#The priest is going to be super upset about the rampant temple destruction

[whispersinthedawn]

Concealed in the Coriolis Ch 7

“First time I saw you, I thought you were a model,” Percy blurted out. “Models are – supremely attractive individuals people buy pictures of and would follow into danger simply because they crooked a finger.” 

What a convoluted way to admit to attraction – except Percy couldn’t make himself confess to something he’d never entertained. Oh, Apollo had been hot. 

But Annabeth and Rachel were hotter.  

“Sure, waking up from unconsciousness just to see your face would be terrifying, if you threw me on the ground, I’d probably break all the bones in my body, and if you tossed a hairbrush at me, you’d knock a hole in my head,” Percy kept talking and just talking despite the horror filling Coronis’s features.  

“I’ve never seen you fight, and you never stole a toothbrush for me or sent someone to medical with hives so I could go on a quest, but I’m certain you have your talents.”  

What talents did Apollo have again? 

“Like setting fires or speeding up vehicles,” Percy enthused. “Or ensuring that my arrows strike the target. No wait. That was Hera.” 

Or whatever they called her in the city with a name that resembled the Phlegethon that Percy had already forgotten except to note it was one of those self-aggrandizing, egoistic examples of aristocracy that culminated in changing perfectly normal names into some reflection of your own name.  

As if they were so terrified of being forgotten they needed to merge their legends with those of an entire city so that their shadow would endure for eternity. 

A crackling noise from the ceiling drew Percy’s attention upwards. Even as he watched, dust from dried mortar rained down and cracks appeared around a rectangular piece of the roof. Percy peered up at the spot, trying to figure out whether this was an extraordinary circumstance or if the entire roof was about to collapse on his head.  

The wooden tile dangled for a heartbeat, allowing a beam of sunlight to illuminate dust motes dancing in a column just an inch from Percy’s bare foot. Then the aged mortar gave up the fight and the wooden shingle collided with the horizontal rods forming a lattice below the ceiling, before crashing next to Percy’s foot and sending splinters and sunlight everywhere.    

‘Oh, just apologise and say you’ve hit your head and keep spouting the opposite of whatever you mean!’ Coronis pleaded, covering her face with her hands yet peeking out through the gaps between her fingers. 

“I mean,” Percy said hesitantly while staring at the drops of crimson blood beading up on the back of his hand, “You’re a wonderful healer. But is it really healing if you’re the reason the wounds were inflicted in the first place?” 

Another shingle fell to his left. 

“You didn't listen to the whole thing!” Percy tried instead. Apollo was the god of truth, wasn’t he? Perhaps he’d appreciate some unfiltered honesty instead of whatever unhinged narrative had escaped Percy’s mouth while trying to reach a compromise between the inevitability of crafting the future and the unwillingness to participate in that creation. 

“You and I – can create the best child ever!” 

Silence.  

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Percy wheedled. “A child with your hair and my eyes? He’d inherit your skills at healing and be able to cure even death. And he’d inherit ... a love for mortality from me and use those talents to cheat death. And then get murdered in a very messy manner, but until then it would be a land with neither droughts nor floods!” 

‘Why?’ Coronis moaned. ‘Why would you say that?’ 

***

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