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sojourner-between-worlds · 4 years ago

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Why the Idea of Disabled Jesus is Heretical

(Or, at best, a gross misinterpretation of Scripture. But really, it's heresy.)

@aspiringautistic asked on this post from my side blog: "what would be so harmful if there were people who perceived jesus as disabled?" and I am happy to oblige in expanding on those thoughts (though since the answer has little to do with autism and everything to do with Christianity in general, I thought it more appropriate to answer here on main). In case you hadn't prior seen the linked post and don't feel like clicking through, the short of it is this: the Gospel Coalition recently published an article in which the author, Andrew Abernethy, argued that Jesus was disabled. I'm here to tell you where he went wrong.

Hold on to your hats, folks. This is a long post.

(All Scripture quotations taken from the ESV translation.)

1. Disabilities are a result of the Fall. Before I get into anything else, I need to make this point abundantly clear. While being disabled does not dictate worth and it is not an indication of personal sin, it is still not how we are meant to be. Adam and Eve were created in the likeness of God, and were, therefore, created without sin or any of the things that came with sin. They were perfect -- at least until they disobeyed (Genesis 2-3). Sometimes people ask "if there is a God, why do bad things happen?" and the answer is because we live in a sin-cursed world. Disabilities, illness, and death itself exist because Adam and Eve sinned. (Romans 5:12: "Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned.")

2. Old Testament laws regarding sacrifices. The Old Testament Law is very specific when talking about what makes an acceptable sacrifice. There are a lot of different types (everything from bulls to grain), but the relevant ones to this discussion are sacrifices made for the atonement of sins.

There are two categories of sacrifices made for sin: sin offerings made for unintentional sins, and burnt offerings made for sin in general. Burnt offerings and sin offerings both ranged from bulls to doves (or flour for the latter, if nothing else could be afforded) and sin offerings varied depending on both the person and the sin as well (Leviticus 1, 4-5). But all of the animals sacrificed had two instructions about them in common: that they be "without blemish", and that the sinner must place their hand on the head of the animal. The difference between the two was that a sin offering was required as an act of repentance and a burnt offering was voluntary. In the case of burnt offerings, the requirements for bulls and sheep or goats are laid out very plainly: "a male without blemish" (1:3, 10).

In addition to all of this, once a year, on the Day of Atonement, one bull and two male goats would be sacrificed for the people to remove their sins (Leviticus 16; only one goat was killed; the other was sent away, symbolizing the removal of sin). Again, these animals had to be without blemish, just as all the others. The person offering the sacrifice was to place their hand on the head of the animal. The action of placing their hand was symbolic: it was a way of showing that the person's sin was being "transferred" to the animal so that the animal could take the person's place and receive the punishment for sin instead. "Without blemish" meant that it couldn't be sickly or diseased or crippled in any way. It had to be as close to perfect as was possible in a sin-cursed world because anything less than perfect had to die for its own imperfections.

Because these sacrifices could never be truly perfect, they had to be repeated, but all of this was pointing to the time when Jesus would come as the final sacrifice made for the sins of the world.

3. Jesus as the final sacrifice. If you know anything about the Christian faith, you know that this is at the heart of everything we believe. Without Jesus, there is no gospel. So here's why that matters to this discussion:

"But when Christ appeared as a high priest of the good things that have come, then through the greater and more perfect tent (not made with hands, that is, not of this creation) he entered once for all into the holy places, not by means of the blood of goats and calves but by the means of his own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption. For if the blood of goats and bulls, and the sprinkling of defiled persons with the ashes of a heifer, sanctify for the purification of the flesh, how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God" (Hebrews 9:11-14, emphasis mine).

This passage in Hebrews (as well as verses preceding and following) are all about how Christ made atonement for us with His death, and how His voluntary sacrifice of Himself is superior to the OT sacrifices.

So allow me to direct your attention to the bolded phrase above: “offered himself without blemish”. If this sounds familiar, it should, since I talked extensively about this in the point above. “Without blemish” in Leviticus meant to be not crippled or disfigured or ill in any way. If this same phrase is also applied to Christ, then the same must be true. If the OT sacrifices were required to be so, why would the same not apply to the Final Sacrifice that ended the need for sacrifices to be made? It wouldn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. Not when the OT sacrifices were pointing towards Jesus; not when we have a God Who created order and purpose. Jesus had to be perfect to take our places -- and that includes being free of deformities that are a result of a sin-cursed world.

4. Isaiah 53, misinterpreted at best. This was one of Mr Abernethy’s main points, and it’s one he got disastrously wrong by reading what he wanted into Scripture (eisegesis) rather than letting Scripture say what it says (exegesis). See, the thing about interpreting prophecy is that you have to be careful how you do it, and, just like all Scripture, make sure it’s within the proper context.

In the case of this chapter of Isaiah, the wider context is that it’s a prediction of Jesus’ suffering on earth and His death. One of the verses he tries to pass off about Jesus being ugly or deformed is the second part of verse 3: “and as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not.” The problem is, this verse and one directly after it are not about his physical appearance at all. They are about emotions and grief: “He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteem him stricken, smitten by God and afflicted” (vs. 3-4, emphasis mine). This is about Him bearing our burdens and our rejection of Him anyway. This is a parallel that continues as the chapter moves forward.

There is only one physical description in this passage that is not related to His death, and it’s the second part of verse 2: “he had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him.” And this is the only point that Mr Abernethy got correct: Jesus wasn’t the Hollywood definition of drop-dead gorgeous. He looked like your average Joe. In order to not be conventionally beautiful/handsome, that does not dictate that a person must be deformed or “ugly” in any way. The only thing this verse means is that he didn’t stand out from the crowd with His looks. He didn’t look the way they thought their Savior should. That’s it. That’s all it means.

5. Tradition isn't truth (no matter how much anyone wants it to be). I have to admit, adding in a section about a so-called “tradition” that’s nigh on impossible to find anything about was brilliant. The average person wouldn’t even bother looking in the first place, and most people who would look, would give up after five or ten minutes of searching. I spent an hour and found exactly nothing on this “tradition” of Jesus being a leper. So you just... have to take Abernethy’s word for it.

Aside from not being able to find anything on it myself, the argument he uses is faulty anyway. Because tradition doesn’t equal truth, in the first place, especially a tradition that didn’t pop up until the 16th century. There’s no basis for something that apparently wasn’t known until 1400 years after His death.

Aside from that, he calls on Jerome’s Latin translation of Isaiah 53:4 that translates a phrase as “he was like a leper.” First of all, “like a leper” does not mean He actually was a leper. C’mon, man. Any fifth grader in America could tell you that similes are used for comparisons and aren’t literal.

Second of all, if you’d like to make a point, it’s a much better idea to go back to the Hebrew manuscripts rather than to any one translation. Now, I don’t know Hebrew myself, but I do have access to a little thing called the Internet, where you can find a plethora of commentaries from people who do know Hebrew. For this particular problem, I went to Albert Barne’s Notes on the Whole Bible. I’m not going to put his whole notes here (because there’s a lot), but if you’d like to read all of his notes, you can search the verse on studylight.org and use the ‘jump to’ feature under the verse to find him, but the bottom line of his notes on it are this: Jesus wasn’t literally being rightfully punished like the Jews would incorrectly think; leprosy was used here as an example because it was seen as a divine punishment for sin. It has nothing to do with literal leprosy at all.

And to top off this cake of incorrectness... well, has he even read the New Testament? If Jesus had had leprosy, He: a. wouldn’t have been allowed in temples or synagogues, b. wouldn’t have been allowed in towns period, and c. wouldn’t have been nailed to a cross because no one would have risked touching Him in order to do so. Abernethy shouldn’t have even brought this up in his argument, it’s so far off base, and no artist in the 16th century should have painted a painting of a leprous Jesus nailed to the cross because, quite simply, it never would have happened.

6. Jesus relates to us -- but not in the ways Mr Abernethy says. While he never cites any Scripture on this, I’m pretty sure I know where this idea came from. In his article, he states that in order for Jesus to have related to the disabled, He had to be disabled Himself. Since He relates to us, then He must have been disabled.

First of all, the logical fallacy of this statement is this: if He must be disabled to relate to the disabled, then can the abled still relate to Him? The answer to that, of course, would be no, because if He wasn’t abled then He can’t relate to the abled in the same way that Abernethy asserts that He can’t relate to the disabled without being disabled. It’s one of those things where you can’t have it both ways. Another example of how this logic falls short is pregnancy. Can Jesus not relate to pregnant people because He Himself was never in such a state? And the rabbit hole just gets deeper from there: Can He relate specifically to the blind when He was never blind? How about the deaf or hard of hearing? Or people missing limbs, either from birth or through amputation? All disabilities are different, and experiencing one doesn’t mean you understand them all, so by Abernethy’s logic, Jesus had to experience all of them. Do you see how ridiculous Abernethy’s logic here is yet?

Second of all, Abernethy is, once again, taking Scripture entirely out of context -- if, indeed, he got this idea from Scripture at all. Hebrews 4:15 says, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” The problem with trying to use this verse as proof is, obviously, that it’s talking about temptations (Matthew 4:1-11), not lived experiences. If he was, again, referencing Isaiah 53 -- well, that doesn’t work either, because, again, that is in reference to His death and the sins He bore for us on the cross. The fact of the matter is, there are no Scriptures to back up the idea that He had to personally experience everything we do in order for Him to understand our pain and suffering.

The source of this heresy is the same as many heresies, actually: People want to make Jesus into something He's not. I listened to a podcast recently where the host was talking about a couple of heretics, and while I don't remember the heretic's name, he said that to him, Jesus was Latinx because he himself is Latinx. Except that, ya know, Jesus was a Middle-Eastern Jew. It's the same fallacy to say that Jesus was disabled. Everyone wants Jesus -- and God, for that matter -- to be something He's not, rather than for Him to be what Scripture tells us He is, but you can't force God into the box you've carved for Him. He is who He is, no matter how much you want Him to be something different.

There's no getting around it: to make Him out to be anything other than what Scripture tells us He is -- especially when it contradicts Scripture, is heresy.

#christianity #for the record please ask questions #I'm happy to clarify #also don't just take MY word for any of this either #I am but a fallible human myself #and it's good to question what other people say #sorry this answer took so long #I wanted to be thorough

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amethystpath-writes · 4 years ago

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Hi so heads up I did give this prompt to @yourheartonfire (who responded) and previously other blogs (that haven’t) and I thought it would be cool to see your twist on it too since you enjoy writing medieval and stuff.

This one is long and complicated though so buckle up. But basically it’s a Sleeping Beauty retelling but the protag is Aurora’s ace younger sister and it takes place after the fairytale. Aurora’s sister was raised to be the perfect and pragmatic queen but then Aurora (who is very sweet just doesn’t have a royal education) returns and starts accidentally creating court and political problems since she doesn’t know court etiquette and war strategy and stuff. So then Aurora’s sister has to find solutions but subtly as to not create drama.

Also I’d be rlly happy if you somehow include a scene mentioning the sister’s asexuality. I recognize this is medieval era vibes and therefore a little more difficult to talk about “modern” ideas so you can leave it out especially if doesn’t fit the scene lol

I just like seeing different writing styles and interpretations of prompts. Also I’m so sorry that this is long and specific and complicated. Feel free to change the prompt to fit your vision!

I love that you asked multiple writeblrs this; that’s so cool! Glad I could be a part of it! I did mention asexuality a small bit, but I wanted to add really quickly that asexuality is different for all aces. There’s a spectrum of us actually. I just wanted to clarify because I could only represent one, of course, and it’s the one that I understand most closely as it’s the one I experience myself. Alright, on with it! (Also, Lumen means ‘the light’ in Latin!)

******

Lumen ran a hand through her knotted hair as she watched herself in her vanity mirror. A comb might have untangled it more easily, and it would have been encouraged by just about anyone in the palace, but it wasn’t the knots that mattered at all. Lumen was stressed, and stress led to clenched fists in ratty hair.

It was exciting to get the older princess, Aurora, back. Even when she became Queen, Lumen didn’t mind at all. The kingdom held a glorious coronation with many delicate desserts, beautiful curtains which hadn’t seen daylight in ages, and patterns that were temporarily painted along the ballroom walls and floors to tell the very story of Aurora. It was beautiful, and Lumen felt a swell of pride in her older sister for going through such hardships and still being willing to put her name and face out there for all to know and see.

But the pride Lumen felt was dwindling. Aurora was still incredible- still beautiful, kind, gracious, and all the like…but she was a poor queen. She was overly kind, overly giving, overly positive. Lumen hated to think that way, but it was true. Aurora acted without thought of consequence.

A door opened as Lumen continued to look herself in the mirror. There were pockets forming under her eyes. Not only this, they were becoming dark.

With a sigh, Lumen pulled her hand out of her hair, letting it thunk on the desk in front of her. She looked to her right where the door was and saw her husband standing there in the doorway with raised brows.

“You let your hair down,” he noted. “And you are in your nightgown.”

“I’m tired,” Lumen returned simply.

Her husband stepped into the room, easing the door shut behind him before walking to the princess. He laid his arms on her either shoulder and hugged her while she titled her head back to rest against his chest. “If you are tired, you should sleep. You haven’t allowed yourself real rest since your sister came home.” He kissed the top of her head and backed away into the centre of their chambers.

“I slept well the first night.”

Peeling his shirt off, the previous king said, “You know that is not enough.” He tossed his shirt to the side of the bed and moved on to his pants before grabbing a pair of bed shorts. “I know you are worried, but your sister has advisors. I’m sure they can straighten things out.” Even he didn’t sound like he believed it was a solution.

Lumen stood from her vanity and walked to the bed post near her husband as he finished pulling up his shorts. “Nicholas, they only advise her. They cannot stop her ruling, and everything she has ruled so far is just going to drive this kingdom into the ground.” She plopped on the edge of the bed, putting her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. It wasn’t very lady-like, but she didn’t care. She didn’t think Nicholas did either, thankfully.

“Have you ever tried talking to her?” He sat next to her, a hand on her back.

“Not right now,” Lumen said first and shifted until his hand fell away. As her stress was building up, she just wanted to be left to her own. Not emotionally- she needed to dump that part out- but bodily. Comforting touches weren’t all that comforting. Holding hands, sure. A kiss on the head, sure. But beyond that, specifically…delicate touches…Lumen just…didn’t really want it. Not at any point, but especially when she was aggravated.

When Nicholas hugged the princess earlier, she only allowed it because she could tell it’s what he wanted. Even after two years together, he was still adjusting to Lumen’s wants and needs. Maybe she should have corrected it then- he would have retreated- but if it made Nicholas comfortable, Lumen didn’t mind it occasionally. She just wasn’t one for physical affection. Verbal affirmations were nice; she liked those. She liked encouragement. She didn’t find any amount of comfort in touching. It didn’t take any problems away and it wasn’t entirely necessary. It wasn’t completely appalling, but it also wasn’t actively sought after.

“I spoke to her today, about how her order against the lords was a bad idea.” Lumen scooted herself back onto the bed, and then until her back met the headboard of hers and Nicholas’ bed. “I agree that the lords have too much. Some of them are greedy and have way more than they, or their children, will ever need. I have more money and food than what I could ever need. I have voluntarily given those masses away to those who needed it, but not all the lords will. And you cannot force them to! That is how you get uprisings. That is how you get underground alliances between angry lords and other dastardly kingdoms. That is how surprise attacks happen and”- she sniffed- “and I explained all of this to her, Nicholas. She doesn’t get it. I love her, and I want to support her, but she is going about all of this so wrong.”

“You could try drawing her a picture.”

Lumen gave a small laugh, but then said quietly, “That was a rude comment to make, Your Majesty.”

He smiled at her, slid himself on the bed beside her. “Not ‘Majesty’ anymore, my sweet.”

“Maybe not in this kingdom, but I’m allowed to call you my king.”

The conversation turned serious again as Nicholas asked, “What are you going to do about the turmoil which is your sister?”

Lumen thought with eyes closed and her head against the headboard of their bed. She began shaking the latter. “I don’t know. It is not in my place to make demands of her and simply suggesting things to her doesn’t work. I have no idea what could ever fix what she is doing. I just…I wish she would have waited to become Queen. I think it’s great that she is one; she deserves it, but…”

“But she was not ready for it.”

She nodded, opening her eyes again. Sniffled once more. “The only thing I could do is undermine her orders, but I don’t know how to do that, and I”- Lumen sighed- “I will feel so awfully about it.”

“You will feel awfully about saving the kingdom?”

“Well when you say it like that, it makes it sound perfectly okay, but Nicholas, Aurora is my sister. I can’t just- just sneak about her kingdom and-”

“But it is your kingdom, too, love. It is everyone who lives here’s kingdom. By making the decisions she is making, she is putting all of us at risk. Some of the orders she has declared for the armies and cavalry are ridiculous. It’s jeopardizing us all.” Nicholas continued. “If she is not listening to anyone, I wouldn’t blame a single person for intervening. If you do not do it, someone else will, just as you said, and I’m sure it will be less pleasant than if you did.”

Lumen gave a soft sigh, “I know. I want to try talking to her again tomorrow, though, and if that doesn’t work, then I will take more- um- discreet action.”

“Good. I think that will be good. Just do me a favour, my queen?”

She looked to him, waiting.

“Remember you are doing this for her, too. You shouldn’t feel bad for going behind her back when it is only to help her. I have brothers and sisters. I have an idea of how you feel, but you are not harming her, okay?”

Lumen nodded. “Okay.”

“Aurora?”

“Hm?” The queen turned her head over her shoulder, but quickly turned back to make sure the water didn’t boil over. “Oh! Your hair looks lovely today. I didn’t get a look at the dress, but I am sure you are beautiful in it, too. I am making food for the servants. They have been working so hard to clean the ballroom and have hardly had a break. I thought it might be nice to-”

“Aurora!” Lumen shouted. She felt bad about interrupting her sister, but she also knew this was the only way to make her stop talking. Aurora was just so excited and passionate about everything she talked about. It was a nice trait to have sometimes, but Lumen needed to talk to her right now. “I know you think that what you are doing is great- and it is! But, Aurora, I was raised to be a queen and in that, I was taught the innerworkings of the courts. You are a very kind-hearted person, and it isn’t awful that you are that way, but you can’t…Aurora, are you listening?”

The queen was bobbing her head back and forth, humming some sort of tune. Every now and then, she’d mutter a few words. “I know you,” she’d sing, “I walked with you- hm hm hmmm hm hmm.”

Lumen grunted in annoyance. “I really need you to listen to me, Aurora.” Nothing. No response.

That’s it. Lumen shook her head, and without saying another word, walked out of the kitchens, leaving her sister to hum and sing whatever song it was. The queen became distracted easily. Everything reminded her of something else somehow, and it often happened at the most inconvenient of times. Like right now. This was Aurora’s last chance before Lumen would take things into her own hands, and now she was.

Lumen started by taking Nicholas’ valuable possessions- rings and jewels and the sort- without him noticing. She was caught the first few times. It was a quick realization that stealing was easier when the victim wasn’t present. But Lumen worked on just about every case scenario so that she could better her newly discovered skills.

She would become a thief for now; a quiet and stealthy thief who stole from the poor and gave to the overly wealthy if only to appease them and stop a secret war that would undoubtfully endow if Lumen didn’t do this. Since Aurora wouldn’t revoke the new orders she made, this was the only choice- to become an inverse Robin Hood.

Later, the former queen would travel to other kingdoms- disguised, of course- and hire people to smuggle in weapons for her kingdom’s army since Aurora was on a crazy, kind-minded rampage that involved getting rid of all the armies’ weapons, therefore making the kingdom defenseless. While she was gone, Nicholas would cover for Lumen, saying both she and he were sick and that servants should have very limited contact with either of them. It would keep Aurora from realizing her sister was gone.

The kingdom needed great maintaining. Aurora was a lovely person, and Lumen still felt guilty for doing any of this behind her sister’s back, but it was necessary. The queen was ruining the kingdom with kindness- something that shouldn’t have been possible, however it very much was- and now Lumen had to fix it. Maybe she wasn’t queen anymore, but that didn’t mean she would cease her pursuit in taking care of her people.

Death was always terrible, but it was worse when it came with destruction and cries of mercy in war than in poor families and smelly streets.

#request fill #prompt fill #medieval #medieval writing #royalty #political conflict #fairtytale #fairytale retelling #this was such a cool idea and I loved it!

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phykios · 4 years ago

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the marble king, part 7 [read on ao3]

A rare show of contrition, Annabeth conceded that she had been wrong. There were not, in fact, seven rapids to traverse; in total, there had been nine. Unfortunately, Percy could not enjoy this little victory nearly as much as he wished.

Annabeth had been clearly rattled by their encounter several days prior. Once more she retreated into muteness, passing the time by fingering the edges of her shorn hair, a permanent frown delicately carved into her face. He did not like to take pleasure at others’ pain, but he knew that, short of either producing a sign from her mother or tripping and falling into the river, there was not much he could do to make her smile. Hopefully, a real bed on which to sleep in a real inn with an actual roof over their heads would lift her spirits somewhat.

They sailed into a thriving river port city which Annabeth had called Kiova. He rolled the word over and over again in his mouth, wrapping his tongue around the odd sounds. It was a slippery sort of word, he thought, softly repeating it to himself under his breath as though it would fall from his lips entirely if he did not keep it close.

To his great dismay, it seemed as though the people of this city did not speak Italian. Nor did they appear to speak Greek, nor Latin, nor any other language with which Percy was familiar. Though she would not show it, it was plain to anyone who knew her to see that Annabeth was struggling as well. Her conversation with the innkeeper was slow and awkward, stilted, involving a great deal many strange gestures and repeated phrases in both Greek and another several languages he did not comprehend, which clearly made sense neither to Annabeth nor her conversation partner, and Percy was afraid the whole thing would collapse until a bystander, apparently moved to pity, was able to cobble together their shared knowledge of languages in order to rent Percy and Annabeth a room for the night.

She thanked the stranger profusely for his assistance, and he smiled at them, his blue eyes sparkling, something familiar in the curve of his lip.

“It was no trouble,” he said to her, the words colored by his thick, dark voice. “You and your husband--take care.”

He wanted to correct the man. But if he and Annabeth were to share a room, then it would be better for her reputation for her to be a married woman.

When they entered their room, a small, cramped thing with a single lit candle, fairly decent for the amount of money they still possessed, which was not much, she collapsed on their one bed, quite exhausted. “How mortifying,” she groaned, her voice muffled by the thin pillow. “It was like I had forgotten every bit of language I had ever learned. And when he called you my husband!” She huffed, turning over. “It appears as though you were correct; even without my hair, I will never pass for a man. Then what, I ask, was the point of its removal?”

Percy did not say much, distracted by the single bed. He stared at it, equal parts anxious and excited, which was rather silly of him--he had slept close to her several times before, had shared sleeping quarters with her plenty of times, and all of them strictly platonic. Why should this time be any different?

And yet, it was, for reasons he could not name. Perhaps the bed was smaller, and they were so much older. Perhaps it was those terrible, wonderful dreams which plagued him every night, dreams of soft fabrics and softer skin. Perhaps it was just his foolish heart, awakened once more by love.

At his silence, she continued. “Well, it is no matter. It is gone, and I am glad to be rid of it, truly.”

Still, he said nothing.

Perturbed, she looked at him, sitting up on the bed. “What is it? Is something wrong? Is there a monster nearby?”

“No,” he said, quickly, to dissuade her from any fears. “No, nothing of the sort.”

She gazed at him, a queer look in her eye. “What do you think?”

“Of what?” He asked, cautious.

“Of your handiwork.” With a shake of her head, she disturbed her golden crown, some curls falling down her forehead, framing her large, large eyes. “You are not usually one to hide your thoughts, therefore--please, share.”

“Oh.” He was quite certain she would not want to hear his thoughts, yet he sensed that continued silence would be the wrong choice. “You look… well, you look very… comely.” he offered, eyes tracing the line of her neck, and the curves of her ears, so sweet, that had previously been hidden from his gaze. Had he been a more poetic man, he would have the compulsion to dedicate several sonnets to those ears.

Whatever answer she was seeking, it was clear that Percy did not provide.

She scowled, her lips pursed.

“I--”

“Well, I happen to find it very freeing,” she said. She reached up and felt at the ends, for the hundredth time in the last few days, her lips tightening, as though she were unhappy with what she found. “Without all of my hair, I feel as though I could outrace even Atalanta herself.”

Then, she did something he did not expect; she shivered.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Of course,” she sniffed. “I just--I had forgotten--it has been so long since I cut my hair, that I did not realize.”

“Realize what?”

Her fingers once again reached up to play with her short curls--then, midway through her gesture, she caught herself, and brought her hand down again, faintly embarrassed. “Well,” she said, almost shyly, “it can be… quite cold, without so much hair.”

“Indeed?” That was never something he had considered before. Of course, he had spent the vast majority of his life in the warm embrace of the Aegean Sea, where the cold was largely something of a far off myth.

She nodded, drawing her thin shawl tighter around herself. “I will grow used to it with time, I had merely… I had forgotten.”

Though she had not asked him for anything, he made to take the blanket on the bed and hand it to her first, before he remembered. “One moment,” he said, crossing to the corner where he had placed their dwindling amount of supplies, crouching down to rummage through them.

He could not believe he had forgotten this.

Well, on the one hand, he could. It had to have been several months since that day in Athens, since they had ended their little feud. He had seen so much more of the world since then, had traversed farther than anyone he had ever known, save for her.

The color was still as lovely as he remembered, the cool, deep blue of a starless sky. He held the parcel out for her to see, felt the smooth threads between his fingers, spun in a tight, graceful weave. “Here,” he said, pulling out his prize. “This is for you.”

In his search, he had not noticed how she came to stand behind him, peeking over his shoulder, so he was quite surprised when he turned to see her looming over him.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, grey eyes turning silver. Her brows rose up to a point, almost joining together at the wrinkle of her forehead, lips parted in a prolonged, silent gasp. He might have thought she had been turned to stone, were it not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. “This…” she faltered, licking her lips. “For me?”

He nodded.

“How…? When?” she asked, shocked beyond all language.

It appeared he had accomplished yet another feat worthy of the greatest epics; he had rendered Annabeth Fredriksdotter speechless.

Flushing further, he stood. “In Athens,” he admitted. “I--well, I was walking round the old agora, and I saw it, and I thought to myself, well, I imagined that this color would look rather fetching on you, and I had some money to myself, so I… purchased it. For you,” he finished, lamely.

He had nearly forgotten how enthralling it was to be so close to her, to see her stormcloud eyes as they reflected the candlelight, to see every strand of the soft gold of her hair as it ringed her face. He wondered if she should hear how quickly his heart was beating, as it strained to free itself from the confines of his chest and place itself in her hands.

It was like they existed in a glass bubble, a whole world unto themselves, so beautiful. So fragile.

“May I?” she asked, no louder than a puff of wind, and he nodded.

Taking it from his hands, she rubbed her fingers against the thread grain, her eyes taking on that familiar calculating expression. “It is very well-made,” she murmured, rolling it out to its fullest extent.

“I’m told it was for a noble lady,” said Percy, possessed of a sudden coyness he did not know he had. “I received it for a good price, but I had thought it should go to the kind of client for whom it was intended.”

The look she cast him nearly made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Still, she drew it around herself, layering it round her neck and her head, and Percy barely had the time to imagine his hands in its place, before he was struck by the full, glorious image which presented itself to him.

He had been correct in his assumptions; the dark blue fabric looked lovely against her tan skin, but her short curls ringed her face in a halo, like the mosaics of the lords and ladies of St. Sophia, like the depictions of the holiest men and women on the walls of every church.

Percy had never considered himself to be a religious man. He performed the sacred rites and made his offerings to his father and his extended family, but not out of any true sense of theological devotion, and certainly not with the same passion as the Christians or the Ottomans whom he had seen. He did not throw himself to his knees at the thunder and lightning, nor the many miracles he had witnessed in his time, for he had come face to face with the king of the heavens, and had, sadly, found him wanting. He had met and known the gods and goddesses of earth, sea, and sky, and had discovered that they, too, were plagued by the million petty disagreements of mortal living. In some ways, it was a comfort, to know that even those who were all-powerful could be laid low by the simplest of deceptions, that they required great heroes as much as the heroes required them--and perhaps even more. Yet, of course, in other ways, it was quite the disappointment. After the war, after Lukas, after all that he had suffered, it had been difficult not to look at his fellow soldiers, at their prayer ropes and golden images and holy words, without mild distaste.

Looking at Annabeth, though, at the halo of her hair and the dark blue of her shawl, her large eyes, her lips so close, the heat of her body against him… well. Looking at her now, he thought he could teach them a thing or two about devotion.

She felt even closer than before, somehow. Perhaps he had moved towards her. Or perhaps she had. Between them, Thalia’s lightning.

She had kissed him once before, many many years ago, caught in the grip of a volcano, and he would be lying if he claimed he had not thought of it often since then.

Then, she leaned back.

“It seems my siblings were wrong about you,” she teased, her voice half-strained.

“How… how do you mean?” he asked. His head felt as though it were full of air, soft and hazy.

“They all swore up and down that you could never be so thoughtful.” Then she smiled at him, so sweetly, gazing up at him from beneath her honey-colored lashes. “Thank you, Percy.”

His mouth curved upwards in a smile, though he did not think to do so himself. “It was no trouble,” he said, wobbly and weak.

The glass had broken. The moment had passed.

Without further discussion, they prepared themselves for bed. Extinguishing the solitary candle, he laid himself down beside her. The bed was too small for them to be at a respectable distance, unfortunately, and he hoped she would forgive him.

Their room had one small window, shuttered close. Not even a hint of moonlight penetrated the slatted wood. Through the door, he could faintly hear the sounds of the tavern under them, a cascade of footsteps here, a sudden bark of laughter there, the whole of this strange, strange world beneath their feet. Eyes opened, eyes closed, it made no difference. Were it not for the noises of the people below, he would have thought they could be under the very earth itself, once again descending into the darkness of the underworld.

All of twelve years old and sent on a fool’s errand to retrieve Zeus’ weapon, contending with the notion that he might not return, that he might fail and bring war upon the world, that his mother would be lost to him forever, he had braved the halls of Hades with this woman at his side, just as afraid as he.

In the darkness now, as he drifted off to sleep, he nearly jumped back to wakefulness at the brush of her hand against his. He turned his head to her, but he could not make out her features, could not see her eyes to determine if it was conscious or not, if she had reached for him for comfort or if her hand had simply moved of its own accord.

On their first quest together, in the land of the dead, she had slipped her hand into his, desperate for a friendly touch, for assurance that there was someone else alive with her. Swallowing, closing his eyes against the blackness, he laced his fingers with hers, squeezing. I am here, he thought, sending it to her through the pulse of his hand. I am here.

After a moment, she squeezed back.

***

Percy was tired.

No, that did not entirely sum up precisely how tired he felt. Percy was exhausted. He was so exhausted, it was as if he had participated in a week’s worth of war games without any rest. His body ached as though Thalia or Iason had struck him with lightning, a constant, thrumming pulse of pain throughout his whole body. He felt as though he had been emptied of his vital insides, hollowed out and replaced with naught but a deep, deep fatigue.

It was, he knew, due to the endless days of sailing they had undertaken.

He did draw his power from the water, this was true. However, they must have been sailing for at least several months by now, day after day after day, Percy commanding the Empress through the tides, headed against the current, traveling ever North on the windiest road known to mankind. So far from the ocean, not even the Danapris could sustain him for as long as they had been traveling, and he could tell that his strength was wearing thin.

And it was not just him. The Empress wobbled beneath his feet, her hastily made bark splitting along the seams. If they did not stop for a rest, and soon, it was very likely that their canoe would capsize, taking both Percy and Annabeth with her.

Thankfully, Annabeth seemed to understand his exhaustion without him having to explain. “Just a little further,” she assured him. “Miliniska is close--not more than a mile or so.”

Percy could not even reply, so depleted he was.

It certainly did not help that a storm was about to roll in.

The clouds above were black, heavy with rain, the wind buffeting their poor little canoe, tossing it this way and that. The sail was nearly useless at this juncture, Annabeth’s stitches slowly unraveling, the fabric whipping in the growing gale.

Though the river flowed wide and steady, Percy felt as if they were sailing through a lake of mud, a thick, sticky marsh which impeded their progress to the point of death. His eyes burned, the harsh wind stinging; his spine could no longer hold his weight; he panted, open-mouthed, like a dog in the height of summer.

Perhaps he would break alongside his boat. He would not mind so much. Even a week spent unconscious at the bottom of this foreign body of water would most likely do him some good.

But he could not do that to Annabeth. She had trusted him with her safe return, and by all the gods he no longer knew, he would see her home.

“Che cazzo, how much further?” he asked through gritted teeth, letting slip a sailor's curse.

“Not long,” she assured him. “Just a little more.”

“Is it possible,” he gasped, “you could be a little more specific?”

The Empress rocked from side to side.

“Percy!” called Annabeth, grasping the sides of the boat.

“I know!” he shouted back. He squeezed his eyes, poured all of his thought into keeping them afloat.

The waves themselves seemed to fight him, the water striking the sides with such force as to send Annabeth careening from one edge to another.

He could not hold it for much longer.

“Percy!” Annabeth shouted over the roar of waves. “Port bank!”

The ship turned sharply. With a yell, he shot his hands out, splitting the water before them, steering the Empress towards the shore like a shot out of a cannon.

It wasn’t enough.

The canoe tore wildly beneath them, the seam of the tree coming apart with an almighty crack. As he had done in Constantinople, he summoned a great wave from the depths of the river, wrapping it around Annabeth, and hurling her the rest of the way to the river’s edge, onto the sandy shore.

Then the Empress split apart under his feet, dropping Percy into the water.

So drained he was, he could not even enjoy it.

He was in no danger of drowning, of course, but he was in danger of losing all consciousness, a terrible idea even when one was not in the middle of an unfamiliar territory. Who knew what sort of spirits lurked in this river, so far from the ancient sea? The water nymphs of the rapids had recognized him for what he was and had made no attempt to hide their distaste; he did not wish to try himself against further unknowns.

If he did not make it to shore, he would not die, no, but only the Fates knew where he might wash up, and he would be lost. He would be lost, and Annabeth would be alone.

Summoning the last of his strength, the blackness of exhaustion flickering at the corners of his vision like smoke, he reached deep within the core of himself, to that place that pulsed with the pull of the tides, that place which shook apart the very stones. With the last of his muster, the son of the sea god, the former Praetor of the Twelfth Legion, the lost little Hellenos issued but one command to the northern river: Take me to shore.

Then nothing.

***

When he woke, there was solid ground beneath his back.

The sky had cleared, the stormcloud grey giving way to a fiery sunset, a smooth, slow gradient of orange and purple and blue. No longer was the air thick with the scent of rain, but now cleaner, and bright.

And, he realized with a jolt, he was starving.

He groaned, a purposeless noise, yet it would prove to be a useful one all the same.

“Percy!” cried a voice to his right.

A form scuttled over to him, crowding his vision, and he had to blink through the fog of his eyes to realize that it was Annabeth. Her hands patted him up and down, from forehead to neck to chest, and she was babbling a mile a minute, far too quickly for Percy to comprehend. “Oh, thank goodness, you’re awake, I knew that you were not capable of drowning, but you have been asleep for so long, and I was so worried--”

“Ungh,” he said, most intelligently.

Annabeth hauled him up from the ground, her strong hands clutching at his shoulders, crushing him to her chest. He felt her hitched sob against him, then, just as he was thinking to bring his arms around her, she pulled back, and did something very, very strange.

She kissed him. Chastely, just a press of her lips to his, but desperate, her fingers still digging into the meat of his shoulders.

Had he been more awake, he would have opened his mouth to her in turn. As he was now, he could not even pull forth the strength to deepen the kiss, or even to react to it in a positive manner.

Then, her eyes widening, she dropped him back onto the ground.

“Oh, forgive me!” she cried at his sudden grunt of pain.

“Guh,” was his eloquent response.

“I--I am sorry, I did not--I would never--”

“Urgh,” he said, his lips tingling, the phantom feeling of her mouth on his potent enough to draw him the rest of the way from his unwilling slumber.

There must have been water lodged in his ears. Or he was still sleeping. Or perhaps his brains really had turned to seaweed. Because there was no way, no possible way, that that had just happened. She did not just kiss him. No.

He tried to sit up, only for his head to spin in a sudden vertigo. Curling onto his side, he shut his eyes until the sky above him stopped swirling in such nauseating patterns. “Easy,” said Annabeth, calmly, with the air of someone who has done this many times before. “Do not strain yourself.”

Hissing in effort, for his muscles still felt stretched and thin, far too overworked and overused not to ache, he sat up, raising himself on unsteady arms. “Are you alright?” he asked, casting a quick look up and down her person for any injury.

A respectful distance away, she blinked at him. “You have been asleep for near on a day, and you are concerned for me?”

He--he must have imagined it, the kiss. She did not look on him any differently than she had before. She did not linger at his side, forlorn and desperate. She did not shed any tears for his safe return. So he had to come to the conclusion that he had almost certainly fashioned the whole incident in his memory from thin air.

Then, of course, Percy replied to her question without considering the ramifications of his words. “Yes.”

She was silent for a moment, then shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she said. “Truly ridiculous. Come, phykios. I’ve got a fire going.”

With all her considerable strength, she was able to half-carry, half-drag him closer to her campsite. “You say,” he grunted, doing his best not to wince with each step, “that I have been asleep for a day?”

“Nearly two.”

She deposited him near the small fire, and he shivered as the warmth washed over him, enveloping him in its comforting embrace. It was a meager display, her rumpled bag of supplies propped up against a rock, a few thin, little fish, blackened by smoke and ash resting on a flat stone by the fire. “I apologize,” he said, bringing his arms around himself, rubbing the feeling back into them. “I did not mean to tire myself out so.”

“You apologi--” Cutting herself off, she stalked to the other side of the fire, angrily stoking it with a stray branch. “You apologize, when I am the one who forced you to sail every day, nonstop for over two months, dragging you all over the world on a handful of hazy memories of a road long which has since fallen out of use--”

“Annabeth--”

“You have no reason to apologize, Percy. None at all.” She stood behind the flames, the blue shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “It is I who must seek forgiveness from you.”

“I do not require--”

“I know that you cannot drown,” she said, watching the smoke rise, “but I--I knew that the road would be long and hard, and still I pushed you, day after day, watching you wear yourself thin on the river, and when you would not awaken, I was afraid that… that I had forced you to give too much.” Taking a shuddering breath, she threw in a bit of fish to the fire. He thought he saw the flames leap a little higher--though his vision was still a little fuzzy, and he may very well have imagined it. “I apologize, Percy. My pride had taken precedence over your health, and in return, you nearly died for my sake. If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me,” her eyes squeezed shut and she turned her face away, “of course I will understand.”

“Of course I forgive you,” said Percy, without hesitation. “There is naught to forgive, Annabeth.”

“You could have died.”

“A little exhaustion is not enough to rid you of me.”

“Percy--”

“Enough,” he said. “You have done nothing which requires any absolution. I promise.”

When she finally turned back, there were tear tracks, clear as day, streaking down the grime of her beautiful face, and he just barely held himself back from confessing that to die for her sake would be the easiest thing in the world for him to do.

“I swore that I would see you safely home, and I shall. Though perhaps I should be insulted,” he teased, “that you think so lowly of me. A mere river, overcome the son of Poseidon? Come now, skjaldmær. You of all people should know better.” This line of banter, how familiar it was to them. His head still spun from earlier, and he longed for the solid ground of their partnership to steady him.

But she would not rise to such taunts, not this time. “I would rather that you stay by my side and we never make it home,” she said, so serious, “than return to my father without you.”

Oh, how her curls moved in the evening breeze, the golden-copper shine of her hair stark against the encroaching night sky, her mouth set in a stern line, the delightful little divot on her forehead when she frowned a whorl of shadow against her skin. He loved all Annabeths equally, but this one, who so casually and easily spoke truth from her heart, he liked this one very much.

“Where are we?” he asked, rather than pursue that line of thought any further. “You said we were approaching Mil--Milani--”

“Miliniska,” she said. “And we are not far; a few hours’ walk at most, by my calculation.” Though she did not seem pleased at this assessment.

“What is it?”

Lips pursed, she sat down heavily upon the stone. He could not see through the smoke, but he imagined her playing with the edges of her blue shawl, the way she did when she was anxious. “I… I am unsure of our next steps.”

“We continue along the river, do we not?”

“I had thought so, yes.”

“Then once we have reached the city of--of--” he cursed as his tongue tripped over the strange sounds, his mouth not at all fit for this slippery, slick language of the North, “Holmgarðr , then we turn West to Svealand. Is this not the way?”

“Well, yes,” she said, “but I do not--I mean, I am uncertain--oh!” She raked her hands over her head, mussing up her wild hair even further. “I do not know where to go from here.”

He frowned. Her words made no sense to him. “But you know everything.” This was no mere romantic declaration; it was a truth that he had carried ever since he was twelve years old. No matter what questions he had about this strange, strange world, Annabeth would have the answer, or she would be able to seek out the answer, precisely because she was Annabeth, and because she did, indeed, know everything there was to be known.

She turned red beneath the dirt on her face. “Would that were true, then perhaps I would not have led us here.”

“How do you mean?” he asked, a cold, sinking pit in his stomach, despite the warmth of the fire.

Sighing, she slumped even further, the point of her chin nearly level with the flames. “There are many river-roads here,” she said, haltingly, though the flood of words could not be stopped, “and--and they get all jumbled up, in my head, you see. When I--when I ran away, my plan was to trace the Dúna to--to--” she screwed up her face, stamping her foot in frustration. “Oh, even now I cannot remember the name in Greek! There are so many names, Percy, in Greek and Norse and this strange, strange language that I cannot speak, and Lukas was the one who spoke them all when I was little, and I fear that I will have brought us to ruin, for I cannot make sense of it all.” She gazed at him, her large eyes glistening once more with tears. “I know not where I am, and all my faculties have deserted me, and I have dragged you here with me, into the unknown, and now our ship is gone, and--and--”

Then she performed the action which Percy had come to fear most: she began to weep again.

“Annabeth,” he said, as gently as he could, “you cannot blame yourself for what happened to the Empress. She would have given out eventually; it was merely our misfortune that it happened to be now.”

Still, her shoulders shook, her head dropped into her hands.

“We can find our way North again,” he promised. “We still have the stars, do we not? And surely we can craft another vessel.” Though it would take them much, much longer, as they no longer had any of the tools which they had left behind at Sigeion.

She did not respond.

“Annabeth, please.” He was not above begging or pleading, if only she would cease her weeping, if only she would smile again. “Please, it will be all right. Annabeth, my lo--”

Percy very nearly slapped a hand over his mouth, for he had almost let slip a sweet little endearment from his lips. However upset she was now, she would certainly not appreciate a declaration of romantic affection at this moment. She was in no position to accept it, and he would not wish to take advantage of her emotional upheaval.

“Oh, Annabeth,” he said, keeping a close watch on his words. “I do not blame you. I do not blame you one iota. Everything will be all right, I swear it.”

He could not reason with her to draw her out of her despair. All he could do now is wait for this to pass, and pass it would.

And pass it did.

Her sobs weakened, eventually, short, painful little things giving way to long stretches of quiet sniffles. Through the flames, he observed her shoulders still, the tension in her hands fading away, her whole form collapsing in on herself as all her sorrow deserted her. For some time, there was no sound but the crackle of flame, the gentle rush of the river, the whispering noises of nature which surrounded them, birds and insects and the breath of the land itself. What a boon, for Percy and Annabeth so exhausted, for there was nothing left but peace. Tranquility. Time for rest, healing, and safety, things the absence of which they had long since felt.

“I apologize,” she said, after a while. Her voice was rough, as though she had swallowed a mouthful of earth. “That was… I did not expect that.”

“Think nothing of it.” All warriors had limits, and all warriors had a point at which they could take no more. There was no shame to be felt in such a release.

Though as she continued to avoid his gaze, he wondered if perhaps she was not ashamed of the act of grief, but at the simple fact that he had been present to bear witness to it, that even though they had traveled together for so long, had endured so much together, there were still parts of her she did not feel comfortable baring to to him. The thought made him profoundly sad. He trusted her with his life--and he always had. At the close of the second Titanomachy, she had leapt in front of a poisoned blade which had been aiming straight for his unprotected flank; after such a debt owed to her, did she think he would still find any part of her shameful?

Then, she surprised him yet again. It was starting to become a pattern, it seemed.

“I know you must be angry with me,” she said, her eyes hidden from view.

It was only with the greatest strength of will that he kept himself from bursting out laughing at the sheer absurdity of such a statement. Percy, angry with her? For showing emotion? “What ever for?”

“For getting us lost.”

“We are not lost,” he chided. “This nearby town, Mal--Miliano--”

“Miliniska,” she said, a weak grin gracing her features.

He shook his head. “Yes, that one, surely someone there will be able to point us in the right direction.”

“And if there is not?”

“Then we put our teachings to use,” he said. “We have been trained for this, have we not?”

“For battle, yes. For wandering around the northern wilderness, less so.”

He waved a hand, carelessly. “I am certain some skills will overlap.”

But she would not stray from her course. “I had thought you would be displeased with me,” she said. “I know you were concerned about the agoge, about your mother, but I convinced you to accompany me instead. Would you not rather be searching for her, instead?”

Annabeth knew firsthand how he adored his mother. Though clearly it had been the right decision, sending her away from Constantinople had been one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. Hardly a day went by when he did not think of his mortal family. To be parted from them in this manner, so precarious, was a kind of agony he had not known existed. And yet, he could not very well admit to Annabeth that he would rather be here, now could he? “Wherever she is, I know that my mother is safe.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I have faith.” His mother was a resourceful woman, always had been. She had survived for years under the thumb of her hateful first husband; to pack up, flee the city, and then begin anew with a man who truly loved her would be no large undertaking.

“I wish I could believe as you do,” said Annabeth, softly.

Percy would never quite describe himself as a man of faith, but he had his moments. “It is not so difficult if you choose the right people to believe in.” A simple truth, yet Percy had been blessed with such wonderful people in his life, such ample resources. People like his mother and Paul, Chiron and their friends. People like Iason and the Legion.

People like Annabeth.

“I suppose, then, I have a bad habit of choosing the wrong person.” Through the fire, her eyes turned dark, bitter, sad. “Everyone I have ever believed in--my father, Lukas, my mother--they have all of them left me behind.”

He wished he could refute her claim, but he found he could not. He had seen the temple of Athena, cannibalized for Christian men, and the court of Poseidon, a cold, dark ruin.

Still. “Surely not everyone?” he asked.

She lifted her gaze to him, locking eyes from across the blaze. “No,” she said, thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not. Not everyone.” Then she frowned, as though something had suddenly occurred to her. “You said… you named our ship the Empress?”

Oh. He had hoped she had not heard that part. Flushing lightly, he nodded. “I did.”

“I see.” And she blushed in return.

The moment felt big, somehow. Large, like a fork in the road, or the moment before sunrise, where the world held its breath and anything could happen. Endless possibility.

Perhaps now was the proper time. At such a declaration, had he the strength, he would have gone to her at once, taken her in his arms and demonstrated just how deeply his affections ran.

Alas, he did not.

He yawned, hugely.

She huffed a laugh. “You are still tired?” she asked.

Nodding, he rubbed at an eye. “Though I do not see how. I feel as though I could sleep for yet another day.”

“Perhaps you should rest a while longer,” she said.

Roughly scrubbing his hands over his face, he said, “No, no, we should not waste much more time, if we are now relegated to walking.”

“Tomorrow,” she insisted. “The hour is late.”

“I would like to sleep in a real bed for a change.”

“We do not have enough money to rent a room for the night.”

“Then I can pay in manual labor, or--”

So faint, he nearly missed it, the slight tickling in the corner of his mind.

Noting his pause, Annabeth stood up, her hand automatically going for her weapon. “What is it?”

Slowly, he turned towards the woods which bordered the river. “I am not sure,” he said, slowly. “It… it sounds like…”

It was not sound, not as men typically understood it. The voice did not travel through the air, into the ear. Rather, it seemed to emerge from within his mind, a thought that was not his own. The tone, the timbre, sincerity behind the words, it was all so familiar, so comforting. This voice belonged to a simple kind of creature, hardy and tough, and what was more, it belonged to a creature Percy knew.

“It can’t be,” he said.

And yet, it was.

From the forest emerged a horse, a beautiful, brown thing, who trotted over to them without hesitation. Bypassing Annabeth entirely, the horse came to a stop next to Percy, dipping her head--for she was a mare--and with a start, Percy realized that this was the very same horse which had carried them to the safety of Prosphorion Harbor, in the thick of smoke and battle.

“How are you here?” he breathed, one hand coming up to stroke her nose.

“What?” asked Annabeth. “What is she saying?”

In astonishment and wonder, he could not help but smile. “She says she heard your call.”

“What call?”

“And,” said Percy, turning to her, “she says she will take us wherever it is we need to go.”

Her eyes widened, mouth open in shock and delight. “Truly?”

As if to answer Annabeth’s question, the horse nodded in assent.

“Can she take us to the Dúna?”

He relayed the question to the horse, and then translated for Annabeth: “She does not know the name, but if you can direct her to the place, she would be more than happy to carry us there.”

“Oh, oh, magnificent!” Annabeth rushed over, throwing her arms around the horse’s neck. “Oh, you blessed animal!”

The horse--whose previous rider, several months and hundreds of miles past had named her Theophanu, as she had told him--gave a short huff, pressing her head against Annabeth’s.

“We haven’t a moment to lose,” said Annabeth, releasing Theophanu with a pat on her nose. “Let me grab the supplies; you can sleep on the way.”

He had thought to assist her in dismantling the camp, but, truth be told, he was simply too exhausted still, and the thought of sleep was a welcome one. Seated as he was, he felt himself swaying gently, a leaf caught in the wind, succumbing to large, painful yawns as often as his body could produce them.

Theophanu swiveled her gaze to him, large and piercing, and asked him a question.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She asked again.

His cheeks flushed. “Of course not.”

The horse looked at him, unconvinced.

“We are only traveling together for the time being,” he said, weakly. “She is not my w--”

“Did you say something?” asked Annabeth, turning towards him.

If possible, Percy flushed even further. “Ah, no! Nothing to report.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged.

Before he knew it, they were all packed up and ready to go, Theophanu loaded down with their meager supplies. “Here, Percy.” Annabeth came round to his side, taking his arm and slinging it over her shoulder, using his own body as leverage to lift him up from the rock where he had nearly made his bed again. “Allow me.”

Together, they clambered onto Theophanu’s back. Annabeth sat before him, clutching the makeshift reins she had cobbled together out of what remaining rope they had left. Overcome with fatigue, his head bent forward until it rested against her shoulder, his nose pressed into the joint of her neck, her short curls brushing against his skin.

So tired was he, he could do barely more than mumble an apology into her shirt.

“It is fine,” she assured him. “Here, put your hands round my waist so you do not fall off.”

Her skin was hot. Or perhaps he was merely cold. He could no longer tell.

Drawing himself closer to her, he draped himself against her back, following her instruction. “Sleep, Percy,” he felt her murmur to him. “I’ve got you.”

Rocked by Theophanu’s gentle movements, the scent and feel of Annabeth all around him, there he fell asleep, a stray lock of her hair inching its way towards his mouth.

When he awoke the next morning, he would swear it was the greatest night’s sleep he had had in quite some time.

***

The nearer to the city they were, the stronger Percy felt.

Certainly, they were much too far from the port, but still Percy swore up and down that he could smell the sea. “I promise you, I can smell it!” Cresting the little mound, he thrust his arms out to the sides, taking in a large, large sniff. “The smell of salt, of fish, wet wood and smoke--” he sighed, full of ardent passion. “Thálatta, thálatta !”

“We still have quite a ways to go, phykios,” Annabeth grumbled, though he could see her fighting down a smile. “Are you certain what you smell is not your own most tender perfume?”

But her taunts could not bring down his mood on this day. After months of travel by river, from one end of the world to another, at last, at long last, they had returned to the sea.

Annabeth had called this city Riga, another strange word, but at least one that he could say without much trouble. They had let Theophanu free a few miles back, choosing to make their way into the city on foot, as Annabeth did not think they could bring her with them to Svealand, and she did not wish to sell their friend to some heartless man who might treat her poorly, despite the fact that Theophanu could, most likely, fetch them quite a handsome price. For services rendered, two weeks of her time and who knew how many miles, she deserved to be set free once more, to roam in peace and contentment, and thus, Percy had sent her off with the blessing of the little Horselord, as she had so fondly called him.

But now, now--the sea was within his grasp once more. The city of Riga rose up in the distance, the castle towers dark against the late afternoon sky, like trees rising above the red slanted roofs.

Even to his untrained eye, the difference in architecture was stark. The towers, thin and spindly and sharp, seemed to be reaching towards the heavens. The tallest had a cross placed on the very top of the spire, and Percy wondered how a man could even reach such heights so as to take care of it. Clearly this tower rested on top of a church, though it was the oddest church Percy had ever seen before. He supposed he had grown too used to the domes of St. Sophia and its ilk, yet to him it was still stranger than the church in Athens which had once been the mighty Parthenon.

By the time they entered the city proper, the sun hung low in the sky, a slight chill in the air. Percy shivered beneath his cloak, marveling at everyone around him who seemed unaffected by the cold. “Nothing like an unseasonable bit of chill, no?” he asked, hoping to spark some conversation after such a long silence.

She raised a brow. “This is not cold.”

“Of course it is,” he scoffed. “It is barely mid-September. Surely the seasons have not yet changed.”

“Oh, Percy,” she said, almost pityingly. “We are in the North, now. To those that live here, the coldest nights of Sigeion would seem the height of the summer heat.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “It can be colder than this?”

With a sad, mockingly sorrowful shake of her head, she pressed on, leading them through the crowded docks.

“Annabeth,” he near-pleaded, jogging lightly to keep apace. “Please. Tell me it does not grow colder than this, I beg of you.”

She put her hand out, stopping him in his tracks. “A moment.”

They had come before a little cargo ship, her captain speaking at length with another man. Annabeth narrowed her eyes, her lips moving slightly as she whispered to herself in that expression Percy had come to recognize as the one she wore when she was concentrating very intensely on any given task, usually a war game strategy of some manner or other, before grabbing a hold of his hand, and dragging him with her as she stepped up to the captain, before engaging in a lively conversation with him.

A conversation that Percy could not follow, naturally. He could pick out a few words here and there, just by virtue of having known Annabeth for so long, things like “farbror” and “pengar” and “Grikkir,” but they flew by so quickly, he could not be sure if he had truly heard them.

A far, far cry from the stilted, unsure exchange she had shared with the gentleman in Kiova, Annabeth was well and truly in her element as she spoke with the captain. The words flew back and forth between them, faster than he thought would be possible with such a liquid, languid tongue. Occasionally, she would refer back towards Percy, and he would straighten his spine, lifting his chin in an attempt to look more dignified. There was not much he could do about the unfortunate length of his hair, nor the travel-worn state of his clothing, but he did his best to take on an air of importance, following Annabeth’s lead as she spoke, most haughtily.

Yet the conversation dragged on. It was several minutes of increasingly heated exchange before Annabeth turned away from the captain, bristling with anger. “Percy,” she said, imperious, “do you think you can sail this vessel?”

He flicked his eyes to the ship. It was small-ish, double-masted, well taken care of. “Most likely.”

“Very good.” She turned back to the captain, sneering, and said, “I trust you’ll help me steal it, then?”

Percy started. “Perhaps it would be best not to discuss this with him present?” It wasn’t that he was not agreeable to a little theft--quite the contrary, he would be happy to assist--but, well, the man was right in front of them.

But Annabeth just scoffed. “He does not speak our language; he cannot understand us.”

True to her word, the captain merely blinked at them, uncomprehending.

Very well. “Your orders?”

“On my mark,” she said. Then, she turned back to the poor man whose livelihood they were about to overturn, and, quite theatrically, burst into tears--great, heavy, cacophonous wails, which drew the attention of every man who surrounded them. So pitiful were her sobs, the good men of the port stepped up to comfort her, to see if there was some boon they could give or act they could perform to ease her sorrow, and so taken were they with her, a feeling with which Percy could certainly empathize, that none noticed as Percy quietly backed away, slipping onto the docked ship.

***

It was very early in the morning, but Percy had not felt so awake in months. Even in such a foreign place as this, the sea filled him full of power, sharpening his senses and lifting his spirits. They were making excellent time, the breath of Notus firmly at their backs, propelling them ever northward, and Percy felt so fine, he could not help but sing. Now, if only it had not been so damned cold. “Hýdōr thélō genésthai, ópōs se chrō̂ta loúsō,” he hummed, a song for a young girl he had heard once upon a time, “ópōs, ópōs, ópōs se chrō̂ta loúsō.”

“I do not know this one,” Annabeth commented, her hands curled around the lip of the wood as she kept a lookout--for what, she would not say--but her face was not turned out to the sea, rather, she looked at him so curiously, her head tilted. “From the Anacreontea?”

Percy shrugged. “I know it not, but heard it from the docks in Constantinople.” A lesser known talent of his, he seemed to have a nearly limitless memory for sea songs. If it were able to be sung on the water, then Percy would remember it perfectly. He could sometimes forget the shade of his mother’s hair, but he could remember these silly little sea songs. “If it is not to your liking, I am certain I could find another. Or, I could cease entirely.”

“No, no, it is very sweet,” she said. “You can sing to your heart’s content.” Then she sighed, wistful. “My father tried to teach me sea songs, once.”

“Oh?” he asked, delicately. The subject of her family was a sensitive one, he knew, but he confessed a deep curiosity for the man who helped make her into who she was. “Songs for when you went a-pillaging the coasts of Gallia and Anglia?”

Her pretty face twisted, the familiar frown she wore whenever she felt he was being particularly stupid. “You are aware that the age of the Vikings has long since passed, yes? Svealand is now as Christian as Constantinople. As it was,” she corrected.

Sensing that they were about to embark on a very sad road, he sought to change the subject before they did. “You mean to tell me,” he said, injecting as much of a teasing lilt as he dared, “you were not once the littlest of the shieldmaidens? You did not sleep on the longboats, with the dogs of war, ready and eager to fight?” He’d seen visions of Annabeth as a little girl, traveling the world with Thalia and Lukas, already such a fierce fighter, and though he knew what kind of pain she had borne, the picture in his head still made him smile, a pretty little girl with golden curls and a fierce gaze, brandishing a knife entirely too big for her. “

“How I wished I could,” she sighed again, near-dreamily, seeming as if she had been struck by Cupid’s arrow. “I used to dream of the great shieldmaidens of yore, of Freydís Eiríksdóttir and Brynhildr Buðladóttir, of fighting alongside them, but alas, it was not meant to be.” The smile slipped from her face, and she grew pensive once more. “My step-mother put a stop to those dreams once she deemed me to be too old to have them.”

“She did not appreciate the honor of shieldmaidens, then?”

Annabeth snorted, entirely unladylike. “Certainly not. She sought to bleed that part of me fully, as leeches to a festering wound, until I was sufficiently empty to be made full of the Christian god. When I was little,” she said, staring out to sea, “she brought me with my brothers on a business trip of sorts. She told my father that she was taking us on a pilgrimage to the great churches of the continent, but when we sailed into Riga, she…” Trailing off, she tightened her hands on the wood of the ship, her gaze hardening. Percy adjusted his grip on the rope, easing them more into the direction of the wind. “She attempted to leave me there,” Annabeth said, each word as heavy as a stone, dropped into the great, black deep. “She thought to consign me to a convent.”

A convent? “Rachel studied at a convent for a time,” Percy said. From what she had told him, it had not seemed so terrible. “I, however, cannot possibly imagine you in such a place.”

“Neither can I--I never actually set foot in it.” A small smile graced her features, then, barely visible in the dim light. If he had not been so attuned to her every move and muscle, he would not have seen it for himself. “As soon as I realized what she had tried to do, I ran. I took off, following the length of the Dúna for a fortnight, until I crashed right into Thalia and Lukas. And, well… you know the rest.” She looked at him, so fondly it made his heart skip a beat.

“You--” he swallowed, his tongue numb, his mind somewhat in pieces. “I remember, after our quest for the Master Bolt, you mentioned you were going to write to your father?”

She looked away. “I did.”

“And?” He prompted. “Did you ever receive a reply?”

“I did not.”

“Oh.”

“Not, I think, for a lack of trying,” she conceded. “You know as well as I how difficult it can be to send a letter. You were very fortunate to have your mother so close by.”

“I was,” he said, for there was no reason to deny it.

“But I suppose if you did not like your mother, that could have been a burden.”

Such a concept was unthinkable, truly. Percy paused for half a second, weighing his words, and then asked, “Would it have been a burden for you to be closer to your father?”

Pursing her lips, she blew out a hearty breath. “To tell you truthfully, I do not know. After… after our little adventure with Atlas, I should very much like to have gone home even for a short while, even just to tell him that I forgave him, and Mary, for all the perceived wrongs of my childhood. But, as you can see,” and she gestured South, “it would have taken far too long.”

She was not incorrect. War had been brewing, and they simply could not have spared their chief strategist for months on end. There had only been a handful of weeks in between that adventure and their journey into the depths of the Labyrinth; without Annabeth, he was certain that particular quest would have gone up in Greek fire.

“Tell me about him,” he said. “Your father. You know so much of mine, and yet I know so little of yours.”

Another small smile lifted her features. “You have forgotten already what I have told you of him?”

“I know he is a scholar of some renown,” said Percy, “and that he must be a singularly clever man in order to attract your mother’s eye.”

“He is,” she nodded. “He is… was… very dedicated to his studies, something which I always admired about him. Unfortunately, it left him little time to tend to his family.”

“Hence how you found yourself in your stepmother’s care.”

“Yes.” She faltered, tapping her fingers on the wood. “I… I do not know if he knew of her plan to send me to the convent. If he approved of her plan.” Her shoulders hunched. “If it was his idea in the first place.”

Percy shook his head, letting go of his ropes, commanding them to stay their current course. He stepped up to her, boldly knocking his shoulder against hers, pleased when she did not stumble or crumble before him. “Now, that cannot be,” he said, “for no man, no matter how wedded to his letters he may be, could consider you to be anything but the finest of warriors. If your father is as clever as you claim, surely he could not have authorized such a mistake.”

She stretched her lips in an attempt to smile, but that was all she could muster at this time, it seemed.

The dawn had yet to break, yet Percy could make out every line and angle of her face, indelibly marked, as they were, in his mind and heart, bathed in some otherworldly light that turned her more radiant than any goddess he had ever romanced.

He swallowed.

“I must confess,” he said, “something that has been weighing on me heavily.”

She turned to him, eyes wide and expectant. Her hair had grown out some since her unfortunate haircut, coming down to dust at the tops of her shoulders, nearly obscuring her gaze, and he had to grip the wood of the ship in order to keep himself from brushing it from her face.

“Why…” he trailed off, distracted by the flecks of silver in her eyes. By the gods, man, pull yourself together. “If you and your father did indeed have such a contentious relationship, why did you want to see him now?”

For a brief moment, he felt she looked… disappointed, almost. But it passed, more quickly than a thought, and he put it aside for the moment. “Despite it all, he is my father. My mother, the agoge, Constantinople--they are all gone, yet still he remains. He may be the only thing I have left in this world,” she said, glumly.

Something in his heart tugged at her words. “Not the only thing, surely,” he jested lamely. “Have I not been sufficient company on this odyssey of ours?”

“You have been,” she said, looking him square in the face, “the greatest companion I could ever have asked for. As long as I live, I shall never forget the thousand kindnesses you have paid me over these last few months.”

She was so close. He could feel her breath, hot against the freezing air, see the upturned tip of her nose. “It was my pleasure,” he mumbled.

There was no sound, save for the wind, the creak of the wood, the beating of his heart, so loudly he was certain she could hear it--or perhaps it was hers, throbbing in return. One, two, three heartbeats in succession, she twitched, he jolted, they moved imperceptibly closer, then--

Annabeth gasped. “Percy, look!” she cried, pulling back.

“Huh?” he blinked, lagging a few seconds behind.

Her outstretched finger pointed upwards towards the heavens, but all he could see was the open, naked wonder on her face, her dropped jaw, her eyes as large as the extravagant pendants of rich nobles, the way her curls seemed to bounce of their volition, charged up in awe and in wonder. Only after he had taken his fill of her visage, a seemingly impossible feat, yet one he accomplished nonetheless, did he follow her finger to the object of her fascination.

And he gasped in turn.

High in the sky, ribbons of light and color swam about, mixing and mingling with the clouds and stars, as if Eos and Iris had joined forces, the rosy-fingered dawn and the golden-winged messenger entwined in a magical dance. “Oh,” he breathed, “oh, how beautiful!”

“I can’t believe it!” she laughed, delighted. “The bridge! Percy, look! The--” Then she said a word which Percy must not have heard correctly.

“The what?”

And then she said that word again.

He frowned. “Bee-vroast?”

“No, the Bifröst.”

“Is that not what I am saying?”

“Most certainly not,” she said. “It is the road between Heaven and Earth, connecting Asgard to Midgard.”

“Asgard?” he asked. “Midgard? What do these things mean?"

She gestured around them. “This. This is Midgard, everything you see before you, the land in the middle. Asgard sits up above us, at the top of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It is a long, long way, passing through Alfheim , and… well, regardless, it is quite the journey.

“I see,” said Percy. “Similar to how Olympus was perched on top of St. Sophia, yes?”

Annabeth tilted her head, considering. “A little. Though, rather than a staircase or a mountaintop, there is a bridge.”

He looked back at the display--unfortunately, all he could see were hazy, formless colors, stunning, but about as solid as the mist itself, nothing nearly so weighty as a bridge, yet so sublime and unfathomable still. “A bridge?”

She pointed again, leaning in close, so as he could better see the angle of her finger. “There, do you not see the three colors?”

He could, indeed, see three colors: hot reds, cool blues, otherworldly greens, like streams of pure light floating down from on high. “I do.”

“And there,” her face was nearly pressed to his, the heat of her body welcomed only in that it helped to ward off the cold somewhat, “see you not the point where it vanishes?”

He squinted. The lights seemed to disappear beyond the horizon line, trailing off above what surely must have been Ultima Thule. “I… I believe I do, yes.”

“There,” said Annabeth, her face all lit up, “there is the home of the gods of my father’s family: the Aesir.”

“Aesir,” he repeated. Aesir, Asgard, Midgard, so many strange sounds. “Well, then,” he said, taking a step back. “Shall I follow this Bifröst of yours?”

How strange to think that, merely a few months earlier, they had set out from Piraeus, nearly antipodal to where they were now, surely. It seemed near a lifetime ago. Even now, he found that the streets of Constantinople had faded from his memory, somewhat, the towering churches and ancient squares no longer quite so towering in his mind. How he longed to return to that place, that time, before his gods had abandoned him, before his family had vanished into the air, before he realized that he was in love with a woman who despised him, and before he realized that, sooner than he would have liked, he was about to lose her forever.

“Not quite so far,” said Annabeth, taking a step back in turn. “We go to seek my uncle, Randulf.”

“Not your father?” he asked, once more picking up the ropes which had not gone slack.

She shook her head. “My father is but a scholar; on the contrary, my uncle is… well…” Flushing lightly, she bit her lip, looking away. “He is something of a local lord.”

“Really.”

She flushed further. “He does possess certain titles and lands.”

“You really are a princess,” Percy concluded, a smile growing on his face. “And all this time, I thought that you simply detested to be compared to the fairest of the fairer sex.”

Harrumphing, she crossed her arms. “I am not a princess,” she pouted.

Holy Aphrodite, surely she must not have known the effect that she had on him. “Oh, of course,” said Percy, “I had forgotten. Your majesty.”

“Enough.” But, as the lights of the Bifröst gave way to the breaking dawn, he could see a smile on her face, as plain as day. “Be ready, captain, for there are many islands between here and Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Percy!”

***

When she related to him the news, she seemed oddly calm regarding the situation. “It appears,” she had said, “that my uncle has since passed away.”

“My deepest sympathies.” Percy did not have much in the way of an extended mortal family--his mother had been a single child, and his step-father had not spoken much of his own family--but he could imagine the kind of loss she must have felt.

“It seems that his title and holdings were transferred to my cousin, Magnus.” She had had a sort of faraway look on her face, as though she were lost in some kind of waking dream. “He and my father have gone to Birka, to see to his properties.”

Goodness; they had docked the boat from the poor man whom they had thieved in Riga not just this morning, had barely been in Stadsholmen a day, and once again they were setting off. “How far?”

Blinking, she had seemed to physically pull herself together before his very eyes. “Not very,” she had said. “I can find us passage.”

Now they floated serenely on the waters of Lake Mälaren, as she had called it, inching ever closer as the nice captain brought them to the island in the middle of the water. It felt odd not to be in control of the vessel for once, and Percy could not stop himself from fidgeting, his leg bouncing up and down incessantly.

The captain shot him a dirty glare, and Percy looked away. “So,” he said to Annabeth, desperate for something to fill the weighty silence which had descended upon them. “Your cousin, Magnus--what is his character?”

“I wish I could say.” Staring straight ahead, Annabeth focused all her considerable attention on the island which was slowly coming into view, emerging from the mist. “I have not spoken with him since before I ran away.”

“I see.”

“I remember,” she said, softly, “that he loved nature. That when I told him of my plans, he did not go and report them to my father. In that way, I know that he was a stalwart friend, and I cannot imagine that much could have changed him.” Tossing him a glance, he thought he saw her lips turn imperceptibly downwards. “If he has not changed much, I daresay that you will quite enjoy his company.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked, awaiting further explanation, yet she did not provide any.

Before very long, they had arrived at the shores of Birka, and Annabeth had given the kind boatman the very last of their coin. They stood at the bottom of a little hill, the dirt path before them winding its way through the tall grass, like a snake, yet Annabeth made no move to go forward.

“I cannot believe I am here,” she breathed. “It has been so long, I… I never thought I would see it again.” What ‘it’ could have been, she did not specify, though he could guess.

Though the house on the hill was now within their grasp, he found that his feet seemed to be as heavy as hers. “Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” he said, “and find somewhere to rest for the night.”

But then he observed as Annabeth summoned all her courage, drawing herself up to her full height, squaring her shoulders and narrowing her eyes, a little goddess of war here on Earth, and began the long march up the hill. Percy was powerless to do naught but follow her.

The house was built with dark wood, a deep, nutty brown, an inkblot against the soft blues and greens of the land which surrounded it. As they grew closer and closer, it seemed to multiply in size, as though stories and wings were added to the existing structure before his very eyes, an ever expanding sculpture of rough-hewn wood and grey, slanting roofs.

As Annabeth stepped up to the great, wooden door, and knocked, Percy stepped back a ways. It would not do, he thought, for him to hover over her, not during such a precious moment of reunion.

A handful of heartbeats, then the door opened, with a great, creaking groan. “Ja?” asked the man who popped his head out, a mop of drab, grey hair on his head. “Vem är det?”

“Jag heter Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter,” Annabeth said, “och jag är här för att träffa min far, Fredrik Randulfsson.”

The man looked her up and down, before retreating into the darkness of the house.

There, on the grass outside of the door, they waited.

Not a minute later, the door opened again, nearly coming off its hinges as another man barreled forth, his wild, grey hair shooting off in all directions, glasses perched delicately on his nose. “Anja!” he gasped, as though he were in pain. “Anja, är det verkligen du?”

Annabeth gave a single sob, then threw herself at the man, who wrapped her up in his arms, squeezing tightly. “Jag är hemma nu, papa,” she wept, muffled by his shirt. “Jag är hemma.”

As one, they crashed to the earth, their knees striking the packed dirt, and despite the chill of the afternoon air, Percy could not help but feel warm at the sight of Annabeth--Anja--as she embraced her father for the first time in fifteen years.

#this one is a doozy #marble king #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #my fic

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journeysintowebcomics · 5 years ago

Text

Worm Liveblog #120

UPDATE 120: Hope

Last time the Travelers plus Cody managed to escape from the quarantine. Everyone has powers – well, Oliver kind of doesn’t – and it’s all fine and dandy while they drive to the next city. This peace lasts until the first signs something’s very wrong with Noelle show themselves. Let’s continue.

Looks like there was a time skip, because Trickster is now standing at a front desk. A receptionist for someone. Trickster feels the need to smoke, and although the receptionist says that’s a bad idea, he does so anyway. He’s at Boston right now, one year and three months have passed since their arrival to this world. That means by now they’re officially a team, hm...

You know, I wish I could have read any discussion they had to decide their names. That could have been interesting to read! But yeah, by now, they all have their names, I bet. Trickster does, after all.

How had Jess put it? This world was sublime. A world that was awesome in the truer sense of the word, greater in so many respects. In a metaphorical sense, the peaks were higher, the valleys lower, works of art more artful, extremes more… extreme. It wasn’t a good thing. Make the mountains twice as tall and the chasms twice as deep, and things start crumbling.

Iiii don’t know if it’s really that worthy of admiration. I don’t think the entire world has as big of a mess as Brockton Bay does, but given entire islands have been obliterated, there are superpowered villains everywhere, and you don’t know when your life is going to be turned upside-down and most likely ruined, I sure would prefer a world like the Earth without parahumans. Besides, it’s not like the general population gets to enjoy the high technology and all that. Most of those are limited to the heroes and villains’ use. It doesn’t seem to me like any random person lives much different of a life than they would if there were no powers around. No, thanks, you keep your awesome world, I’m satisfied with mine.

The person Trickster came to meet is called Accord, and looks more like the kind of supervillain that tries to make things civilized and orderly for his own again. Like Coil, but less sinister. And less successful, since he’s not even the most influential villain in Boston. Accord shakes Trickster’s hand and asks for the reason for his visit. Well it turns out Trickster is here to reach some agreements and introduce himself, as it’s customary for him when he arrives at a new city. Gotta make sure you’re not stepping on anyone’s toes, you see.

Hah! He asks for permission before committing crimes. I doubt many villains are like Skitter in that they want to keep their communities orderly and with the least amount of trouble possible, but it’s good he’s being prudent. You don’t want to mess with villains.

“If I granted that permission, Trickster,” Accord raised a warning finger. “I would not be doing so for free.”

Trickster nodded. “I understand, and I wouldn’t expect you to. We’ve recently passed through Richmond, Paine, Baltimore and Philadelphia. Each time, we paid a modest up front fee to anyone that hosted us in their territory. We also offered up a twelve, thirteen, twelve and ten percent share, respectively, of our take. For you, if you’ll allow me to make an opening offer, I’d suggest ten thousand dollars up front and a fourteen percent share of anything we gain. We’ll be saying for ten days.”

And it turns out ten days is longer than they usually stay. Golly, that means they have been a very, very, veeery long time in Brockton Bay by now, that’s the most stable place of residence they have had. It’s because Coil can help them, I’m sure. But yeah, they’re on the move more often than I thought. Destructive Noelle or not, I thought it was like...a monthly thing. At this rate they’ll run out of places to be at in this country!

Trickster seems to be trying to be particularly flattering, offering Accord more money and being generally polite. Since he gets information before making a move, I suppose he was told he had to be as flattering as possible. Regardless, it’s working. Accord sees right through Trickster, but he’s accepting the offer, although with a warning not to scam him.

I’m not sure what Accord’s power is. There’s a lot of emphasis on things being rather orderly, but I’m uncertain if that’s an indication of what his superpower is, or if he’s just a very neat person.

Accord looked down and corrected the position of the pen on his desk before turning back to Trickster. “Fifteen thousand dollars, and fifteen percent of any take. The heroes don’t have a strong presence here because they don’t need a strong presence here. I maintain the peace. It will cost me if I have people here, active and causing trouble.”

Okay! Maybe he does keep the community safe to some extent. In that case, he should keep under wraps that he’s getting a share of the bounty from any stealing the Travelers do. Just in case. I’m sure there’d be people who would be very upset about that, even if they can do nothing about it.

Since the Travelers are here, Accord offers to forgo the fifteen thousand dollars from his fee and reduce his share, as long as they complete a job for him. Hey, Luke, there’s a job offer! The job is to steal tools from a tinker. Seems like Accord isn’t a tinker at all.

“Blasto. A tinker. Not quite the destructive personality his name implies.”

“I read up on him. Blasto from the latin prefix, meaning bud, germination or seed. Tinker botanist, grows walking, sentient plants in giant glass tubes.”

Not what I’d have imagined from that name, I admit. My knowledge of latin prefixes is quite lacking, turns out – and given I speak Spanish as my native language, that’s kind of sad. But, you know, if the intent is to steal tools and destroy this Blasto tinker’s stuff, Trickster and Sundancer is perfect for this. They should be done in no time! Which is why I suppose it won’t be that simple.

That said...I doubt it’ll get written. It’d be quite the side story! But it’d extend this origin interlude for maybe a tad too long. I’m not sure how well this all was received back when it was written, but I know I’d be kind of annoyed at a meandering interlude. Still...hey, Mr. Wildbow, how much do I have to donate for you to write how this went?

Not only he’ll forgo the entrance fee and reduce his share, he also will make costumes for the Travelers! Oh boy! Does that mean the costumes they’re all wearing in the present were designed by Accord? Didn’t expect that, honestly.

And you bring the world a little more in order, Trickster thought. Accord was a thinker, and the running theory on his power was that he got naturally smarter as the problems he was addressing got more complex. It gave him an intuitive understanding of groupthink, politics, and convoluted designs. It also made him a local warlord capable of devastating counterattacks. The power failed to grant him the same advantages in a one-on-one fight, and he wasn’t quite the same battlefield strategist when it came to direct assaults.

Which was, Trickster understood, why Accord wanted him and the other Travelers to handle the attack on their own.

Huh. That’s...a power. I’m not entirely sure how useful it is, I admit. It’s...a bit underwhelming, to some extent? But he has achieved some success, so I suppose he knows how to get use out of it. Maybe he’s like Tattletale. More like a mastermind type of person. Just that instead of finding out secrets like Tattletale does, he finds...solutions to problems.

Say, I just realized that when they attack Blasto there really are veeeery high chances it won’t go according to plan, thanks to a certain leader whose name I won’t reveal. He hasn’t been a particularly impressive force when it’s about attacking someone else’s lair. Personally I can’t let go of the Slaughterhouse Nine rescue, really.

Only four people will need costumes. Trickster himself, Sundancer, Ballistic...hm. Genesis wouldn’t need a costume because she does everything with her creations, Oliver wouldn’t want to be anywhere near a battle, so...Noelle or Cody.

Cody. The text pretty much says Noelle won’t get a costume. So this Cody person is still going with the group, one year later. He hasn’t gotten in the way of their return home. Say, how far in the past is this, I wonder? Could it be Cody’s...not-being-in-the-team is a more recent change than I thought?

The relatively pleasant discussion is interrupted when Sundancer bursts into the office, alarming Trickster, who had told her to stay back and not meddle. That she was disobeying and ruining Trickster’s carefully calculated meeting plan meant something was very, very wrong, and he should be worried. Hah! He’s got more immediate things to be worried about, right there! Accord isn’t happy at all with Sundancer.

Accord stepped over to the window behind his desk and stared outside. Trickster waited patiently as the man composed himself. Long seconds passed, and Trickster couldn’t help but imagine the worst case scenarios that would have Sundancer forgetting common sense and crashing a private meeting between supervillains.

I can only imagine it’s related to Noelle. Maybe she’s out there, causing immense amounts of havoc, in a sample of what will happen to Brockton Bay in the present. It’d be quite the way to establish how big of a Noelle threat is.

And there’s the immediate threat! Accord isn’t happy at all, and is already laying a series of demands. One: he’ll get the full amount of money he demanded. Okay then. Two: they’ll complete the mercenary job and receive nothing in exchange. It’s going to suck, but I guess it was to be expected. Three: Sundancer has to die. Beg your pardon?

Trickster tensed. Really, really didn’t want to have to fight this guy. “Let’s… not be so hasty.”

Okay then! Accord just made the stakes go way higher. So, Sundancer is very obviously alive in the present, so as I see it, there’s only one possibility: Trickster killed Accord. I really doubt by now fleeing Boston is an option, and given how upset Accord is with the...imbalance Sundancer brought to his turf, I don’t think he’d accept something else in exchange of her life. Unless she proves to be absolutely stellar in the mercenary job. Who knows, maybe she burned Blasto’s lair to the ground and that saved her.

How to convince the lunatic to leave Sundancer alone? If he couldn’t, would it be better to fight and kill Accord now or wait until he could recruit the others? Accord wouldn’t have invited him to a meeting if he didn’t have some kind of safeguards. Traps? For all Trickster knew, there was a pitfall in the floor or dart traps in the walls. Accord’s power, his knack for complexity, would make it trivial to weave such things into the architecture of his home and office. If he knew, he could use his power, time it to put Accord in the way of his own trap… but it could be something else entirely.

I meeeean...if he has the ability to make traps and safeguards, I’m certain making it so Trickster can’t use his power effectively to attack him would be easy as pie. Also, given how it was remarked Accord isn’t very good in one-on-one confrontations and is a warlord, I think it’s plausible he has a few people ready to act if things go pear-shaped. He wouldn’t rely on himself to ensure his own safety if he knows he wouldn’t be enough.

Accord was still talking. “Others aren’t so accommodating. They are freefalling, careening elements, bouncing off any and every surface, damaging everything they touch. Pyrokinetics so often fall into this category, I’ve found. Rest assured, it’s better to eliminate this disordered element before it does too much damage.”

...suddenly I have a nagging feeling Sundancer burning Blasto’s plants and lair to the ground would make things worse in Accord’s eyes. Scrap that plan. New plan: lose your powers, and then get them back before you get to Brockton Bay. There, problem solved. I’m a problem solver now, Accord-lite, praise me.

Turns out Trickster does think of a possible alternative on how to handle this. He appeals to Accord’s sense of order, saying Sundancer is an agent of harmony despite her powers, and that she’ll prove it to him. Trickster has effectively placed the burden of proof right on Sundancer’s hands. Masterful leader move, pal, throwing the weight onto your subordinate and friend. But hey, she’s alive in Brockton Bay, meaning it worked, meaning I have no grounds to complain. Besides, he’s going to discuss it with Sundancer right now. I for one am looking forward to finding out what he intends to suggest she does.

Trickster gets ten minutes to male Sundancer go into Accord’s office – alone. As expected, Sundancer is taken aback by the fact her life is in danger just like that. I share Trickster’s opinion in that Sundancer wouldn’t ruin Trickster’s meeting if there wasn’t a very good reason, though...she even tried to bring it up immediately, and Trickster didn’t let her speak. At least he’ll get briefed by someone else.

When the timer hits zero, you’ll walk into his office, then you’ll perform a ballet routine.

Well! That’s not going to bring up any good memories, is it. Given how one of Sundancer’s memories was freezing and not being able to do a thing, in front of a public, I hope it won’t happen again. At least she won’t have the Simurgh showing her those awful memories over and over, but still...ouch, the things she has to do to survive.

If he gives any sign he’s not satisfied, or the second you fuck up, set the place on fire and scram.”

“Krouse-”

“Call me Trickster when I’m in costume,” he corrected, his voice hard. “Don’t worry about burning him alive. He’ll have escape routes.

Oh, yeah, he’ll have escape routes. You know what else he’ll have? A desire to have both your heads on a plate, just saying. If he gets his office incinerated, there won’t be anything that’ll stop him from getting everyone he has to pursue the Travelers, I’m sure of it.

Since she has to go get ready and hopefully save her own life, Sundancer hurries inside, leaving Trickster to find out what problem is going on that made Sundancer risk ruining everything like that.

“It’s Cody. He touched Noelle.”

Trickster froze. “How bad is it?”

“Three times, Krouse.”

“Three,” Trickster said. “Fuck me. I’m on my way.”

Okay then! It was Cody’s fault. Not surprised he’s being a pain, really. He touched Noelle a total of three times, and that is...bad. For reasons I imagine I’ll find out very soon.

There’s no way Cody’s stupid enough to make contact with Noelle.

There’s no way anyone would do it three times. How?

Hm. I don’t know what exactly are the consequences of touching Noelle, but given the fact it was three times, I doubt it was an accident. It happening once would give him the benefit of the doubt, it happening three times pretty much guarantees it was on purpose, unless it turns out there was a really contrived reason like...some parahuman slamming Cody onto Noelle three times or something. But seriously, what happens when you touch Noelle?

Apparently whatever’s happening is among a crowd, and Trickster searches while thinking how everything they have been doing recently is minimize damage. Well, given how they keep moving because of Noelle, I imagine she’s the source of the damage. Does this mean lately she’s been getting worse? More powerful, dangerous?

What Trickster encounters reminds me a lot of those very mutated monstrous humans that arrived with the Simurgh. It’s a very deformed person, attacking bystanders and being rather violent. This mutant’s nature is revealed right afterwards:

Three seconds later, the man snapped back into the same position, in front of the creature. Perdition… Cody. Except not quite. The man carried through the shoving motion, but Perdition wasn’t there any more.

That’s Cody? Goodness gracious, what did he do?! Holy crap. What I note is that nowhere in the description Trickster gave of that thing attacking, he mentioned it looked like Cody at all. The extent of those tumor things on him and the twisted crooked factions must be such there isn’t much left of Cody. Noelle must have some sort of mutagenic quality, then. Perhaps she mutates those that make contact with her skin? Since that was what was fizzing and all that. And the more you touch her, the worse it gets. Cody touched her three times. Here’s the result, I suppose.

Innocent children are about to get attacked, and Trickster shouts to get Perdition’s attention. May as well exploit Perdition’s hatred of him! And it works, Perdition swivels around, looking for Trickster to do him some harm. Trickster keeps moving around to stay out of his sight while Perdition shouts slurred threats, accusing Trickster of having taken everything from him. Technically he did – except the part about ‘my girl’, because Noelle was never his – but it’s not like Trickster one day woke up and thought ‘oh you know what’d be a riot? Let’s ruin that Cody guy’s life’. Perdition is lashing out as usual, really.

Some of the time, the powers would be different. Most of the time, going by precedent, they were stronger. Trickster was left to wonder how Perdition’s powers had changed. Duration? Range? The amount of time reversed?

Huh, that so? It could be the mutations are an attempt to enhance the powers of those who touch her, then? And it doesn’t work properly because she didn’t take the vial correctly. That doesn’t take into account the eye thing from last chapter’s ending, though...right now my thought about that is that maybe she’s not immune to her own mutations. It could even be that Perdition touching her made her even worse.

Perdition uses his powers to keep track of Trickster, getting him closer and closer to him to perform some murderin’. Trickster tries to stay away, although that soon leads to...well...casualties. There have been at least two so far. Damn. Trickster makes some calculations and tries to think of a plan on how to handle this.

What he does is hurry, swap himself with one of the casualties’ bodies, and shoot Perdition to death. Well! That was anticlimactic. I’m pretty sure if Perdition knew how simple that was, he’d be very upset. So this is why he’s not part of the team nowadays...not really how I expected him to die, although I did expect Trickster to be the one to kill him.

The next scene starts with Francis arriving to a place, where I suppose the rest of the Travelers are hiding. Oliver is already waiting for him, and the effects of his half of the power potion are shown: Oliver is handsome. Like, real handsome and smarter and also learns skills? He got lucky, then. If this is the extent of what his botched power has, then he’s incredibly lucky. But it’s still Oliver, so he’s as milquetoast and socially stunted as usual. Maybe forever, given how he’s...pretty much in a stranger’s body.

...

Maybe he wasn’t as lucky as I thought at first, when I think about it like that.

Fuck you, Simurgh, Krouse thought. They’d all been forced to deal with their individual tragedies. Noelle’s went without saying. Jess hadn’t gotten to walk, Luke hadn’t gotten to fly, Oliver got a physical and mental overhaul without any fixes for the real problems, and Marissa had been thrust into the situation she’d fought so hard to escape, where she was forced to pursue a life she didn’t want.

Krouse’s tragedy was waiting for him inside.

Wow. Things are pretty bad for everyone here, but the way it’s worded Luke’s plight is so out of place. He didn’t get the power to fly. That sucks, but it certainly isn’t on anyone else’s level. Surely there must be something else about this situation that’s more fitting to bring up as Luke’s tragedy. Maybe that he’s very dissatisfied with being part of this group and feels they’re getting nowhere? That’s the impression I have of him in the present, after all.

Between Francis and Oliver they manage to drag Cody’s corpse to the living room, where there are...another two. Two more of Cody. Okay then! Looks like something’s going on. Does someone care to explain? One Cody is bad enough, the universe doesn’t need two more, hah!

Noelle is upset right now and it’s Francis’ duty to go calm her down. Before he goes he glances at the bodies.

They all stared at the bodies. This would be the third incident. Or incidents three through five, if he wanted to count it that way.

This can mean either this is the third incident where mutated people go and cause destruction, or this is the third time Cody has touched Noelle. Both are equally plausible, honestly – but I lean towards the former, because...then it would mean Noelle is causing some awful terror and destruction. Just like a Simurgh thrall would. Everyone else in the Travelers, taking her around the country, are doing their part as well.

There’s a lot of injured people and a few casualties because of the many Perditions. The...real Perdition? He’s somewhere inside the house. Nobody has found out what exactly happened, why Cody would touch Noelle three times despite presumably knowing really well what would happen. Francis will have to deal with this problem, since he’s the leader. First he goes to smoke for a while.

Sundancer has arrived! And she’s unharmed, thank goodness. Looks like her dancing routine in front of Accord went well, then! Or not, as she says two lines later. It satisfied Accord anyway, so may as well take that as a victory.

“No,” she said. “He said I wasn’t perfect, but that he saw what you meant. He said I was trying, despite myself. I… I don’t know if that was a compliment or not.”

That’s definitely a compliment. If it wasn’t, then she wouldn’t be here alive, or at the very least there’d be mercenaries pursuing her. She must have done well – not being the agent of chaos and disorder Accord thought she’d be, despite her incendiary powers.

Since Mars has been declared not responsible for the incredible chaos from today, Accord wants Francis to bring the real cause. He decides he won’t be bringing Noelle – obviously not, because that’d be incredibly dangerous and, more importantly, there’s no way Francis would backstab Noelle. Instead, he decides he’ll take Cody. Hah! Well it’s pretty clear Cody isn’t harmonious at all, so...maybe that’ll work. It helps that those berserk things were literally him.

Mars isn’t into the ‘let’s blame Cody for everything’ plan because it’s very likely Cody will die, and Francis although isn’t happy about it either, sees no other option. Is he going to inform everyone else of his decision? Because I figure everybody would like to be aware one of their teammates is going to be murdered by a local villain, even if it’s Cody.

As Francis sees it, there’s only one scenario where Cody would be in contact with Noelle three times, and it is that Cody went to wherever she is, was a major dick like he usually is, and made her so upset she attacked him so badly Cody has broken limbs. An arm and a leg. Well those sure are two of the three contact spots!

“He had a goal in mind, only he didn’t anticipate how fast she moves, how strong she is. He was trying to do one of two things. Either he did something general, said something, with the aim of making her go berserk… or he tried to kill her. One way or another, Cody wanted to end this. End our mission. Free himself. He doesn’t give a fuck about the promise, so I don’t see why the promise should protect him.”

Cody was trying to kill her? I’m not sure about that. He has to know Noelle has some form of fast regeneration, meaning hurting her physically is a chore and almost unlikely to work. Also, he has to know touching her is a very bad idea. No, I’m leaning more towards thinking he was once again disparaging people around and trying to not be an outsider, and for some reason he was...talking with Noelle...and said something he shouldn’t have...and...okay this reasoning is kind of falling apart by the seams. Fucking Cody. What the hell was he planning?

Well at least Francis is going to talk to everyone else before taking a decision, he even is going to have a word with Cody to see if his suspicions have a reasonable base or not. That’s more than Cody usually gets, really – although I doubt he’ll appreciate it at all, what with Francis being the one to talk to him and what not. Oh well. Now that that’s...somewhat settled, Mars has the task of going to get a lot of food for Noelle. A lot of meat, in fact. Right, I kind of remember that was necessary. Geez.

Before she leaves, there’s something else to bring up!

“I almost forgot. Accord. He wanted me to pass this on.”

She handed him a piece of paper. There was a number printed on it. Different area code.

Holy crap, Mars, you can’t just forget something Accord asked you to do. You almost died today because you metaphorically stepped on the guy’s toes, and you were about to do it again. Goodness gracious...and the reason why she’s hesitant to even remember stuff Accord asks is because she doesn’t want to interact with guys like him. Hah! Boy will her time under Coil’s employment be a treat, then. Coil and Accord seem to be a rather similar kind of person, just that Coil is far more sinister in so many different ways – although I’m sure Accord has his own shady plans, of course.

Once Mars has left, Francis dials the number and gets in contact with whoever it is. Francis doesn’t seem to appreciate much having to call acquaintances of Accord. It’s only when this person says it’s a long-term job I have a hunch of who it is. That you, Coil? Will it turn out Accord and Coil do know each other? Hah! Well! I was saying they were kind of similar in terms of the way they work, but I never thought they knew each other.

“I know Accord through a mutual acquaintance. Through this acquaintance and my own resources, I’ve gathered a fairly robust set of data on you Travelers.“

Intereeeesting. I think there’s a pretty good chance this acquaintance is the entirety of Cauldron. In that case, could it be Accord got his powers from Cauldron? Also, if they got information about them through Cauldron, then it means that big shady organization that gives powers is aware of the Travelers and how they got the powers. Oh boy! No indication Cauldron has sent superpowered thugs to take due revenge for the Travelers pretty much stealing powers, hmmmmm...could it be Cauldron is letting them do whatever they want, knowing they can use them later? It’d explain that, at least.

The person, who I’m absolutely certain is Coil, says he’s offering a solution to three things in exchange for them working for him. That’s enough to get Francis’ attention, he’s willing to listen. Make your offer, Coil!

I thought he was Luke Brito, not Luke Casseus. Either way, there are records of one Luke Casseus and one Noelle Meinhardt who were once in the hospital at the quarantine, and seem to have appeared out of nowhere. Most people would simply think those teenagers used fake names for some reason, but Coil has more information that indicates there’s something going on.

Also, Meinhardt is a cool last name. I like it a lot.

“Rest assured, Trickster, there is no need for any alarm. The fact that I know these things is an asset to you. A contact of mine in the PRT has taken over your case file and requisitioned all details on your encounter with Myrddin. That case will not be pursued further.“

I suppose Myrddin gave all the information and control of that particular investigation and just…focused on the myriad of other things he has to deal with. I guess that makes sense, but I’d have thought the PRT would be far more attentive with investigations involving roaming Simurgh thralls. Coil and Cauldron’s influence is quite notable.

So, Coil has three solutions that will solve all of the Travelers’ problems. One is that Coil will offer all the money they need. Right, about that...since you’re offering, can you send them $15000 in cash, they need it kind of urgently.

The second solution is that he’ll send them home. Naturally, they wouldn’t work for him unless he made such an offer. The contacts he’s talking about are undoubtedly in Cauldron, more concretely the one who can make portals to reach Cauldron’s buildings. Given Coil’s...demeanor, I think he really would have fulfilled his end of the deal once he had taken over Brockton Bay, at least when it’s about sending them home. Unlike Dinah, there’s really no reason to keep the Travelers around, it’s not like they’re especially noteworthy as a team and other than Noelle their powers are nothing too remarkable. Who knows, though...maybe he’d have tried to keep Noelle, for one reason or another. Make clones of his soldiers or something to have a permanent source of non-powered mercenaries.

The last thing Coil offers is not said in the text, but I imagine it’s related to Noelle, since that was the other thing the Travelers were so worried about. They wouldn’t work for Coil unless he promised to fix her. Which is very...unlikely, really...but not impossible. If there’s someone who maybe could, it’s Cauldron. At a very, very, incredibly exorbitant price, I suppose, but they could. Don’t ask me how, though, because I don’t have the slightest idea. I’m not part of the group who sells bottled powers around.

Francis goes into the house, where Luke tries to get him to join them into a meeting about what they’ll do about Cody. The chance to explain they’re throwing him at Accord and hoping for the best! But nope, first he wants to talk to Noelle.

“After, Luke,” Krouse said. He spun around, faced his friend. “I think we’ve got what we’re looking for.”

“What?”

“A way home. Maybe even a fix for Noelle.”

Maybe a fix for Noelle, he says, meaning that even though that may be what Coil offered, he didn’t phrase it as a certainty at all. Merely a possibility. But...a possibility is the best they can get, really.

Promising to tell everyone else – sans Cody, I imagine – what the solution to all their problems is like, Noelle knocks to the door of Noelle’s room, where she immediately tells him to go away. Boy, even if she returns to normal, she won’t be anywhere close to Francis, I’m sure of that. It’s over between them, isn’t it?

Doesn’t take much to convince her to let him enter, so he does. The inside of the room is all broken, no word on if it was like that before Cody pissed her off.

“Come to talk?” she asked. “Keep me company?”

“I was planning on doing it a little later. Things are kind of a mess out there, you know. The Cody situation.”

“Nobody keeps me company any more. Only you.”

Ouch. Not even Mars? That must hurt. I had the impression Noelle was in good terms with pretty much everyone, that only Francis visits her...well, that really sucks. Is it perhaps because they’re afraid of touching her and making more of those deformed copies happen?

Noelle sure doesn’t try to deny Francis’ theory about Cody’s murder attempt, she instead says she can’t die. She has tried to end it. So yeah, she does have fast healing.

“I’m one of them. Or I’m becoming that way.”

“Maybe.”

“An Endbringer.”

So that was the Simurgh’s plan? To create a...pseudoendbringer? Since they were never human in the first place, from what I was told ages ago, it’s unlikely Noelle will turn into one, but she’ll...be pretty close to one if things get worse, she fears. And apparently, given what she can do, it’s not an outlandish possibility.

“I’ll be just as bad as the Simurgh. In a different way. I touch someone, and then I spit out copies. Uglier, stronger… meaner. I can’t control them. If I got my hands on one of the major heroes? Someone like that Myrddin guy?”

It’ll be even worse if she gets her hands on many of the major heroes. Many evil copies of the major heroes roaming around and destroying everything would make things go downhill fast, that’s for sure.

You know, in general I’m against clones as a plot point, but I think this is fine. This is interesting!

Francis brings up that he talked with someone who maybe will be able to help them, and that they should give it a try because this person knows a person who has a way, who goes between worlds.

Aha, so this is how Coil got Francis aboard. He promised hope, not by promising to heal Noelle and send them all back to their worlds – but by promising to get them out of the Simurgh’s plans.

“No, listen. The Simurgh? This guy said she has a weakness. Two ways where she can’t see the future. Two ways to break free of her cause and effect.”

Noelle didn’t say anything.

“The first way, you’ve got to be basically immune to powers. Scion is. He’s immune to precognition, throws everything out the window when he shows up. I saw it when he fought the Simurgh. She couldn’t automatically dodge his stuff, because she either couldn’t read his mind or she couldn’t see the attacks before they happened. So he hit her, a bunch of times. I saw it.”

That supposed weakness isn’t going to lead anywhere, really. What is Coil going to do? Get Cauldron to fill the Travelers up with powers until they’re like Scion? Hardly. I don’t think it’d even be feasible because...I mean...having more than one power into you has to make some of them interact with each other in nasty ways, no? Taking half a vial is bad, taking two or more has to be bad too if you don’t know what you’re doing. No, the whatever this second way is like has to be what they’re looking for.

Also, that’d be hella expensive and not even Coil would be able to buy it, I’m sure.

Krouse was getting more excited, had to press his hand flat against the floor to stop it from shaking. “And the other way? There’s thinker powers that mess with her ability to influence events. If another precog gets a hand in events, the Simurgh automatically shuts them down and vice-versa. The way this guy said it, the precogs get overloaded with the second-guessing the other precog, on top of having to figure out all the quantum possibilities and split paths. And this guy? He has a power that messes with precogs some, and the precog working for him has a power that will help circumvent the Simurgh’s power. Get it? So long as we work for him, we’re free of it. No more cause and effect. No more feeling like we’re doomed no matter what choice we make. We go from that kind of safety to home. To our world.“

I suppose this precog is supposed to be Dinah, because I can’t recall anyone else who has that kind of power and is under Coil’s employment – also, employment is definitely not the right word to use when it’s about Dinah, Coil, that’s imprisonment. Either way, if not Dinah, then...Tattletale is the closest one I can think, but she can’t foresee the future and I’m sure Coil knows that rather well. No, it has to be Dinah.

Which would give the Travelers a lot of encouragement to get in Skitter’s way, really. If Dinah is giving them the safety they need to not be destroying everything in their path, then of course they would disapprove of Skitter trying to free her. Still...do things really work like that? I don’t know, something’s off here.

I just find a bit hard to believe Dinah can singlehandedly stop the Simurgh’s cause and effect. Is there a ratio of effect or what? Does Dinah have to think of the Travelers? The details are a tad vague. I’m sure Mr. Wildbow thought the details well, so I’m not going to insult him by insinuating he didn’t think things through with that paragraph, but the amount of details given to me the reader right now is kind of lacking. I’m kind of leaning towards the possibility Coil is wrong about how this all works. Or he’s hiding something. This just...needs more building upon.

What follows to this is the reveal of what’s going on with Noelle. I had months to imagine what could be so bad it needed a vault and widespread panic, and this doesn’t disappoint. It’s worse than I expected. What can I say, I’m somewhat optimistic by nature, the worst case scenarios aren’t something I indulge into if I can avoid it, haha...ha...but yeah, this is nasty.

Around where her pelvis should have been, she’d changed. The mass of tissue left her tall enough that she had to hunch over to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling, and she was lying down. Half of it was angry, red, wrinkled or blistered. The other half was smooth tissue, dark greens, dark brown and pale grays. The head of an animal, half-bovine and half-canine, extended from the front, large as a horse from the back of its skull to the tip of its flaring nostrils. Another head was in progress, emerging just to the left. Two forelegs extended to either side of the heads, rippling with powerful muscle, ending in something that fell between claw and hoof, massive and easily capable of tearing through steel.

There were the fingers and thumb of a hand, extending from her right hindquarters, each digit thicker around than Krouse was, with another, smaller limb extending from the palm. Her rear left hindquarters featured only a mess of tentacles, some bearing partial exoskeleton, some long enough that they had to encircle the massive head and numerous limbs, or wind in a wreath around her as she lay down, lest their coiled mass fill the master bedroom of the house and leave Krouse nowhere to sit. Despite the apparent lack of bones, the tentacles were capable of supporting her weight.

It’s like she’s piling more and more tissue and forming...limbs. And a couple heads, for some reason? I’m morbidly curious if she can see through that head that’s already formed. Oh god. Here I am, trying to distract myself with banal thoughts like...how do the Travelers manage to move Noelle from city to city, do they steal a freight truck every time? Sorry, I’m thinking of all kinds of things to distract myself about how horrible it must be to be Noelle right now, augh

I can see why nobody else but Francis visits her, though. It must be hard to...to see Noelle and try to not focus on what’s going on with her. Not many would have the...bravery to face her and try to make small talk or anything. What would you even say if you went to see her? How uncomfortable, for both Noelle and someone else, would it be to sit around and try not to talk about the elephant in the room? This is a situation nobody is prepared to deal with. I can definitely understand why it’s easier to just...not go see her at all.

But damn that must feel very lonely for Noelle.

She’d tried to starve herself, to die of thirst. It had turned out badly. She’d gone berserk and killed forty people in one autumn night. Their tissues had played a large part in building the massive fingers and thumb that extended behind her.

Welp! The Simurgh really knew what she was doing. That’s all I have to say. Well played.

And so that’s how the Travelers started working under Coil. Because they were given hope. And nooooow that hope is gone. Here is the present time now, where Coil is dead. No wonder Noelle went berserk and escaped the vault. Where could she have gone...? Where could she be hiding? Because...if she was destroying anything, they would have heard about it even before they saw the broken vault.

But it still can happen. In the very near future. The rage of Noelle.

He had no doubt as to who had died here. Could remember the scene as it had been just before he’d been knocked unconscious, could remember where people had been standing.

Another wave crashed against the beach. He heard the seagulls cawing angrily, wanting the morsels that littered the ground in front of him.

Krouse spent a very long time staring at the stain.

This must be the end for this interlude arc. It’s quite the ending, pretty poignant. A quick check on the next chapter link shows that yeah, a new arc is starting next time.

So yeah, that’s it. The Travelers’ arc is over. Must say, this may be one of my favorite arcs so far. It sure makes a few things seem different than before. I appreciated the extensive peek into the circumstances of the Travelers and everything they went through. They’re quite a tragic group, really. In one single day they went from just a normal gaming team to a superpowered bunch without a home and having to lug around someone who is...slowly and horrifically mutating into a mess of flesh that creates mutant copies of people. Pretty amazing they all have held onto their sanity, really.

I’m sure the next arc – which I suppose will be about possibly finding and fighting Noelle – will be quite a thing! I’m looking forward to that.

Next time.

Next time: in three updates

#worm #worm liveblog #webserial #liveblog #webserial liveblog

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icecoldflames · 5 years ago

Text

The Pinnae Flower Chapter 1

Masterlist

The Fifth Pinnae Book???

People seem to want to know my opinion on Raz Keeran’s soon-to-be-published fifth and final book in the Pinnae series. So, I’m gonna give it to them.

I know Pinnies—fairies and spirits alike—are freaking out. Who wouldn’t? I’m freaking out right now, sitting up in my bed, nursing a cup of tea and writing this blog post. But I’m not freaking out for the same reasons everyone else is freaking out about.

I’m freaking out because I want to know what’s going to happen in the fifth and final book. We never knew there would be five books in the series, only four. However, Raz Keeran stated on his Twitter that five books in his series was always the plan. It wasn’t unprecedented. So, it’s not a money-grab like some people think.

Also, I’d like to point out (or, more specifically, my friend Logan pointed out to me) that there is no actual proof that Raz Keeran is going to kill off Parisa and Arel. I don’t know where that rumour started but, on Raz’s official sites and social media, it doesn’t say anything about killing the two main characters from the previous four books!

I know that the summary for Pinnae: Spelunca that Raz gave us is pretty nerve-wracking. I mean, come on Raz! We need to kill now what this last book is going to be about! His exact tweet says this:

“A short summary of PS:

It will not have Arel and Parisa in it but will focus entirely on a new MC. Fairies and sprites will not have a major role either.”

Thanks for that hint, Raz.

But anyway, with some sleuthing with Logan, we managed to headcanon what this last book will be about:

Number 1. It will probably be about dragons. I mean, this is pretty obvious I think. Dragons were mentioned in the previous books. Also, in PM and PE, their titles are the names of the fairy and sprite villages: Magus and Exsul. This is obvious latin and anyone could put those words into Google Translate and find the words “magical” and “outcast”/”banished person”. The latin of Spelunca is “cave”. Where do dragons live? Exactly. A cave.

Number 2. We’ll figure out who took the pinnae flower. Raz never did answer the question as to why the dragons stole the pinnae flower (I know Raz never did say the dragons actually did take the flower but it’s pretty much canon by now. Unless some fairy or sprite rubbed glitter on a dragon scale).

Number 3. Raz also NEVER TOLD US WHO FREAKING KILLED SIDNEY. I know some people think that maybe it wasn’t a person but I’m not buying it. Raz wouldn’t kill off that character and then say “oh, he died of a heart attack” or “he died by glitter suffocation”. No. Sidney died at the hands of another person. Who, you may ask? We’ll find out in PS, we’re sure.

Number 4. We’ll find out why Arel’s little sister, Kaida, was in that last scene. We’re sure it wasn’t a vision or some weird magical hallucination. Kaida was there at the battle. Sure, she vanished in, how Raz put it, “a blink of an eye” but do you know how that could have happened? Oh, I don’t know. Magic?

Which brings us to Number 5. Kaida, Logan and I think, is going to be the new MC. We both think it won’t be a full-fledged magical character like a sprite, fairy, or dragon, so human (or at least half-human) will probably be the main character. I mean, why else would Raz add that tidbit about Kaida there if they didn’t plan on using this character in the first place?

So, yeah. These are five things Logan and I think will happen in PS. I’m not mad at Raz for making a fifth book. Sure, the ending of PTNE was pretty good and cry worthy but there is just so much Raz hasn’t answered. Something tells me we’re in for a big surprise.

No one was expecting that bloodbath at the end of PTNE and I think Raz might be preparing us for something darker. The first four books might be about cute fairies and sprites but this last book, we know, is not going to be focused on them.

Thanks for reading my loyal plebeians.

Prince Roman Falco

~~~

Roman read through his post once again before hitting the “publish” button. Then, he heard the familiar whoosh as the post went onto his blog, “The Prince’s Crown”. His blog was his most prized work. A blog—his blog—with a massive and loyal following.

While he started writing posts about musical theatre first, it slowly morphed into a Raz Keeran blog dedicated to Raz’s most famous series: the Pinnae series about fairies and sprites. He still did other posts like everyday life posts and still about theatre. But he was known famously for his Raz Keeran posts. Though, he couldn’t give all the credit to himself. As much as he wanted to, most of his fame admittedly came from his best friend since high school, Logan Holmes.

Logan was incredible with thinking up theories and backing them up with the most forgettable quote from the series. And, amazingly, they usually made sense. Logan also edited all of his posts to make sure he used correct grammar and spelling and sourced everything well.

Logan was not an avid Pinnae series reader or a, as the fandom called themselves, the Pinnies. And Roman could understand that. Logan wasn’t into fantasy worlds with fairies and sprites. He liked mysteries and non-fiction and something that puzzled his mind.

Roman constantly teased about Logan’s last name. Holmes. As in the famous fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes.

With some persuading on Roman’s part, he had managed to get Logan to pick up the Pinnae series. There had been only three books out at the time and Logan had read them in three days. One 700 paged book a day. And Logan was working at the university on those three days. It was like he ate them up and gained the knowledge inside them.

While Logan still wasn’t a full-on Pinnie, he enjoyed the book and had respect for Raz Keeran. “That author can sure write a fantasy novel.” Logan had said after he had finished the fourth book.

Roman watched as his blog post began to be read. His first and most loyal plebeian, an unknown face under the name “theazureflower” commented first, like usual.

Amazing read Roman! Tell Logan that he did a fantastic job! I feel as though this fifth book will not be like any others. And not just because it’s the last book in the series! Your headcanons always seem to make perfect sense! (◕ ˬ ◕✿)

Roman grinned and pressed “reply”.

Glad you liked it! I’ll definitely tell Logan your praise when I see him next!

Roman finally closed his laptop and stood up. He stretched his back and wrists as he made his way to the kitchen for a snack.

He loved Raz Keeran’s series. Maybe some would call it childish for a 25 year old to read such a fantasy novel, but he didn’t care. He had been called many things in life and childish was definitely the one he preferred.

The only thing that really bothered him was that he didn't know who Raz Keeran was. No one did. Raz wrote under a penname and had, so far, not been found out by the public. There was little known about Raz. All Roman and the public knew was that Raz lived in a small town in the USA. No one even knew what gender Raz was. They were completely anonymous and Roman wished he knew who Raz was.

It would be an incredible feat. It would be in magazines, on blogs, in the news! POPULAR BLOGGER UNCOVERED THE MYSTERY BEHIND AUTHOR RAZ KEERAN. He would be famous! It was a secret dream of his to find out Raz’s identity. He knew a lot of people frowned down upon those who wanted to figure it out. They said that if Raz wanted to be found out, they would have shown themselves long ago. They said it was Raz’s own, private, business.

But that still didn’t stop Roman’s dream. He wanted to find Raz. The first one to find Raz. Before anyone else did. He knew there were other people trying to find them. Most of them were large news corporations who could allow that much time spent looking for clues.

But Roman had something that the news corporations didn’t have. He had Logan Holmes.

Roman had hinted at the idea of Logan helping him search for Raz plenty of times. In conversations, in texts, anytime he could speak to Logan. But Logan refused. He had the same opinion as most Pinnies—that trying to find Raz was an invasion of privacy and was wrong.

But Roman’s counter argument was always “but Raz puts themself in the spotlight, they should be in the public. It was their choice to write the Pinnae series.”

However, Logan, always the intellectual, would say “but it was Raz’s choice to stay out of the public eye. You can’t dictate another person’s choice to either stay out of the brutal views of the public eye or put themselves in the limelight where they would no longer have the privacy they want.”

Roman sighed as he opened his cabinet, taking out some crackers and getting some cheese from the fridge. He was sure that if Logan helped him find Raz, they would be able to find them. Easy peasy.

These few months were the perfect time to try to find Raz, too. It was coming up on summer vacation and Logan was taking his summer vacation too. They would both be free from work to travel to wherever Raz lived and find him before their time would be up and they’d have to go back to work.

Roman cut up his cheese in little pieces, humming to himself. Maybe he should phone over to Logan’s house and see what’s up later. Maybe today would be the day he would convince Logan to help him find Raz.

~~~

Logan looked down at his computer screen, reading the picture of theazureflower’s favourite passage from the whole Pinnae series written by Raz Keeran. theazureflower did this every time they messaged each other. He must have at least 10 different favourite scenes in the Pinnae series. Not that Logan was complaining. The passage he sent Logan was from the first book, Pinnae: Forests and Flowers.

Sidney looked absolutely terrifying. The other sprites seemed to think the same too for they made sure to keep a good distance between them and Sidney. His hair was a curly dark red and his eyes were haunting—a smoky grey and golden flecks, sunk deep into his face. He seemed almost impossibly skinny—skinnier than the sprite queen herself.

He was the only one who had a dark grey cape wrapped snugly around his neck with a hood. Most of the sprites had short sleeved shirts on of varying colours. It was like Sidney was a dark stormcloud amidst a large rainbow.

But Sidney didn’t seem to mind the obvious difference between him and the other sprites.

“Hi!” Arel said, looking at Sidney with a toothy smile. “It’s nice to meet you. I like your cape.”

A couple nearby sprites seemed astonished that Arel was even speaking to Sidney and I had to nudge Arel in the side. “They’re staring at us!” I hissed.

Arel looked at me. It was almost a confused look. “Why does it matter? Besides, we’re humans Parisa. Or,” his eyebrows drew down, “at least half human”. He shrugged and turned back to Sidney. I huffed and crossed my arms.

Sidney gave a curt, tight-lipped, smile to Arel. “Thanks. I made it myself.”

“Wow! I wish I could make my own clothes! Normally my mom just buys it at the store.” Arel rambled kindly, making me even irritated.

“That sprite is constantly wearing that stupid cape,” a sprite next to me sighed, climbing onto a branch near my ear. I turned to see a female sprite with bright purple hair. I think Titania introduced her as Mauve. She was frowning deeply. “Once,” she said more quietly, “me and a couple other sprites tried to pull that thing off.”

I looked at her and glanced back to where Arel and Sidney were now having a conversation about leather. “And? What happened?” I asked quietly, urging her to go on.

Mauve shivered just slightly and I was afraid she would fall off the branch. “Let’s just say no one saw him for a whole month. Rumour has it he was exiled.”

“Was there anything you found?” I asked, cocking my head to the side, keeping Sidney and Arel in my peripheral view. “Underneath his cape?”

Mauve shook her head vigorously, her purple hair shaking with it. “Didn’t even get that close to him…” she trailed off and crossed her arms tightly.

Mauve glanced over at Sidney and Arel and I followed her gaze.

They were both laughing silently, as if they’d known each other for eons.

Logan liked Sidney’s introduction too. While the sulky, dark, character was often a cliché there was just...something about Sidney’s character that made him think there was a reason for the cape—a reason for his death in the fourth book. He wasn’t just any morally grey character who would no doubt get an arc in the last book.

But, then again, maybe it wouldn’t happen. Logan had been wrong before. Raz had pleasantly surprised him in the fourth book. He had thought that Raz wouldn’t include such a bloody war. It seemed more like a children’s book than a young adult novel and the blood and descriptions really threw him for a loop.

That was what made Logan like Raz. It was unlike any YA novel Roman had made him read. While some things were alike—fantasy universes, action and conflict and romance—The Pinnae series was something else entirely.

It had hints of dark but children could still read it. It was hidden so well that Logan almost didn’t catch it himself.

theazureflower: I just love sidney’s character!!!

theazureflower: And arel and parisa’s and mauve and lewis’!!!

Logan grinned down at his screen and rolled his eyes.

Lewis’_Journal: You love all the characters. I don’t think you’d be able to choose a favourite character if your life depended on it.

theazureflower: Guilty is charged ;)

theazureflower: But they are all so amazing and raz does such a good job at making their characters feel so...real!!!!

theazureflower: I mean, none of the characters are perfect and their flaws don’t seem like an afterthought. They just...ASDFGHJKL! I relate to all of them all at once!

Logan loved this about theazureflower. He was always so excitable and happy and reminded him of—no. He wouldn't think about him now. Not when he was talking to theazureflower and having a good time.

He did agree with theazureflower, though. Raz’s characters all seemed to be real characters—save that most of them were magical creatures who could fly and speak to animals.

theazureflower: What character do you relate to most???

Lewis’_Journal: Definitely Lewis. I feel like he’s almost exactly like me.

Logan didn’t want to delve too deep into Lewis’ character with theazureflower. It felt almost...too personal to talk about with an online friend he didn’t even know the first name to.

Lewis, Logan felt, was the perfect embodiment of himself.

Lewis was a fairy who was mentioned briefly in the first book before being introduced more thoroughly in the second book, Pinnae: Magus. He was intelligent and smart and did not speak much with the other fairies. Logan liked to think he was the opposite of Sidney to a degree—the outcast character but on the fairy side.

But Lewis accompanied Parisa in her quest to find the missing Pinnae flower. He was, at first, silent and incredibly stoic. It was only when Parisa brought her laments that she was missing Arel that they really bonded.

During that chapter the reader finds that Lewis has a brother. While Logan doesn’t have a brother himself, he can still empathize with Lewis’ emotions connected to his gone missing brother.

theazureflower didn’t reply for a long moment. Logan didn’t think about it too much.

That was when the phone rang. He reached for the phone and groaned at the caller ID. Roman. Roman Falco. His co writer of the popular blog, “The Prince’s Crown”. Logan’s name was never mentioned in the About page but Roman mentioned him enough that almost all the readers knew Logan helped write Roman’s posts.

What really annoyed Logan, though, was that Roman was a, rather scatterbrained and b, was obsessed with the author of the Pinnae series, Raz Keeran.

While scatterbrained was fine (it was only the fact that Roman never had a schedule for his posts and they always came out on random days at random times), it was Roman’s obsession that was borderline stalkerish and just plain wrong.

“Let the author live their life!” Logan had said late last week when Roman had asked him to figure out where Keeran lived for the thousandth time. “If Keeran wants to stay anonymous, that’s their business, not yours.”

Logan was hoping Roman would eventually drop it. But, Logan knew his friend well. Roman was very strong minded and when he wanted something, he would try his darned hardest to get his idea to become a reality.

Logan put the phone to his ear after heaving a deep sigh. “Hello?”

“Logan—“

“—No, Roman. I’ve already told you I’m not going to stalk Keeran and find out where they live so you can unveil them in your blog.” Logan said crossly.

It was silent on the other end for a split second. “...It’s your blog too, ya know.” Roman’s voice finally said. “You help me with all my posts.”

“But you started the blog.” Logan pointed out. If Logan were to have a blog, it wouldn’t be about a book series (no matter how good of a series they were) and he would definitely not call it “The Prince’s Crown”.

“Yeah, that doesn’t mean anything.” Roman said emphatically.

Logan didn’t know why he was arguing with Roman. Besides, Logan and Roman didn’t get paid for the blog. Sure, sometimes they got ads on their blog but, more often than not, “The Prince’s Crown” to Logan was more of a hobby.

Roman seemed to be thinking about the same thing as Logan as he immediately dropped the argument. “Anyway. Logan, you’ll never believe what I just read!”

Logan crossed his arms, squatting the phone between his ear and shoulder. He raised an eyebrow. “What did you find now, Roman? Something about Keeran on another sourceless blog that only relies on speculation?”

“No—well...yes.”

Logan pushed up his glasses and took a breath. “Okay, Roman, what did you find?”

One of Roman’s “brilliant” ideas to find information about Keeran was to search up their name or something about the Pinnae series and then go to the very last Google page.

Most so-called “interviews” with Keeran and “Raz Keeran Revealed!!!” posts were fake and were in the last pages of Google for a reason.

“There’s this new interview! Speaking to Raz Keeran over email!”

“—Literally every interview with Keeran is over email,” Logan said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No one has heard Keeran’s voice. No one knows what gender Keeran is either, that’s the whole point of email.”

“Anyway,” Roman continued. “It said that they managed to learn a couple things about Raz. It said that they managed to weasel out of them that they go to this cafe every morning. And!! Listen to this! It says that Raz lives somewhere around the coast and their town does annual art exhibits around their streets!”

Logan’s back stiffened and he instantly began scrolling backwards in his conversation with theazureflower. “Art exhibits in the streets?” He repeated. “What is this blog anyway?”

“‘The Pinnae Flower’.” Roman replied. “Some tiny blog run by this girl.”

“Isn’t that the one who also said Keeran was some big corporation?” Logan asked, still scrolling. He was into last year’s conversation with theazureflower.

“...Well...yeah. But still!”

Then, Logan found it. A conversation he had had with theazureflower two years ago. June. Almost exactly two years earlier.

theazureflower: I can’t wait for this weekend!!!

Lewis’_Journal: How come? What’s happening over there?

theazureflower: There’s this thing my town does

theazureflower: It’s kinda of like this art thing

theazureflower: Artists in our town do some art and over the weekend they hang them everywhere in the town

theazureflower: Like a scavenger hunt but you find wonderful art everywhere!

Logan wasn’t sure if any other USA town did an art exhibit like theazureflower. It felt odd for Keeran, though. If their town and theazureflower’s were the ones to do an art exhibit, then wouldn’t Keeran be more secretive with it?

But when Logan searched it up. There were a couple of small towns that did something like what theazureflower explained.

There were multiple towns but none of them were theazureflower’s home town. Logan knew theazureflower’s hometown, Mayflower Town, and it wasn’t there.

“Logan?” Roman asked, making him jump. He had forgotten Roman was still on the line. “You still there? What are you doing?”

“I think…” Logan said, trailing off. He straightened his spine. “I think you should leave Keeran alone.” He hung up before Roman could say anything else.

Logan went back to the computer and theazureflower.

...What if theazureflower and Keeran lived in the same town?

Logan and theazureflower sometimes talked about meeting each other summer. Maybe…

He quickly shut the computer. No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t try to unveil Keeran. It would go against all of his morals. It was wrong. Just plain wrong.

But Roman would want to travel with him—they always did in the summer. And if Logan told Roman about Keeran and theazureflower, Roman wouldn’t leave that town until he found out Keeran’s identity.

Unless...what if theazureflower was Keeran?

No. That was impossible. Keeran explicitly said in previous email interviews they did not read theories about the Pinnae series because they didn’t want to be accused of plagiarism. “The Prince’s Crown” was just about all theories and ideas.

No. Logan couldn’t go against his morals. He wasn’t a hypocrite. Logan did not want to be the one to put a spotlight on Raz Keeran.

Logan got out of bed and poured himself a cup of coffee in a cup that Roman had given him last year for his birthday—a Sherlock Holmes mug that said “It’s elementary, my dear Watson”.

It was going to be a long day. He could feel it.

~~~

Roman loves to teach. Children were always bursting with excitement and ideas. Roman was glad he was a drama teacher—he couldn’t imagine teaching children math or science.

It was nearing the end of school and since elementary schools had no exams, he didn’t have to do major correcting like Logan did.

Thank goodness.

By the end of the day, Roman was feeling electricity running through him. He didn’t think he could go home and do something productive and static right now.

So, he called up the only person he wanted to see. Logan. Maybe they could go to the mall or go out for an extra early supper.

“Hello?” Logan asked from the other end. His voice had a sharp edge to it.

Roman put his phone on speaker and began pulling out of the school’s parking lot. “Want to chillax this afternoon? I just got out of the school. I can come pick you up. I don’t think I can stay at home on this beautiful June afternoon.”

Logan didn’t reply for a long time and Roman had to check his phone to make sure he hadn’t hung up on him.

“As long as you don’t bring up trying to find Raz.” Logan said bitterly. “I’m sick of you always talking about it.”

Roman didn’t even think. “Of course. No talk about finding Raz. Got it.”

“Good.” Logan said. “I’ll just pack some stuff to correct and I’ll be out at the front of the university in five minutes.”

Before Roman could protest (who brought stuff to correct on an outing?), Logan had hung up.

Roman got to the university in less than three minutes and, soon after, Logan walked out. Roman glanced at the dash and grinned. Exactly five minutes since their phone call.

“As always, very punctual.” Roman commented as Logan pulled himself into the passenger seat.

“Why are you surprised?” Logan asked, buckling himself in and putting his massive canvas bag at his feet. “I am always punctual.”

Roman grinned as he put the keys in the ignition. “So, where do you want to eat? We could go to—“

Logan rolled his eyes. “Why do you always ask? We always go to the same place.”

Roman shrugged. “Just making sure. What if you suddenly become sporadic and choose some place different?”

“I’m not messing with tradition.” Logan protested. “We’ve been going to the same place since we were in high school.” His eyebrows knitted together. “And when have I ever been sporadic?”

“Well, there was that one time,” Roman chuckled. “When you signed up for the soccer team on a whim.”

“I need exercise.” Logan protested. “The place where I normally walked went under construction—“

“Sure, sure, sure.” Roman grinned as he pulled up to Fairy Cakes and Fantasy Books.

The whole building was decked out in pink and glitter with fairy statues near the door, greeting customers.

The building was squat between a law firm and a grass lot that seemed to permanently hold a “For Sale” sign beneath it’s uncut grass.

It was far away from most of the city and pretty secluded.

Fairy Tales and Fantasy Books was a cafe and library all wrapped into one. It was mostly booked out for birthday parties and for special events.

Normally, it was empty. Like now.

“I can’t believe this place is still open.” Logan muttered. “And still looks pretty okay.”

Roman stepped out of the car and Logan did the same. The air felt thicker even though they were nowhere near the center of the city.

As Roman opened the door, a bell above tinkled and Logan patted the head of a statue of a fairy clad in pink and doused with a fine glitter.

“Ah! Roman and Logan! My favourite two customers!” The lady behind the counter exclaimed. She had her dyed blonde hair up in a bun and was wearing a green dress like Tinkerbell.

“Good afternoon Breena!” Roman called out, striding over to the desk where all the baked goods were.

Logan was immediately drawn to the books and he began to gravitate towards them.

The books were in the corner and the wooden bookshelves were covered in pink glitter and sparkly fairy stickers. Logan’s eyes read the spines.

Most of them were fantasy novels. Hence the name Fairy Cakes and Fantasy Books.

Logan recognized the Harry Potter series, the Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia, and the Six of Crows duology. And, in the very middle, was the Pinnae series.

They were the American version. The cover was a glossy pinnae flower with an old time-y map as it’s background. They were all hardcovers.

The first book in the series, Pinnae: Forests and Flowers, was the only book here at the cafe that he had read. All the others he had bought himself.

Scrawled throughout the pages, however, young children had marked it with crayons and the pages were dog-eared again and again, some pages were missing corners altogether. It infuriated Logan to no end.

So, after he had finished the first book, he had bought the entire box set which included a complementary map of the world Raz had created.

“So, what’ll it be?” Breena asked, gesturing to all the pastries and cakes behind the glass.

Roman leaned against the counter, clicking his tongue while making his decision. “I think I’ll have the usual, Breena. Thank you very much.”

Breena grinned and slid open the glass, taking out three churros which had been rolled in pink, edible, glitter. The card next to them read “Fairy Wands”.

“And you Logan?” Breena asked.

Logan came up to the glass and peered inside. He’d been seeing the same baked goods since high school yet he could never really choose “a usual” like Roman.

“I think I’ll have two of those Fairy Cakes,” Logan finally decided, pointing to the powdered sugar topped Berliners.

Breena nodded and put two of the Berliners on a plate.

Once they had paid, Logan and Roman found themselves in their usual spot—in the back corner next to the fairy book display which included a couple of the Rainbow Magic series, the Artemis Fowl series, and The Spiderwick Chronicles.

“I literally love this place,” Roman sighed as he bit into his churro. “It always seems so magical to me.”

Honestly? Logan didn’t see it. All he saw was a cafe-library covered in pink and glitter and fairy pictures and drawings hung on the walls.

But he loved it all the same. Just not for the reasons Roman had.

He loved how the books were all Tetris-ed in the bookshelves perfectly. It was like an oddly satisfying video.

He loved Breena’s desserts even though he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth.

And lastly, the fact that it was almost always empty. While Breena probably hated that there wasn’t a lot of business, Logan was perfectly content eating Berliners with Roman in an empty cafe with books.

They sat in comfortable silence as they munched on their treats.

As always, Roman was the first to talk. “Guess what I saw today.”

“What?”

“I saw one of my students, Matilda, reading the first Pinnae book! I think she’s going to do her novel presentation on it too!” Roman grinned from ear to ear.

“I, as well, saw a student in my astrology seminar with a t-shirt with the pinnae flower on it.” Logan said, remembering the student and his green shirt.

Roman finished his churros in record time, Logan just starting his second Berliner.

He could feel the pressure building up in Roman’s voicebox, about to ask the inevitable question. Logan knew Roman couldn’t refrain from it. He never knew why he always made Roman promise not to bring it up when Logan knew for a fact Roman could never bite his tongue.

Roman shifted in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “Logan…” he hesitated. “I know that I promised not to say anything about it but...could you please reconsider trying to find Raz?”

And there it was. Logan sighed and shoved the rest of the Berliner in his mouth to keep from screaming. He didn’t think he could handle Roman right now.

Roman twiddled his fingers like a child as he waited for Logan to chew and swallow the Berliner. “I just,” he sighed, “you’re so good at mysteries and stuff and—“

Logan swallowed and angrily shook his head. “No,” he hissed, trying not to raise his voice and alert Breena. “Roman, I’ve told you every single time you’ve asked: no. I will not find Raz for you. There is a reason Raz is anonymous.”

He didn’t know why right now, in a glittery cafe-library, he was finally breaking. After years and years of Roman asking, he had never really gotten mad or angry with him. Logan would just shake his head or logically explain why finding Raz was wrong, hoping it would get into Roman’s brain and he’d finally realize that his dream was unethical. Maybe it was pent up anger from all the years.

A small part in Logan’s brain reminded him of his theory that theazureflower and Raz might live in the same town.

He shook it away. Not now, he told himself.

Roman shrunk for a split second in his chair before seeming to come to his senses and lean forward and straighten his spine, meeting Logan’s height. “I understand why it’s wrong but don't you see it? Our blog could get so many new readers and we could become famous!”

“I’m not interested in becoming famous, Roman. Maybe that’s why I empathize with Raz so much.” Logan snapped back. “I’m not finding Raz for you.”

Roman wasn’t giving up that easily. And neither was Logan. He didn’t know how the two of them—both rather hotheaded—became friends, to be honest. Or, actually, stayed friends after all this time.

“What if—”

“—No, Roman. I won’t take any of your compromises. You’re atrocious at keeping promises. Like this one.” Logan inturpted, not in the mood for one of Roman’s compromises. “Oh! But what if we found Raz but didn’t tell anyone?” or “What if we found Raz and hinted at it on our blog to grab followers?”. Logan was sick of them. Roman would never keep Raz’s identity a secret after he knew, Logan was sure of it.

“This summer is perfect, though, Logan!” Roman exclaimed wildly. “It’s summer and you’ve got a couple of weeks from last summer we didn’t use!”

Logan gritted his teeth and brought his hands into fists. “Roman, for the last time, I am not—absolutely will not—find Raz Keeran for you.” His voice was loud and Logan prayed Breena wasn’t in earshot.

Roman slouched in his chair and sulked, rolling his eyes. “I bet I could find someone on Craigslist that could find Raz quicker than you anyway. They can be my new best friend.”

Logan felt his anger rise and rise until it consumed him. “Craigslist?” He repeated. “Craigslist?” He pounded a fist on the table, the plates slightly jumping off the table. He was better than any random person on Craigslist.

Logan heard the words come out of his mouth before he could logically go over the consequences. “Oh yeah? You think, Roman? Well pack your bags and book us two plane tickets to Mayflower Town. We’ve got some sleuthing to do.”

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mattzerella-sticks · 6 years ago

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No Stopping (Dean & Sam, Dean/Cas coda for 14x11 “Damaged Goods”)

Link to fic

Sam agreed to help Dean. But if he wants his help, Dean needs to play by some of Sam's rules. There's something he's unwilling to do, and Sam wants to know why. Maybe it could be a way to help his brother... or break him.

Sam tried concentrating, but it was too distracting. Everything about their library, a space he could normally keep his head down and work for hours in, drew his attention away. The lights hummed at too high a pitch, the temperature shifted between the heat and cold at random intervals, or Dean flipped a page too loudly: all served to further annoy him. It hit a pitch when Dean coughed. Sam slammed his book closed. “Dean,” he sighed, “Could you… please… I’m trying to read.”

Dean cast him a weird glance; brows snapping together, forehead creased. “Uh… okay? I’m not stopping you?” He turned the page again, much softer. “Would you like me to stop breathing?”

“Really? Could you not make jokes like… that.”

“…Right.”

He still wasn’t comfortable with Dean’s plan. Can’t wrap his head around his motivation, or believe it was their only option. But if Sam wants any chance of somehow saving his brother, he’ll need to be by his side until the very end. ‘But can you really do it?’ a suspiciously Nick-sounding voice in his head says, ‘How can you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved? Who doesn’t think he’s broken?’ He sighed, reopening his book.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah…” he said, “Just these… translations. Can’t make heads or tails of them.”

“Well maybe I can help?” Castiel stepped into the room, then, looking between the brothers.

Dean, almost immediately, shifted. His arm sweeps across his research materials, blocking them from sight. And he forces a grin onto his face, voice booming loudly, “Cas! What are you doing here?”

Cas skewed his head to the right. “Well, I do live here, Dean.”

“Right, right…” Dean turned to Sam, eyes pleading for help.

Sam, after rolling his eyes, cleared his throat. “I think what Dean meant was… what are you doing back so soon?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean nodded along, “Why are you… that.”

Cas glanced between the two – ‘probably trying to decide who to talk to.’ Sam was surprised when the angel directed his answer to him. “Jack and I finished our hunt a day early, so we drove back. In time to help, apparently.” He snuck a quick peek at Dean again before returning to Sam. “What are you translating?”

“It’s –“

“It’s nothing too serious, Cas,” Dean talked over him, “Some Latin. I think Sam here has been overdoing it with the research though. Maybe after a little rest he’ll be all better…” Sam wanted to correct him, but the glare he was shot made him freeze. Dean was throwing pure ice; colder than any winter spent in a thin-walled motel. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”

“…Yeah.” He blinked, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s all. We don’t need it now.”

Cas stepped closer, squinting. “Are you sure?”

Dean stood, reaching him first. “Cas, if you really want to help… it has been a while since either of us have eaten.”

“…Really?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, “We’d appreciate it a lot if you could whip something up? Maybe burgers?”

“I can’t make burgers, Dean,” Cas told him, “But I can do… soup?”

“Soup! Soup is good!” He looked to Sam. “Isn’t that right?”

Spurred into action, Sam agreed with Dean. “Yeah, I could go for some… soup.”

“Okay, then?” Cas inched even closer to Dean, staring at him in the way he does best. Sam waited, wondering what would happen. His brother didn’t pull back, standing his ground as their friend passed the point of comfort in terms of personal space. Like always, he counted the seconds until one of them spoke. Each one that passed was charged with a strange energy Sam has never seen Dean share with anyone else. “Dean,” Cas whispered, “Are you okay?”

“I – um… I…” Dean shied away, then, “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Dean –“

“Cas, please… not now.”

“…Okay.” Cas walked back. “I’ll start on the soup… shouldn’t be too long.”

“Thanks Cas.” He kept standing until Cas rounded the corner. Sagging against the table’s edge, Dean scrubbed a hand down his face before retaking his seat. Sam stared at him until he looked up. “What?”

“What? Dean… what was that?”

He shrugged. “I think it was pretty obvious, Sam.”

“Yeah, you were giving Cas the run around!” Sam was hissed at, Dean motioning for him speak quieter. He did so, reluctantly. “What the hell? Were you not going to tell him the truth, too?”

“I was gonna tell him… something.”

“Something?” Sam scoffed, “Oh, or were you going to just leave him without saying goodbye, too?” He shook his head, “Christ, Dean…”

“It’s… it’s complicated, Sam –“

“Is it, Dean?” he asked, “A part of our lives is complicated, what else is new? You can keep Cas or... everyone else in our lives in the dark. But if you’re planning on doing this – if you want me to help you – then you have to be honest.”

�� “I will be Sam, I… I’ll tell him – tell them all. I just…” he dragged another hand down his face, “Not yet. There’s… there’s still so much that could…”

“That could what, Dean? What are you…” Sam stilled, the flickering bulb in his head shining at full strength. “Oh,” he said, “Wow.”

“Wow?” Dean asked, “Wow what?”

“You…” Sam huffed, “I thought you said I was the only one who could stop you?”

His words struck deep. In response, Dean dialed up the fury in his eyes. With hands splayed across the table, his voice shook with a raw ferocity - ‘Like a lion.’ “You are,” he said, “I could tell Cas and still want to do this, but -”

“Then do it.”

“…I can’t, Sammy, could you please drop it?”

“No, Dean, I want to know why you can’t –“

“Because I can’t do it to him, Sam! I can’t! Not again!” Dean’s jaw clenched tight, the air slowly leaking out as his body sagged with exhaustion. “I… I can’t tell him and then… look at him after. Pretend that everything is okay… Not get lost on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘coulda beens’. I mean… do you know what that’d do to me?”

Sam thought he did. “It’d be enough to stop you?”

Dean barked out a tired laugh. “No… but it’d be enough to free him.”

He gulped. “Dean, you can’t… you can’t be –“

“Sam, he’s already straining at the chains,” Dean cried, “I can feel it. It’s taking so much of me already to…” He breathed in deeply, straightening his posture. “Trust me. Cas? …It’s better for everyone if he doesn’t know. Until the end… or maybe –“

“Maybe never,” Sam finished for him. “Dean… that’s not going to end well.”

“It doesn’t end well, ever,” Dean told him, “But that’s how the book’s written. We stray from a single letter, then we’re all damned.” He returned to his book, but Sam wouldn’t let him go easy.

“Did the book say why?” Sam asked, “I mean… if it has all the answers.”

He didn’t expect a response. Dean gave him one anyway. “You know how love seemed like the answer in every book or movie we had growing up? Turns out they were all wrong. Love can make things worse for everyone. Which is why people like me can never have it.” His eyes never stray from the book, but Sam saw a single tear drip onto the page. “Now I don’t want to hear you mention any of this to Cas, capishe?”

“…Yeah, I got it.”

“Good.”

They went back to work in silence. Although there was none for Sam, too distracted by so many other things. The buzzing of the lights, the temperature, Dean’s loud page turning, Dean’s almost confession, Dean’s guilt, Dean. ‘How can you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved? How can you love someone who doesn’t believe he deserves love?’

Cas carried a tray in moments later, and Sam took his bowl as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

#Supernatural #Spn #14x11 Damaged Goods #14x11 Coda #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Castiel #Destiel #Destiel fanfic

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theangriestpea · 6 years ago

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Mercy Killing

A/N: Reminder that this story is somewhat AU and does not follow the story line of the show. There's not a lot of Sweets in this chapter and I apologize but we need some mounting tension. It's a slow burn, remember?

Purpura serpenta roughly translates to “Purple Snake”, Purpura for purple and serpens for snake. Serpens is masculine so I altered it to “serpenta” (from the genitive sperentis) to make it feminine since Lav is a girl. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve taken Latin so if I’m wrong, feel free to correct me.

Anyway that's the title of the collection of all things Lav x Sweet Pea. I have Sunday off but I work eight hours tomorrow. I have a few plot points figured out with this new character coming in. Sorry my roll has seemed to have slowed. I've burned myself out a little. Cross posted to AO3

Chapter Six: Familiar Faces

It went on for two weeks. Mostly it was Fangs or Toni or Cheryl in her bed but a few times it was Sweet Pea and he held her the closest. Those nights Lav slept the best. Her dreams weren’t as vivid. She’d wake with a start sometimes but be instantly calmed by that now familiar scent. Woodsy with tiny notes of citrus fruit.

During the first week that school back, Lavender was excused. Cheryl brought her work and notes that she needed. She begrudgingly did her homework, mostly because she was lonely and didn’t know what else to do in her spare time while her friends were at Riverdale High.

Lav hadn’t looked at her reflection since before the incident. She had avoided it at all costs. Now she was staring at it, unable to look away as she added more concealer onto her bruises. She no longer needed the gauze pads and her external stitches had been removed. No amount of makeup could cover the four scabs set across her cheek.

The darkest spots of her bruising still showed through in a strange purple undertone. The swelling had gone down but hadn’t disappeared completely so even with most of the bruising hidden, you could tell something was off with her face. The longer she looked in the mirror, the more self-conscious she became. Her breathing became labored as panic invaded her chest. Underneath her shirt, her ribs ached at the sharp shallow breaths she was taking.

“Lavender,” Fangs called out to her from the front door. “Let’s go! We’re going to be late!”

She finally broke eye contact with herself and grabbed her book bag. She walked out of her bathroom and to the front door. Fangs was beaming at her as if nothing was wrong. As if it wasn’t too early in the morning to be out of bed. Why was he such a charmer?

“Want me to carry your books?” He asked, looking almost hopeful.

Lav quickly shot him down, “its fine. Maybe if my ribs start acting up more you can. We only have one class together, you can’t follow me all around school.”

He sighed at her logic, “Alright, just get in the truck so we can go before all the good parking spots are gone.”

She got into the passenger’s side and when they arrived at the school, she noticed Sweet Pea leaning against his bike as he smoked a morning cigarette. Their eyes connected for a brief moment before he quickly looked away as if he hadn’t noticed her.

“Can I just skip?” Lavender asked, not liking the sinking feeling in her bruised gut. “I don’t need to come back today.”

Fangs didn’t know exactly what was up with her. He figured she was just being self-conscious about her appearance. “You look great, Lavie. No one is going to say anything with us around. No Serpent left behind, remember?” He asked, his voice hopeful.

“Right.” She muttered. “And in unity there is strength…” Lav wasn’t feeling any unity right about now so she sure as hell wasn’t feeling any strength.

“Atta girl, let’s go.” Fangs said as he hopped out of the truck. He came around and got the door for her. She thanked him and held the straps of her book bag tightly.

Throughout the school day, Lav could feel eyes on her. She could hear the whispers floating around her. Students sharing rumors of what had happened to her in tones they thought she couldn’t heard.

But Lav had great hearing.

And every word tore at her. Every syllable like a bat to her already broken ribs. More than once she found herself locked up in a bathroom stall, crying softly at just how hard this was.

She had decided to skip her last class, not wanting anything more to do with this school or the people in it. After fixing her makeup she stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the door.

“Hey, Serpent Slut,” Reggie called out, stepping in front of her to cut off her exit. Her bruised eyes narrowed at the smirk on his face, a few other bulldogs behind him looking equally as cocky. “Maybe you can clarify something for me and my boys.”

Lav clutched the book she had in her arms close to her chest, her heart beat fast and loud in her ears. Reggie had never been her biggest fan. He always had some comment to make, usually something along the lines of her and Fogarty fucking. This was all because she shot him down when he made a pass at her during freshman year. After the scandal with Chuck came out, she was happy that she had dodged that bullet. She wasn’t a Serpent yet then. She still lived on the Northside. Both her parents were still alive…

A lot had changed about her but nothing had changed about Reggie.

“Rumor has it you stepped out on Fogarty to go suck off some Ghoulie.” His smirk seemed to widen as a horrified look crossed her face. He mistook it for meaning that she was guilty. “And some other Serpents found out and jumped you. Surprised they didn’t kick your loose ass out. You really think all that makeup is hiding anything?”

Tears clung to her lower eyelids. Lav normally didn’t cry in front of people, choosing to shed tears in solace. She normally didn’t show weakness to anyone outside of her close circle of friends. However recent events had made her so damn emotional, so sensitive, so touchy…plus the comments she had heard all day circling around her in the halls and in the classrooms. The looks her teachers would give her.

The other jocks were laughing at the look on her face, Reggie had the ultimate look of triumph for bringing her to tears. Now if only they would fall. He opened his mouth for the finishing blow, but stopped abruptly when a very tall Serpent loomed behind her.

He placed a heavy hand on Lav’s shoulder, guiding her back gently to create space between the football captain and herself. She allowed herself to take a few steps backwards to accommodate him as he moved in front of her. “What’s wrong, Mantle? Can’t pick on someone your own size?” He seethed, exuding a protective kind of anger that made Lav’s heart flutter.

In the time he spent blatantly ignoring her, she had convinced herself that he didn’t care about her. That those soft moments he showed her were only to pacify Fangs’ and FP’s requests to watch out for her. Perhaps that’s what he was doing now but it felt different.

“What, she fucking you too Sweet Pea? Damn, she really gets around. Surprise you want her after she had her way with some Ghoul-“ Sweet Pea didn’t give Reggie a chance to finish before punching him square in the jaw.

The shorter boy stumbled backwards. He was about to spring a counter attack with the help of his teammates when Principal Weatherbee intervened. “Both of you, my office, now.” He demanded in a tone that left no room for question. Sweet Pea looked utterly proud of himself as Reggie rubbed his bruising face. He straightened out his letterman’s jacket before following the principal to his office.

Sweets glanced over his shoulder, giving Lav a once over to make sure she was okay. Their eyes connected just like they had this morning. And once again Sweet Pea turned away, this time to make it way towards the principal’s office.

With the cost clear, Lav started to make her way towards the door again. Her insides a flurry of emotions. Hurt over what Reggie had said, relief for Sweets stepping in the help her, and a twinge of lust from him punching the football star. She shook her head, not liking the way that last one felt.

One head of fading pink and one bright red head of hair came into her line of vision as her path was blocked once more. “The gym is that way.” Toni said flatly, pointing in the opposite direction in which Lav was headed.

“I’m excused from gym.” Lav said a little too quickly. Her eyes were still inflamed from crying as she bit her lip nervously.

Cheryl put a hand on her hip as she shifted her weight, “you still have to actually attend, Purpura Serpenta.” She said back without a beat, using the overly complicated nickname she used for Lav whenever she was scolding her. It roughly translated into purple snake in Latin.

Lavender let out a low groan of annoyance as both girls forced her to turn around and walk to class. “Now,” Toni said as she walked to Lav’s left, “why were you crying?”

She hesitated, her steps faltering to the point where Cheryl grabbed her arm gently to tug her along. “Everyone is talking shit.” She mumbled, not wanting to go into specifics. “Sweet Pea had to punch Reggie…” She left it at that.

“How are things with Sweets?” Toni asked with a small, victorious smile. “Fangs told me he caught you two very close in bed the other morning.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “He’s been ignoring me.” Lav admitted to them. “He won’t look at me. He won’t talk to me. He gives me the cold shoulder. The only time he pays me any attention is when I ask him to come to bed, which is only when you three can’t be there.” There was a hurt look in her eyes. Nights with Pea had been such good ones that she didn’t understand his coldness to her during the day. In front of their friends he was a complete different person it seemed.

She had the notion that he was ashamed of her. Ashamed of the time they did spend together. Sometimes it made her feel more used than from what the Ghoulies did to her. As if she was just a means to an end for him. A little physical contact to carry him over being lays. Her brain screamed at her, telling her she was nothing and worthless and ugly underneath all the makeup.

Tears didn’t come to this time. Instead a quiet rage built up inside them. Fury for what had happened to her and for how her fellow students were treating her. How he was treating her.

“Sweets is just not used to actually having someone to hold all night.” Toni insisted. “Usually he makes his booty calls leave before morning. He’s been extra moody lately for some reason too. He probably just have stuff going on that we don’t know about. I know FP has been extra hard on him and Fangs recently. Telling them how they need to be taking care of you because it’s their job. I know him and Sweet Pea got into it. I could hear the yelling but couldn’t make out what they were saying.”

They arrived at the locker rooms to change into their gym clothes. Lav wondered what SP had been yelling at their leader about. It wasn’t like him to catch an attitude with the Serpent King. Maybe he was just sick of her and was trying to get out of being her personal body guard. Though she certainly felt safer with the two boys around, it wasn’t totally necessary. She had healed enough that she could fight back and she never went anywhere alone. Really it was overkill for them to still be spending the night with her. Not that she didn’t appreciate it.

Lav undressed slowly. She still couldn’t move her torso a whole lot without getting shocks of pain riveting through her. Taking her shirt off was especially hard. Toni and Cheryl were done way before her and the warning bell sounded for them to go out. Her fingers ran over the scab on the stomach, feeling ever tiny ridge in the healing mar. Her skin was now a sickly yellow color with large blotches of faded purple. “Come on, let’s get you dressed.” Toni said softly as she helped Lav pull her shirt on and get into a pair of sweat pants. She had opted not to wear shorts due to the bruising still on the majority of her legs. Though the shorts would cover the deep gashes, they wouldn’t cover the handprints and sporadic dark yellow spots littered across her light skin.

Eventually she dragged herself to the gymnasium. The students were lazily sitting on the bleachers, waiting for the roll to be called. A few gave her a look over, making her shift uncomfortably.

A pair of bright blues eyes caught her gaze. It was a boy she’d never seen before. He wore his dark brown hair short and had sharp features. His cheekbones looked like they could cut glass. His eyes roved over her before a pleased smile crossed his lips. There was something distinctly familiar about his eyes, as if she had seen them somewhere before. She couldn’t place where, but she knew him.

Cheryl saw the brief interaction and nudged Lav forward, as if telling her to go sit next to him. She hesitantly obliged, her hormones getting the best of her. “Class, meet James Colt. A new transfer.” The coach drawled as he looked over his class list. “Everyone give him the warm welcome Riverdale is known for.”

The Serpents that transferred from Southside High all snorted in response. None of them had been given a warm welcome. Hell, even after Lav donned the Serpent leather she’d been given the cold shoulder and she went to Riverdale the entire time. “Rhodes, you’re doing laps today. Everyone else, we’ll be continuing our Soccer segment of the semester.” He continued, “Start stretching and we’ll begin our warmups.”

*~~~~~~~~~~~*

During the entire class, Lav couldn’t keep her eyes of James. He so expertly worked the soccer ball between his feet, making goals through even the more experienced goalies. Their eyes would catch and she’d see that bright smile. It was a little unnerving how familiar he felt. How she still couldn’t place him. The class ended with James walking up to Lav, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. She had to admit that it was a good look for him.

“So I’m new around here.” He started, his voice confident from the minimal interactions they’d held so far, “and I’ve been looking for someone to show me around.”

She looked at him as if he had two heads. There was no doubt he had heard the things people were saying about her. Certainly he could see the bruises that her makeup couldn’t hide. Distrust curled in her stomach as she continued to stare, wondering what his end game was. “I can’t.” She finally said, her voice concealing the uneasy butterflies she had from someone giving her positive attention. It didn’t make any sense to her.

He was the same height as Fangs which made him considerably shorter than Sweet Pea. Lav cursed herself for thinking of him.

“Why not?” He prodded, obviously not going to leave without an answer despite the dismissal bell ringing loudly. His head cocked to the side cutely, blue eyes blinking as he looked at her.

She felt her face flush. “It’s complicated.” She muttered. How could she explain that she had two equally buff body guards waiting to take her home? “But…” She added, biting her lip. She grabbed his hand and took out a pen, scrawling her number onto the back of it. “I’ll tell you all you need to know about Riverdale.”

There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, a second of mischief that Lav didn’t actually catch. She was too busy staring at his soft lips. “Looking forward to it.” He said as a smirk tugged on the right half of his mouth. Lav noticed she was still holding his hand and quickly dropped it. “Don’t leave me hanging.” He added before turning to leave.

All she could do was watch his retreating back as he headed to the showers.

*~~~~~~~~~~~*

Lavender let out another tiny giggle as she stared at her phone. She and James had been texting back and forth for a couple hours now, flirting heavily as she told him all the juicy details about Riverdale. The murders, the drugs, the gangs. Everything. He had moved here from Greendale and while he had heard some of it, he didn’t know the nuances that she did.

Fangs snatched her phone from her, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. “Who keeps making you laugh like that?” He asked, flipping through the messages. Lav let him, not caring if he saw. He was one of her best friends after all.

“This new guy in my gym class.” She said with a smile. She noticed Sweet Pea stiffen on his place on her couch. Lav dismissed it as him not liking her newfound giddiness. He seemed to prefer her to be miserable and moping.

Fangs was smiling, “oh, he’s smooth.” He said, eyes sweeping over the texts quickly. The sound of a hissing snake signaled that she got a new message. “Looks like you’ve got a date, baby girl.” He said as he handed the phone back to her.

Lav looked at the message. James had asked her to take him to this Chock’lit Shoppe she had gone on about. She looked at Fangs, “can I?” Her voice was small and needy.

“No.” Sweet Pea quickly said in a harsh tone. It was the first thing he had said to her in days. “It’s too dangerous. You don’t even know this kid. Is he another Northsider?” Inside he was raging that she had seemed to fall so quickly to this new kid. He’d never seen her actively flirt with anyone before. Not anyone other than him that night at the Wyrm.

Her face fell, eyes darkening in a pained sadness that pulled on Fangs’ heartstrings. “We can go with her.” He suggested, “Sit a few booths away?”

Lavender grinned at him, throwing her arms around his neck in the tightest hug she could manage without hurting herself, “Thank you, Fangs.” As she hugged him, she sent daggers in Sweet Pea’s direction with her eyes. He only returned the favor.

#mercykilling #sweet pea x oc #sweet pea fanfic #sweet pea fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #sp x oc #purpuraserpenta #sweet pea #fanfic #fanfiction #I can't stand reggie #so he's a douche #james played by colton haynes

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