a similar absentmindedness. Or she was an idiot. But, their previous team up and Alabaster’s instinct told him that Lou Ellen was no one to underestimate.

           “I was hoping you could restock me once I get back from the Big House, so I can defend myself when other stray gods decide to attack me.” Which, he figured, would happen to him statistically more often than the average demigod-to-god conflict. “Before I approach the main building, what defenses should I be aware of or what traps might I trigger?”

           If nothing else, at least this trip would be excellent for collecting intel on Camp Half-Blood’s defenses.

           “Um, this is a camp for teenagers,” she said, like his question was unwarranted.

           “Yes, and Guantanamo Bay is a playground for adults.”

           Lou Ellen took a step towards the Big House and grabbed his arm, like he was escorting her down a street in Victorian England and she’d be helpless in the case she was attacked without her older brother. Something about Lou Ellen screamed that she would want some poor idiot to try attacking them in a situation like that.

           He was confused and annoyed by her escort until he saw why: a Roman soldier had met up with Clarisse on her way away from the cabins with several other—Alabaster assumed—counselors. They were talking and the Roman was pointing to him.

           Lou Ellen made him walk faster towards the Big House.

           “I’m not sure they finished building it, but Pax had jumpstarted a project with the Stoll brothers, Matthias, and Jake to make a rapid-rotate ramp that will activate when Chiron’s wheelchair hits it, so as to rocket him into the Big House with uncontrollable speed.”

           “The centaur has a wheel chair?” Alabaster asked skeptically. He vaguely remembered a rumor about this, but had chalked it up to Pax’s nonsense.

           When they approached the Big House, Alabaster was stunned by its lack of grandeur and its rustic simplicity. The four-story country house was painted blue with white accents. In the morning light, the wrap-around porch looked homey and quaint. Not the home to a God of Madness and the trainer of blind killers.

           He could almost see why everyone bought into this trash.

           “When he’s not a centaur. I mean, why would a centaur need a chair?” she asked as they walked past the dangling dryad wind chimes. “The stairs you’re looking for are past the parlor and down the hall. I might have overheard Chris and known the area to be a prime territory for casting spells to curse the Demeter Cabin.”

           She released his arm at the door, near an outside table set for a card game. Once again, he had to bat her hand away from removing his. Somehow, he knew she’d try limb removal every chance she got.

           “Thank you,” he said. Although he’d fought beside this Greek, she didn’t owe him anything. Even if they did somehow know each other from the past, he was still surprised that she treated him more like an equal and a friend than a former enemy.

           She laughed sadly. “I mean, you’re a stiff, but you’re still my brother. And there aren’t a lot of children of Hecate left.” She glanced at one of the dryad wind chimes as it rotated into something else. “I feel like there were once a lot more…”

           “There were.” Alabaster preferred not to think about how popular his mother was with mortals and other creatures. And he didn’t want to think about what happened to his other siblings.

           Lou Ellen shook her head, her black hair shuddering. Her smile brightened and Alabaster couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d be great friends with Pax. “I need to go check on Miranda again and mess with her while she’s out. We can’t have everyone acting too serious right now. But uh, make sure Axel is okay. I think…” She rubbed her forehead, grimacing. “I… I think I used to have a thing for him.”

           Alabaster snorted out a laugh. “You and every other girl or monster at Camp Othrys.”

           They laughed. A wave of nostalgic irritation hit Alabaster and he could distinctly remember removing a much younger Lou Ellen’s tongue so she’d stop gushing about his older friend, only to have her post Axel’s band pictures all over Alabaster’s laboratory.

           Pain shot through his temple.

           Both of them cried out.

           “We have got to clear this up with Mom,” he said.

           “Yea,” she agreed. “Well, until then. Don’t die in there!” She waved him off and stepped off the porch.

           “Don’t die out here,” he said, another wave of nostalgia hitting him.

           When Alabaster stepped inside, he found the interior similar to the exterior—charming and old-fashioned. There was a fireplace and another table set up. Grape vines ran along the walls, reminding Alabaster that Dionysus normally lived here.

           A sense of pervasive unwelcome screamed at him to leave.

           Alabaster would have liked to breeze through the room after a brief, defensive sweep, but he saw two people in the corner that made him pause.

           Well, a centaur and a person.

           The centaur lay on the ground. An empty glass sat upright beside him near a stain in the carpet. There was a Party Ponies blanket covering most of his horse-half and part of his button-down shirt. A pillow was shoved under his thinning, brown hair.

           Beside the centaur, crouched ready for an attack, was a curly-haired blond demigod with narrowed violet eyes. For an instant, Alabaster thought the demigod was Dionysus himself, but knew he was mistaken by the way the boy’s hands trembled around a xiphos sword.

           “Prometheus told me that you’d come,” said the demigod, “After he put the monster in the basement.”

           That monster. Axel must have still been wearing his Leonis Caput helm. Alabaster refused to believe this could be an ambush set up by Prometheus. There would be no point in saving the Pax brothers in the first place if he wanted to end the Triple A Chimera later.

           “He also wanted me to tell you that it would be unwise to attack us,” he finished.

           Us.

           Alabaster glanced down at the centaur. Killing Chiron would be easy right now, the trainer of Percy and a line of other Olympic henchmen.  As an ease on his consciousness, Alabaster wouldn’t even have to kill this demigod. Somewhere on him, he must have had a disarming rune left.

           That was why Prometheus left the message. The gods would just replace Chiron. Their tyranny would continue. And Alabaster would shatter what fragile peace allowing the Triple A Chimera and their friends at this camp and make everyone more vulnerable to Eris’ next attack.

           Alabaster sighed. “I’m not here to fight.”

           The demigod’s shoulders relaxed. Clearly, he wasn’t either. “We’re going to be taking shifts to watch over Chiron and Argus until they wake up,” he explained, as though to say don’t change your mind. That sword stayed posed for a defense. “You and that monster… you were at the Battle of the Labyrinth, weren’t you?”

           From the age of this demigod, this boy would have been old enough to be part of the battle. Alabaster nodded his head. “Yes. It was a disaster.”

           The demigod nodded down the hallway. “That monster, the one Prometheus brought in…” He swallowed. “He crushed my twin brother’s, Castor’s, head at that battle.”

           Alabaster stared. Everyone knew there were causalities on both sides. But, the emotion was still raw in this boy’s red-rimmed eyes. Alabaster had never spoken to an enemy soldier about it. There was no theology here and no argument over government or godly rule. Just a dead sibling, like the ones that Alabaster lost.

           “I’m sorry for your loss,” Alabaster said.

           They examined one another for a moment longer. Had this boy wanted to, he could have come down the hall and killed Axel to get revenge. From Pax’s description of the situation, Alabaster doubted that Axel would have defended himself, or at least not defended himself well.

           With a sense of unease, Alabaster. continued past the parlor, down the hall. He tried to ignore the feeling of that boy’s eyes. At the end, he found the stairs, and the door behind them, slightly ajar. “Axel? Claymore?” he called to alert them to his presence.

           The reek of smoke stung his nose when he pushed the door completely open. With the daylight and hallway light spilling down the stairs, Alabaster could see the reflective gleam of two golden eyes above the crimson glow of a cigarette. In the corner, amongst the silhouettes of crates, jars, and other storage containers, a pile of imperial armor glistened.

           Claymore stood on the last step, his arms folded, leaning against the banister.

           Each step creaked as Alabaster leveled with him. The air grew chilly.

           “Your friend isn’t exactly the chattiest of company,” Claymore said.

           “Thank you for checking on him.”

           “A lot of good it did,” Claymore said, sounding more pensive than annoyed. Before Alabaster could ask him to, Claymore stepped up the stairs. “I’ll give you two a moment. I’m sure I’ll find the young gentleman by the horse even more uplifting.”

           Once Claymore exited the stairwell, Alabaster sat on the bottom step. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the lack of lighting, he could better see Axel. The older boy sat on the concrete floor and leaned back against a crate labeled Strawberry Preserves—A Divine Delight! His knees were pulled up, so he could rest his elbows on them and dangle his hands between his legs. Everything but his boxers must have been in the corner of the room.[2]  

           All Axel’s injuries from the past twelve hours were on display with a few additions Alabaster didn’t remember. There was the new scar where they said Kouta shot him in the shoulder. Bruise marks covered his chest from Percy’s hosing. Claw marks decorated his arms that—from the angle—Alabaster would have guessed were self-inflicted. In the center of Axel’s chest, above his heart, was a raw gash, one he hadn’t cleaned yet. Alabaster wondered, though doubted, whether or not Pax had given him that in defense.

           Axel’s reflective eyes were distant, rimmed red, and had dark circles. His tufted ears sat in a neutral position. The cigarette pinched between his lips had an inch of untapped ash dangling limply from the end.  

           “Ajax is asleep,” Alabaster said. “I gave him some of my pills. Kally passed out beside him while she was healing his hand.”

           Alabaster continued to update Axel on what little he knew about Percy’s position as King of Saturnalia, the camp’s condition, and the potential counselor meeting.

           The unease Alabaster felt earlier clenched his stomach tightly. Alabaster hadn’t seen this strategist slouch during their time at Camp Othrys, let alone sit in the dark, mostly-naked, nonreactive to any information…

           Until then, Alabaster didn’t realize how emotive Axel was when formulating a plan. Alabaster wished Axel would narrow his golden eyes in thought, twitch his ears at bad news, or clench his jaw. Something.

           After Alabaster finished talking, the ash fell from Axel’s cigarette, feeding a pile between his knees.

           “Thank you,” Axel said softly, “for checking on Ajax.”

           As if there had been any other option for Alabaster.

           Alabaster frowned. “He tends to be hopeless on his own.”

           In all the replays of Alabaster’s nightmares, he hadn’t realistically considered how Axel would react after attacking—or being forced to attack—his little brother.

           For some reason, Alabaster always assumed Axel would be enraged.

           “Euna isn’t with you,” Alabaster said, wanting something to trigger inside Axel, instead of the nothingness in his eyes.

           Axel didn’t even shrug. “I assume she’s still going towards Tartarus with Jack.”

           The ash met the filter on Axel’s cigarette. His lips released, dropped it into the pile, still smoldering. Without looking, Axel reached behind him, to the side of the crate, where there was a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He tapped one out, lifted the thin cylinder to his lips, and reflexively cupped one hand around the end, like there was a breeze that might snuff out the flame. No breeze or movement came but the subtle flick of flame. The basement was still and cold.

           Alabaster had to wonder where he got those at this camp.

           When Axel was done, he set everything behind him and folded his legs pretzel style, ignoring how his calf crushed the still-glowing filter on the ground. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees again. “What was the point? Ajax and I gave three years of our lives, our childhoods, to fighting for Kronos. You gave even more. We watched good soldiers and friends die. Your family. I traded my consciousness to become a symbol of power and fear.”

           His golden eyes flicked to the discarded pile of armor in the corner.

           “Eris was right. Kronos’ army kept us safe from Santiago until we were old enough to confront him—as if we were enough to take him.” He grunted. “But… those gods… those tyrants we fought to dethrone are still there. Powerful enough that they could just… puppet me to brutalize one of the only things that matters in my life.”

           Slowly, Axel’s eyes met Alabaster’s. Again, he asked, with the dull, hopelessness of knowing he wouldn’t get a response, “What was the point?”

           This question had plagued Alabaster since the Battle of Manhattan. He’d sat in Dr. Cenotes’ office, staring at the hideous paintings on the therapist’s walls, wishing any answer would satisfy him. He’d screamed in his mother’s alter room, where she prayed to some mysterious, higher power, wanting an all-powerful deity to grace him with an acceptable answer, or at least verify that his feelings of helplessness and purposelessness were justified.

           At least Lamia’s attempts at his life had kept him busy. As had babysitting a manic, grieving Jack. As had his and Claymore’s research.

           But, confronted with Axel’s hollow gaze, the question extended to more than the war.

           “You’re alive,” Alabaster said. The words and sudden desperation in the pit of his stomach surprised him. “You, Ajax, and I—we’re all alive still. We may not feel like it, but we’re going to have to act like it for Ajax’s sake and our own.”

           He thought about Kally’s hopefulness and her suggestion to make a new camp.

           “We have to make a new home and build a new purpose,” he said, not sure he’d committed to the idea until the words came out.

           Axel gave an empty laugh. “No gods. No kings,” he quoted something the two of them had agreed upon a long time ago.[3] “How long do you think that will last?”

           “It doesn’t matter. There isn’t another option. Giving up isn’t an option. For people like you and I, it never has been and never will be. Breaking us is exactly what the gods want right now.”

           “Look who has become the riling lieutenant,” Axel teased weakly.

           Alabaster was relieved to see Axel’s eyes focus and crinkle with the tiniest hint of pride.

           “Shut up,” Alabaster said, rolling his eyes. He picked up the Leonis Caput helm and held it out to Axel. “Now come on. Let’s take something that symbolized power and fear and turn it into something else.”

           Axel’s bronze skin took on a sickly hue. “I will follow you up those stairs, but I am going to throw up if I try to put that on right now. And I do not want to be wearing a helmet with throw up in it.”

           For an awkward moment, Alabaster paused. He was so accustomed to Axel’s complete self-composure; he had forgotten the older boy would still be in shock. Quickly, he withdrew the helm and latched it onto his belt. He’d never noticed how much heavier the Leonis Caput was than his or Ajax’s helmets.

           After another moment, he gathered Axel’s Nemean Lion cloak. Axel swallowed and strapped back on his pteruges, his Mayan bracers, and his grieves. Alabaster helped him up and the two of them started up the stairs.

           “Where are we going?” Axel asked.

           Logic dictated that they should gather Pax and get into the Paxmobile before the Romans gained full awareness of exactly who they were. However, Alabaster was exhausted and knew there was no way they could get Pax out of here without a fight. Judging from the way Axel trembled as he walked up the stairs, Axel was even in worse shape, especially considering the onset of traumatic stress.

           They needed to do something very important before they could go to a demigod meeting, defend the camp, decide to help attack it, or strategize how to collect Percy’s head.             “We’re going to get you some clothing,” Alabaster said, “So Lou Ellen doesn’t squeal when she sees you with your shirt off.”

           “Excuse me?” Axel asked, clearly baffled as to why his lack of clothing would cause Alabaster’s annoying little sister alarm.

           “And then we’re going to find you somewhere safe to catnap. I didn’t sacrifice one of Pax’s Reese’s Sticks to Morpheus for a solid nap just to hear Pax whine about it being wasted later.”

           Despite their situation, Axel gave a near-genuine laugh. “You’re not letting me get out of that, are you?”

           “Do you want to hear your little brother whine?” Alabaster asked.

           Axel sighed sadly. “I’d be happy to.”            

 Thank you guys for the read! Some of my favorite chapters in this story are Alabaster chapters. What do you guys think? I hope you enjoyed this! Tune in next week for chapter seven: Maari:Diffusing the Aura of Strife and good luck to everyone heading back to school!

Footnotes:

[1] Mel’s Betacomment: “D: why do all your characters need such giant hug piles?”

Jack response: “Because the more I like a character, the worse things I do to them. It’s a societally acceptable version of masochism :D” (Also, she knows I’m WAY nicer to these characters than the ones in my others series XD)

[2] Mel’s Betacomment: “WHY YOU GOTTA MAKE AXEL SOUND HOT RIGHT NOW??? HE SHOULD BE SAD AND MOPEY AND UNATTRACTIVE LIKE PAX AND INSTEAD I'M GOING, WOW THAT'S HOT. WHAT EVEN!!! XDDD”

Jack’s response: I have none. I just needed to share this with the readers XD

[3] Name the reference! Either the philosophical one, or the video game.

[jflashandclash]

Attrition of Peace

Thirty-Seven: Axel

The Secret Power of Romantic Assisting

(or: When the Children of Love and Desire Conspire Against their Commanders)

             No one knew how to react when the God of Nightmares poofed into a pig and ran into the darkness, squealing.

           There was a breath of silence in the icy December breeze.

           Then Calex, Kally, Euna, and Pax cheered.[1]

           Everyone else followed suit.

           Clovis looked like he was bowing for a second, then Axel realized the poor son of Hypnos had fallen asleep leaning on Michael Kahale’s spear. Axel had no idea how many bouts of torment Phobetor had put him through, but the boy was clearly exhausted.

           Lou Ellen turned to Alabaster, unbothered by his Cloven Terror helm. She raised a hand for a high-five, and Axel could swear he read the words, “The power of Hecate’s Babes, am I right, Al?” from her lips.

           Axel didn’t get to see if Alabaster stared at her in confusion, or if he was too miserable over losing a god’s foot as an experiment specimen. The impact of Reyna’s elbow in Axel’s ribs was too distracting.

           When they first got here, he hadn’t wanted to touch her; he wanted to stay as distant from her as possible. But, when she had knelt down and her tattoo had glowed to signify that she was loaning Clovis some of her strength, he felt like he could sense her doubt. He could see her shoulders shudder.

           On instinct, he had knelt down to help prop her up.

           Now, after jamming her elbow into Axel’s chest, she rose like she hadn’t been the reason Clovis was still standing—at least sleep standing.

           Around them, the troops bustled with activity. When Thalia made her way towards them, Euna’s face became more animated than he’d seen since her sister died. Kally and Calex set to work tending to the wounded that Lou Ellen had magicked past the barrier. They chattered about how Merry was tucked safely in a sleeping bag in the Roman barracks. Apparently, she’d tried to cross the boundary line and hadn’t woken up since—though Calex was pretty sure that was more from previous exhaustion than Phobetor’s extended magic.

           “OH GODS, MY SHINS!” came from one of the wounded.

           Nearby Sherman’s wails, Pax sniffled back sobs while doing tricks to distract Connor Stoll. The child of Hermes jerked awake, staring at the two clefts in his palm and arm. When Connor tried to lift his hand, he found the outer half of his hand flopped backwards, hanging on by some skin and muscle tissue.

Connor, as would be expected, screamed.

           “At least now you’ll be an expert with hand-and-a-half swords,” Pax laughed hysterically, trying to keep Connor from sitting up so a Roman medic could attend to him.

           The decapitated head on Pax’s utility belt chuckled. “Someone’s pick locking days might be over,” he sang with that horrible scratchy voice. They really needed to get a solid gag for Jack, before he got them kicked out of camp or exiled out of America. “But! Your older brother told me some funny stories about you, so I’ll see what I can do.”

           Axel didn’t know if it would be better or worse if Jack tried to heal Connor. Or even if he could heal anymore.

           Axel felt the strategist in him turn off his sympathy. He couldn’t think about who the Romans had watched bleed out before they got here or who was in that body pile on the other side of the strawberry field.

           This wasn’t a time to be celebrating this mini-victory. Phobetor wouldn’t stay a pig for long, regardless of how powerful Lou Ellen and Alabaster were. He might sulk off humiliated, but they would need to plan to prevent these bouts from happening again.

           Axel couldn’t shake the feeling this was more a diversion from Eris than a finale.

           When he caught Reyna’s cold gaze, he could tell she was thinking the same.

           Axel was about to ask if anything else had happened at the camp other than Phobetor, when Calex stepped to his side.

           Michael Kahale turned away from another soldier that Axel assumed was reporting on border patrol. He scowled at Axel. “Permission to speak out of place,” he requested.

           Reyna scanned their environment, taking into account the way piglet-Phobetor had darted off, how Lou Ellen and Alabaster dragged Clovis to the border, how they still didn’t hear any commotion from inside the camp to hint at others waking up, and how her troop’s morale had lifted.

           “Granted,” she spoke robotically. Her mind seemed to catch up with how odd his request was, and she asked, “Kahale?”

           “You and the Leonis Caput need to talk,” he said, tone careful.

           Axel pulled his shoulders back and straightened his posture. Regardless of whether or not he wanted to talk to Reyna as Reyna, he did need to talk with another tactician to exchange information, discuss potential aggression from the enemy, make battle plans, and figure out what troops were available where. But Axel got a sense that wasn’t what Kahale meant.

           All of Axel’s self restraint went into not scouring his pockets for a cigarette. Well, the pockets he didn’t have in his leather pteruges. All he had was a leather pouch that Pax had assuredly put gum into—it had better be gum. And now was not the time for cigarettes, though maybe his smoking would give Reyna more reason to hate him.

           “The war tent would probably be the best place,” Calex broke in.

           Axel glanced from Calex to Michael Kahale. He leaned to the side to see what tattoo was on Kahale’s forearm: a dove. Aphrodite’s symbol.  

           “That’s not necessary—” Axel snapped.

           “Yes it is, mate,” Calex cut him off, grabbed his shoulder, and twisted Axel to face the tent. “You two go debrief and update us on the battle afterwards.”

Before Axel could protest, Calex gave him a solid shove forward.

Axel stumbled once before catching himself. He paused to gather his composure and mentally add kill Calex to his to-do list.

His ears twitched to hear Kahale’s whisper, “It’s best to deal with distractions before they become distracting during a dangerous situation.”

He didn’t hear Reyna give a vocal reaction, though he could envision her cold eyes boring into Kahale’s soul.

After a brief pause where Axel began to turn back towards them, Reyna stepped past him towards the tent. “Leonis Caput,” she called without waiting for him to catch up.

Axel clenched his jaw. He glanced back to the others.

Kahale glared at him, fingering the hilt of his gladius in the quietest of threats.

Calex gave him a charming smile and a thumbs up.

Axel lowered his Mist mask momentarily to bare his teeth at Calex.

Calex and Kahale both paled.

Without intending it, Axel got the distinct feeling he’d made Michael Kahale regret advising Reyna to be alone with him.

Lifting a hand over his face to recraft his human features, Axel turned back towards Reyna. He found Thalia had run up alongside her. In the glint of the floodlights, the silver studs on Thalia’s punk boots and pants glistened. The Lieutenant of Artemis spoke rapidly. Within a few paces, Axel caught up enough to hear, “—eyes still closed. So, it seems like the statue, drakon, and the rest of the camp are still out cold. Christiana even tried firing toilet paper at them, to see if they’d wake up in anger, but they got no response.”

“You TPed the Athena Parthenos?” Reyna asked.[2]

“For a good cause,” Thalia said. “We also tied a rope to Lesedi and sent her in. She faceplanted fast.”

“So, we still can’t get in,” Reyna growled.

Thalia nodded grimly. She glanced at Axel as soon as he caught up to their stride. Thalia and Reyna paused at the entrance of the tent.

Thalia shoved Axel’s shoulder hard. A shock ran through Axel’s body, like he’d been tased, and he could smell what was left of his shirt smoldering. Axel had to grab the tent post to keep from collapsing. His legs clenched up and his chest shuddered.

“My brother had better be alright,” she snapped.

Axel wasn’t sure what to say. Last he’d seen of Jason during Alabaster’s hailstorm, Pax had been repeatedly kicking Jason in an area that might end the Grace family line. If Axel had to take a guess, this wouldn’t be good information to assure Thalia.

Thalia’s glare darted past Axel, back to the others. “Is Euna alright?” she asked, her tone softening.

Axel straightened. “Go talk to her,” he managed.

Thalia hesitated, glancing from Reyna back to Axel. “I hope you realize that fight against Percy and the others really hurt your application for the huntresses.”

He couldn’t tell if she was joking.

She nodded to Reyna before walking back towards the others.

Once she left, Axel slowly lifted his right knee to stretch his leg. He didn’t want to show Reyna how much Thalia had hurt him, but it was better than collapsing as soon as he released the pole.

“You wanted to be a huntress?” Reyna asked. For a split second, there was humor in her voice.

Axel lowered his leg. This felt like Kronos had used his time manipulation powers to take them back in the past and suspend them in the calm of their stay at Camp Jupiter, where Santiago was dead and Axel still had hope that he might join the legion. “That’s the rumor Ajax has spread,” he said.

Whenever Axel rejected a proposition from a camper or monster at Camp Othrys, that’s how Pax would comfort them. Not that Axel wouldn’t love traversing the forest on an eternal hunt but…

Despite how the exhaustion carved deep circles under Reyna’s eyes, she looked regal in her cloak and praetorian armor. When Axel released the pole, the curtain wrapped around it fell, obscuring the entrance behind him.

He hadn’t been sure what Reyna would do after he left Rome. They’d warned them about Camp Half-Blood, but with how little she must trust him…

“You came,” he said.

For a heartbeat, she stared at him. Then Reyna continued into the tent. The set up was small: a few fold up chairs around a flimsy table with a map of Camp Half-Blood. There was an extra sword rack on one side with some paperwork. An overhead light swung gently from one of the supporting poles. A cot was stretched between two posts, one that Axel guessed Reyna hadn’t touched.

At least the tent material kept out some of the cold air. Axel had been struggling not to shiver the whole night. The Leonis Caput fur was warm, but there wasn’t much left of his shirt, between Percy’s firehosing him and Thalia zapping him. And pteruges weren’t designed for New York winters. There was a space heater in one corner, one Axel wished was a little closer.

Reyna absently slipped her knife out and twirled it between her fingers. She walked to the map of Camp Half-Blood, scowling down. There were notes and sketches jotted on scrap paper nearby. A copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses lay open with highlighted pages.

“Regardless of whether or not you had fabricated the warnings about Camp Half-Blood, I knew this camp would be in danger. With Frank pursuing you, it wasn’t difficult for the Senate to agree to two task forces—one on high alert in Camp Jupiter in case your warnings were a distraction, and one to come check here.” She jammed her knife into the corner of the map. “Now, what happened after Calex left? If you don’t have any information that will be useful, then make yourself useful elsewhere.”

Axel forced himself not to react to her curtness. This was better than he’d expected. He gave her a brief rundown of the end of the fight, focusing mainly on the end condition of their allies and how quickly they’d be able to recover and help here.

Then, they recapped the current pieces they knew were on the board: Phobetor was at camp, keeping everything quiet, someone had kidnapped Hemera, according to Pax, Lapis had traveled into Tartarus to deliver a message to someone, and Hiro had taken Percy’s little sister, Melinoe had snatched Nico to use as a “shadow bridge” for something, Atë left a vague warning about the Pax brothers coming to camp, and Eris was distracting all of the gods with petty fights.

Although Reyna’s dark gaze didn’t portray much, her shoulders shuddered when Axel talked about Nico and Will.

Axel wanted to prevent any pauses in the conversation. That would force them both to think about other things. “I saw you have the huntresses on border patrol. Monsters haven’t realized the barrier is down yet, I take it?”

“They’ve killed a few on sight, but no mass numbers yet.”

“You don’t have that many huntresses,” he observed.

“Most of them are with Artemis, hunting a Fox that can never be caught,” Reyna said, “I was lucky I was able to get a hold of Thalia. Communication is still mostly down.”

“And we have your troops and a handful of injured campers,” Axel put a hand on the war table, his brain straining to connect Eris’ illogical dots. “We’re dealing with a goddess that doesn’t need an objective,” Axel muttered. He wished he could pull Pax or Alabaster in here. Pax thought a lot like his mother, and Alabaster had been assigned to taking down Camp Half-Blood’s borders during the Second Titan War. But Alabaster would never cooperate with Reyna and Axel didn’t need Pax’s commentary—

Reyna’s fist shook around her dagger as she dug it into the table, plastic twisting up with each turn.

Axel paused.

Her heartbeat, her scent, her determination---

Shut up, he scolded the Leonis Caput, confused by his sudden interest.

And you stand here, once a warrior, now a coward—

Axel didn’t understand its egging. He was too tired to fully shut it out.

This wasn’t the place for this or the time. But, if Phobetor did start the games up, and there was nothing they could do, then Axel might never get to apologize. Could he apologize for being what he was?

Such an apology would be that of a pathetic, broken spirit.

He puffed up his cheeks and popped them. There was nothing he could really say, but…

“Did any ninja zombie bunnies survive?” he asked.

That was not what he’d wanted to say.

Axel wasn’t ready to be punched in the face. Her fist hit him solidly, knocking him a step backwards. Reyna had pivoted for full follow-through and force. “You set my couch on fire,” she snarled.

Axel spit some blood to the side. “Frank was trying to capture me for execution—”

Before he could fully recover, Reyna slid forward to jam her elbow into Axel’s diaphragm. “You ate Frank’s ear.”

His legs still felt like jelly from Thalia’s tasing. Upon stumbling back into the sword rack, Axel lost his footing and would have been impaled had it not been for the Leonis Caput cloak. He could feel the shape of the swords smash into his bruises. “I didn’t eat it—” he cut himself off to duck away from Reyna’s foot as she tried to crack his skull open with her heel.

When he jumped up to his feet, Axel could hear the sound of metal against metal as Reyna withdrew her gladius.

Although Axel probably should have had a stronger reaction, all he could growl was, “great.”

Leonis Caput. Lieutenant of Kronos’ army. Falls backwards on sword rack before being skewered to death by the woman he loves.

The only worthy opponent is one that struggles until death. Fight her as we’re destined, you worthless fool!

Axel wanted to snarl at the Leonis Caput. Not helping.

A true warrior only wants a worthy opponent. She only wants us when—

“You humiliated me in front of my troops,” she snarled.

Reyna grabbed Axel by the back of his hair. While holding him in place she drove the tip of her sword straight at his chest.

Axel reached past the blade to latch his fingers over her sword hand. He grunted, feeling the tip sink a centimeter into his skin. Up close, he could see the fury in her black eyes, the way her lips trembled, how the swaying light cast highlights in her black braid. He could feel her breath on his face. He could smell her honeyed scent mixed with sweat. And he knew she’d kill him if he let her.

He wasn’t going to die here. And he certainly wasn’t going to humiliate himself any further by not actually fighting.

Axel reached into his pouch with his free hand and withdrew his lighter. He struggled to regain his footing and stand taller.

Both their hands quivered as Reyna strained to push the tip of the gladius further in. Her stance was better. He clenched his jaw as a spike of pain spread in his chest, as the blade slowly sank in and blood spread along the scraps of his shirt.

“I was trying to figure out how to tell you…” he snarled, “Xma’su’tal Xib, Liik’il Xtaabay!”

My turn, the Leonis Caput gargled a laugh. Like a black fog, the Leonis Caput wrestled control from Axel and turned its attentions to the preator he was born to destroy.

Thanks for reading! Axel and Reyna have... *ehem* some tough stuff to hash out.

[1] Mel has repeated expressed her sheer disappointment that Kally doesn’t shout something obscene, or at least special, at Alabaster. So, apparently I feel the need to state: Alabaster likes Kally because she doesn’t publicly humiliate him. And while Kally is slowly evolving from a shy doormat, she has yet to reach her final form, where she can express herself without hesitation, and where she can ask Alabaster if he'll use his wand to cast "aguamenti" on her.... I really hope Kally doesn't go to Pax for flirting advice.

[2] I looked up TP to make sure there weren’t any extra letters to it, and I found there is a wikihow entry on toilet papering someone’s house, down to proper throwing and stealth techniques. Pax, I know you and Mattias are out there, giggling behind some computer screen. I will find you.