#if i’m still soul-achingly consumed by this tomorrow night | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

billweaslcys · 6 years ago

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OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME/ALIAS:

hi, i’m nikki, welcome to chili’s

AGE, TIMEZONE, PRONOUNS:

nineteen, gmt+8, she/her

TRIGGERS:

just self-harm, suicide, and vivid depictions of possession

ACTIVITY & EXTRAS:

it’s our semester break right now, so i’m more or less free for the next few weeks. unfortunately, i have rehearsals interspersed at random points throughout the week and those usually take up my entire day, so there will be some moments when i won’t be able to go online and do replies, but i will get to check in every now and then! other than that, however, my schedule is pretty much empty.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED SKELETON:

Dyspistia, love of my life

CHARACTER NAME:

↠ cordelia [ kawr-DEEL-yə ]

Father always spoke of the wonder of the stars: how infinitesimal our mortal lives appear once placed on the same pedestal as these untouchable constellations — indestructible in their prime, beautiful even in their ruin. In their glory, they stood rivaled only by the sheen of the Moon — an enchantress by her own right, even when the Night seemed a void, capable of consuming all.

Father always spoke of the planets, and how each bore its own Moon; sometimes, a single planet was bestowed with the gift of a dozen moons ( maybe less, maybe less, maybe less — but always enough to drown even the darkest skies with a warmth, or perhaps a cool breeze never imposing itself upon the skin to induce discomfort ). When innocence was all but unfamiliar to you, he reminded you why you were named after the Moon — or, rather, a moon: for so long as you stood in the sky, even as you passed out of sight and Time, you would be immortalized by the glory of your existence, however short or extensive that phase may be. Doomed to orbit an unnamed Fate, you would remain uncontested, so long as eternity permitted it.

Father always spoke of the vulnerability of mortals: how the threat of our demise constantly hung by a thread ( he was more than correct with his chosen metaphor, you realized of late ). Although never granted the gift of precognition — of the supernatural variety, it’s safe to say — Father was naught if not a wise man: the soul of an aged preacher clinging to the youth of his body, as did the crow’s feet to the corners of his eyes. Deep in his bones dwelt a certain kind of knowledge — leastways, a special kind of inkling you now so prefer to call — of things you suspect no other could’ve foreseen. He meditated on such things with ease. Perhaps it is a curse that comes naturally to the people of your sort — of Father’s sort: try as you might to deny it, the intelligent and the judicious will always be beasts of burden to the things they know. Such are the implications of this world and the worlds that precede it: that even in the presence of triumph, disaster lies patiently in wait. Perhaps these very perceptions tormented Father then. Perhaps these very perceptions torment you now. Perhaps this is the reason why the pair of you could never find happiness that lasted for more than a few fleeting moments.

Father always spoke of the uncertainty of your Fate, and how misaligned fortune was when it came to your predicament. His aforementioned acumen rendered him aware of what life would be for those who stood in your very position: heroes — personifications only of tragedies divvied into sonnets or songs or plays that tomorrow’s generations may marvel at once their stories were put into writing by the scribes of old. Father knew that one day, the burden of the world will fall upon your shoulders ( he wasn’t wrong ); that war will befall your kind whether you like it or not, and in the midst of that hurricane, you will remain: incarcerated; robbed of a choice ( he certainly wasn’t wrong ). Still, against all dictates of his mind, the vocation of his heart remained intact: even when you were torn in two, your allegiance would stay safe in his keeping. Father called you Cordelia — the name wrung through the vestibules of his home ( you could never call it your home, not without the slightest hesitation ) — christened with the name borne by King Lear’s youngest, the only child to remain loyal to her father. Your own Father hoped you would follow such a Fate: that even in the midst of turmoil, your heart would always return to him. Unfortunately for the hopeful, life operates in such a way that makes fools out of them. It certainly made a fool out of him. Cordelia — a beautiful name cursed with an oath that will never be held fulfilled.

↠ marie [ ma-REE ]

The Hall of the Greats is filled with the miserable. It’s a fair barter in the eyes of the gods, you recently concluded: a fleeting existence furnished with strife in exchange for a death succeeded by glory. What would be the makings of timeless tales if not the pervasive presence of tragedy? Artists and scientists, holy men and innovators, philosophers and politicians — names that, to this day, haunt every nook and cranny of this condemned world — are only ever so achingly different in all aspects, save two: the splendor by which their names are escorted; and the agony which has long attached itself as a steadfast companion to the lives of these individuals: the divine and the damned; the beautiful and the cursed. Such is the Fate of those who make martyrs of themselves — be it for faith in a nameless god, or for defense of discovery in the new and the scorned. No matter the trajectory of their lives, happiness was compromised so they may be remembered by us — temporal beings who will pass through this Earth unnoticed. Long may their names be sung, if only to fully reap the rewards for which they suffered.

The Hall of the Greats would one day make room for you. Father did not strive to keep it a secret — not to you, not to the gods. He was fearless and perhaps even callous in his words: an eager herald of the phenomena you were yet to offer this world, made a firm believer with the mere sight of your infantine self, brilliance interspersed through twinkles nestled in the depths of your eyes. He yearned for moments when he would see you grow in numbers measured only by years ( one, two, three, innocence meets its end, four, five, six, you grow more suspicious of the world around you, seven, eight, thenceforth the ability to discern friend from foe dissipates, nine, ten, you are a child no longer, eleven, twelve, you don your armor with ease and slip into the pretense of heroism ). Father could not find his footing in this world long enough for him to see his wish fulfilled. If only he weren’t so tactless with words — words, which are ever so eager to betray their deliverer. If only he didn’t fall prey to the sway of emotions. If only, if only, too many if only’s haunt your past. If only you faced the challenge posed by the past from which you run with the same courage you carry to the battlefield, you would not be so far from salvation damaged.

The Hall of the Greats is a future you have yet to explore. Father paved that pathway for you long before you could even comprehend the beauty and the sorrow brought about by life. In lieu of stories of girls clothed in rags and ballgowns who made haste to slip unnoticed before the clock struck midnight, or tales of witches — both of the good variety and the bad variety — who cast spells and hexes upon those who felled them, Father told you the lives of those whose footsteps he intended you to follow. It was a painful cycle of constant reminders, day and night, from the light of the rising sun to the soft gleam of the waning moon, as though he doubted your ability to retain such things — limitless, this ability seemed, to the eyes of many and to his as well, but he could not risk it, lest you faltered. Before the midnight clouds swallowed all that shone in the sky, he recounted the biography ( almost in its entirety, as you now fall victim to retrospection ) of she whose namesake you bear: Marie Curie, the physicist and chemist who also understood the burden of unending knowledge. You see yourself in her ( or, perhaps, Father had told you so just enough times for you to claim the belief as your own ) and no other mortal could possibly understand your plight. But while she battled sexist coworkers and the threat of radiation from which she would later suffer, you met monsters in combat. Sometimes, you wonder if your contribution would be sufficient to grant you passage to the Hall Father intended you to be a part of. Most of the time, however, you care too much about just getting the job done rather than thinking about what comes after.

↠ palmer [ PAH-mər ]

This, you could not rid yourselves of. On this front, Father had not a choice. The surname long brandished as a banner of pride, the mere utterance of which brought both admiration and envy to the hearts of nearby spectators seemed to sour as the years progressed. It was Father’s fault — the pristine white paper upon which vivid blank ink stains impresses these words on your infallible memory. Father who, in his might and wisdom, became a quick victim to the tempting snatches of emotional vulnerability. He of all people should’ve understood the preponderance of the mind over the heart, but even he acquiesced without so much of a decent fight. He tainted the glory of your family name — a name which could’ve alleviated the burden of the path assigned you by millimeters: mere millimeters could’ve made the most tremendous difference. But you could never bring yourself to despise Father for this, no. It was human nature — idiotic and unwise, but nature nonetheless; and you, in all those moments when curiosity hungered and was satiated, knew that each point in time that devastated history was perpetrated by man — man who succumbs so easily to carnal instincts. Oh, the misery of wisdom: this piece of information with which you rationalized Father’s actions forbade you even the slightest manifestation of anger. For how could fury prevail when knowledge had already given it a justification not to?

AGE & GENDER:

22 ( b. January 20, 1996 ), cis female

b i r t h c h a r t

↠ sun, moon, and ascendant in capricorn

The Fates find enjoyment in their meticulous ways. Perhaps such is the curse of immortality: to seek pleasure in the details insignificant to the mortal eye. The trajectory upon which they set these accursed heroes is a specific path that does not stray, the most minuscule features borne in mind. It was not by chance that the literal thought of Cora was birthed by Athena on the 20th day of January, 1996, just as the harsh sun rose at 6:25 in the morning upon the dying land of our world. Ten years to the day succeeding the discovery of the moon after which she was christened, Cordelia was delivered to her Father’s doorstep, with the assistance of the West Wind. Her existence came upon the Earth as a reminder of the perpetual grand ushering of dawn. With her creation came the promise of a new age — whether it is better or worse than that which preceded remains a mystery, so long as the fate of the quest stands upon the edge of a knife. But just as her birth served as a forbearance of the genesis of this brand new age of demigods and heroes, it also stands as evidence of the person Cora has long forged herself to become. To have her birth fall on the very moment the planets aligned with Capricorn seemed almost fateful — poetic, even, dare I say. She is an apotheosis of her star sign, the very personification of those who fall under the Capricorn category. Pragmatic even in her fantasies and steadfast in her actions, Cora works towards her goals efficiently and effectively. Although not a stranger to haste, she leaves no stone unturned. All her ambitions remain within the scope of achievement — all other tasks beyond the breadth of realism are ignored. Such is Cora’s attitude to all things, even this quest. Although never granted the choice, she still pursues the success of this task because she genuinely believes that the betterment for all remains achievable. It’s a slim chance, the odds of their victory, but the odds exist nonetheless. After all, a part of this task was placed upon her shoulders, and Cora is not one to turn away from such responsibilities, regardless of how mortifying the end may be — if she were even permitted to see the end of it ( and, by the gods, she knows how lamentable those odds stand ). If this quest were to claim her life ( could it claim something even greater, she wonders ), then it is a sacrifice she is willing to make — for the time being, that is.

FACECLAIM:

Zendaya

Alisha Boe

Maisie Richardson-Sellers

BIOGRAPHY:

OVERTURE

Hellfire has long spilled onto this world. War after war, man against man, soldiers of old called out names our tongues could never utter in dying languages that would meet their end along with the promise of their victory, and such was their destiny for a time interminable. It was this perpetual and tedious cycle: of destruction following formation, ravaging all that had been created purely for the purpose of creation. With this, our Fate as humanity was sealed — and, in so many ways, cursed: that we would forever be victims of our own hatred and of the perversions of our hearts. Paper shields and wooden swords are handed us upon birth, and through our alliance with Age — Age, the eternal nemesis of Innocence, the former always prevailing over the latter — we forge those shields and swords into something stronger; and paper turns to metal, wood to steel. It’s a vicious desperation dwelling within corrupted hearts that drove humanity to such a point, and this desperation was not sown by man himself.

High above our world and so many others stand the gods — the beautiful and the damned in every way possible. Powerful as they were ( and powerful they are indeed, without an inkling of doubt ), they too cultivated misery that was known only to them and to their kind. After all, what is an immortal life if not a fruitless one? Boredom so easily seeps into the lives of the indestructible, and as boredom grows, so does impatience. Atop their unreachable thrones, they could no longer remain like this: lying in wait for excitement that was not to come unless actively pursued. Then man came — man, who is so easily corruptible by power and wealth and all objects immaterial in the grand scheme of things — the perfect pawn for the immortal and the dispirited.

With the everlasting promise of glory and the constant threat of death dangled above man’s head, the gods toyed with the mortals: be it for love ( this could not be so, for the gods were incapable of love ), for chaos ( this bore a higher probability, because not unlike man, the gods too found solace in witnessing the conflict grow among those whom they did not know ), or purely for entertainment ( this was the real reason why god so often meddles in the affairs of man: celestial beings falling prey to the bitter decay of the splendor of immortality ). Every now and again they came upon earth to possess men whom they have long coveted, or to fool princes into indirectly waging war with former allies. But these were not without their consequences, or so the tale goes.

Time came when the gods, magnificent as they were, needed man, and not merely to bring color to their uneventful lives. They then did not act simply out of spite or envy or even false declarations of love, but out of necessity: for there existed battles that the gods could not fight all on their own, not while the risk of their own annihilation hung but millimeters away from their faces. Cruel strikes their hand and they struck hard, convincing man to charge onto battlefields in their name, bearing only a shield of fear and a sword of mortality. But man prevailed over adversary, weak as he may appear. Indeed, the occasional guidance of the gods came in handy, but it was his own willpower created from woodwork which granted him victory and, after a longer period of time, glory in a life long-winded.

From the lives of these men — both tragic and marvelous in ways unimaginable — tales of length and songs of veneration were penned, forever to be revered by all who claim their place in history. Plays were performed in their honor and sonnets were written for their praise. Ahead lies a tale unfinished, for the Fates have not yet revealed their purpose for this story or what conclusion sprawls in wait once beginning turns to end. Whether Cordelia Palmer — a tragedy by her own right — follows the path that other heroes have trod remains a mystery. The gods have already meddled in this narrative, and what follows is dictated entirely by she: a mere mortal with the mind of a god, consumed by the blessing she has long called a curse.

ACT I

SCENE I: LOVE IS A CORRUPTER

It begins as all great plays do: with the ushering of melodic tones devoid of lyrics played on ivory keys painted to look older than they actually are and the popping of bottles labelled with names and places pronounceable only by a select few. Traditions were upheld as a painful reminder: that while the bearers of wealth may pass into a land where no other mortal may traverse so long as he remains a corporal being ( oh, the folly of mortals, who spoke so greatly of what little they know ), wealth and prominence do not have expiration dates, and are just as easily handed down from one generation to the next as old relics. Dressed to the nines came the guests, among whom were the elderly man and woman you would later call Papa and Nana, but this was not for another two scenes. With the aid of Time, you will recall the part they have played in full later on. Currently, however, you come acquainted to an epoch when you were barely a ghost of a thought — a mere idea of an idea, not yet properly conceived.

[ REDACTED ] — you know his face, but the weight of his name blurs into the recesses of memory long repressed; you believe you called him Father — yes, indeed, this was Father’s part of the tale, and this part did not seem so bleak as the acts that followed it — stood among the crowd, clad in his best suit and shoes shined so brightly it would put the constellations above to shame. He was among those that laughed and converged in the hall — an elite group of scientists, passing on the gift of intelligence and an interest in the field from one generation to another as they did their opulence. On their own, away from the consuming prowess of society and all those who partook in its vices, they seemed like gods too: powerful, magnificent, unfathomable.

You would call it silly and all too unwise, had you been there. The event was naught but a callous reminder that the eminent would remain the eminent ( this was not so, you would experience firsthand in your youth ), nothing more than an obnoxious display of ephemeral power quick to betray its bearer. It appears, however, that you would not have been alone in your viewpoint, as Father cultivated the same belief in secrecy. Outwardly, however, he betrayed not even the slightest indication of such a thought. Yet you could see unconscious manifestations of it in the stiffness of his shoulders and the warmth of his palms: he did not want to engage in obsolete traditions such as this. Long had Father endured the jarring scrutiny of individuals who believed themselves to be greater than even the divine, finding his place among them with the utmost discomfort as early as the meager age of eleven.

Year after year, however, he persisted, if only to please his parents — a feat Father was so eager to complete, no matter the cost at which it came. The absence of depths in the conversations these individuals — who, albeit their intellect, could only talk of the shallow and the temporary — instigated, slowly extinguished the light which dwelt in Father’s eyes and the flame which found solace in his mind. Time came when he had his own accomplishments to boast, and with it came a title affixed to his name. He hoped he would find belongingness following this — a tragic lapse of judgment.

Did you hear? Our son graduated summa cum laude. And he barely even tried! ( this was a lie, and Father knew it: the only thing Father was capable of doing was trying, and he was fortunate enough to receive the payoff for which he had long worked ). There’s talk they might recruit him over at NASA. Can you even believe? When it rains, it surely pours.

And then they laugh that shrill laugh: Papa and Nana laugh with arrogance; their colleagues laugh with strain. Father realizes they were all of them caught in a ploy to constantly one-up the other, and the achievements he has long endeavored to attain were nothing more than a pedestal upon which your grandparents can exalt themselves. With the dawning of the painful realization of the truth ( see? You are not alone in your battle against your mind. Father struggled with it too; and unfortunately, he lost. But that end may not necessarily befall you, if you arrive in time to salvage what little you can ), Father slips away swiftly, dodging Papa’s firm grasp on his shoulder by just millimeters and Nana’s keen eye, clouded still with false pride.

Away Father shrinks into the crowd, until wandering feet find familiar ground upon the wooden floorboards of the bar tucked conveniently into the corner of the room. Then he sees her — you longed to call her Mother, but your heart could not do so, even when the mind commanded it to yield — and all is changed.

SCENE II: LOVE IS A CRUEL MASTER

They talk — that’s all they do, really. Whisking themselves away from the deafening yet ultimately vacuous conversations, away from the glaring lights of the function hall, and eventually towards the open night, the crisp cool air gnawing at their occasional bare parts of flesh, they found solace in one another — Father, most especially. This stranger, enigmatic as she was in her ways, provided him with a sense of security — whether this security was genuine or merely a shadow of a truthful one, you still cannot properly determine ( there are moments when you realize that it was the former; but always, always logic dictates it to be the latter ).

There was beauty to her litheness, dangerous grace to the coldness of her palms, but it was not her grace or beauty foremost that Father saw in her. It was the twinkling of knowledge hidden deep beneath piercing grey eyes that caught his attention, an image reflected in his own eyes, long ignored in favor of futile pursuits. Indeed, he was now worthy of reverence in his field — another Palmer to claim the title of doctor: when his parents had passed, he would raise the family banner on his own: emblem of pride in one hand, astrophysical acclaim in the other. But misery was much too high a price for even a man such as he ( see? You are not alone in your combat against the self. Father wrestled with these demons too; unfortunately, he lost yet again ). Yet as the conversations with this cryptic woman persists, he feels liberated from the cage he has since trapped himself with. The words flow melodically, one abstract concept followed by another, challenging the other but never arguing beyond insolence.

Finally, an exchange of names arises, and so comes scurrying worry ( and accompanies it is panic — do not forget about Worry’s favorite friend, lest you intend to risk devastation ). She introduces herself by her first name — the same name with which you address her now — but leaves a surname understandable only through mumbles and a whisper under the breath. Father peruses through her life with questions disguised by absentminded curiosity, but a mortal could never outsmart the goddess of wisdom herself — the very personification of the trait he has long admired but could not fully possess. I’m not from around here, she simply says. It is told with the intonation of rehearsed lines: said more than once in situations not unlike this. Athena is quick and cruel to reveal so little, leaving only but the tiniest breadcrumbs in her wake.

When the conversations inside the hall faded into an almost sacramental silence, the sound of footsteps increased in volume, and with that came the source of the abrupt noise which destroyed any notion of privacy. The first few signs of departure came in trickles through the front gates, the occasional guest disrupting the still air with a high-pitched goodbye. Trickles soon became a full-fledged storm, and the crowds from which they earlier escaped arrived to haunt them.

A timorous heart — once faced with urgency — acts in haste and reaps so little reward.

Can I see you again? The stranger — Athena, Father will call her later, once the entirety of their conversation sinks into consciousness — starts to head in a direction away from him. She does not answer. Can I see you again? This time, Father allows just enough despair to seep into his voice to assure a halt from the stranger. There is hesitancy in her movement but conviction in her eyes as she gives a small nod, leaning into his ear to whisper a place — a place unlike that hall, where profound conversations may begin and never cease.

For once in his immaterial life, Father finds meaning — not the false kind with which he has long tricked himself into swallowing whole. The misery subsides and makes room for but the faintest joy — quick to form but equally quick to dissipate.

SCENE III: LOVE CREATES CORPSES OF ALL THOSE IT CLAIMS AS VICTIMS

The furtive curtain of the night provided the perfect cover for trysts. When the sun had sunk perfectly beneath the horizon that cut through the decaying lands of our world and the sky deepened into obsidian, they met in a cobblestone park, devoid almost in its entirety of people, save the occasional homeless man or the lonely park ranger who spent more nights at this desolate park than he did in his own bed. The clock struck nine and Father knew it was time: time to slip into the guise of nothingness. Under the dimly lit streets and the unforgiving glare of the constellations, he was a nobody ( how ironic that he should slip into this persona so easily and at a premature time. Was he not aware that such masks are not so easily shed, especially when worn with comfort? ).

Relationships — or, rather, what closely resembled relationships — such as this could not be paraded around with pride. After all, Father hardly knew anything of this woman, splendid as she was in mind and heart. More than that, however, he was aware of the disapproval that would etch itself onto his parents’ faces had they discovered their relationship. To the mortal eye, the gods are but those among us. Although she was Athena of Mount Olympus once all pretenses were set aside, she was merely another human being devoid of a surname of prominence. Father’s heart became heavy under the suffocating weight of secrecy, but it was not to be matched by the heaviness that preceded or succeeded the relationship.

The nights that followed the first were similar by nature: dominated only by talk of the known, the unknown, and all that came between. It seemed that although the night aged and the days progressed, they had not exhausted what limited topics the human mind can typically entertain. The conversations slowly incorporated jokes understandable only to the pair, and comfort was surely and steadily peppered into their words, present in the tiniest of smiles and the softest of touches. Father had not known love — genuine love where he longed to love back, not simply to impress — but he was certain that this was it.

Oh, dear Father, did we not tell you that the gods cannot love?

It seemed out of character for Father to fall prey so easily to emotions, but he had long been denied them; it only felt right for him to crave that human feeling of vulnerability in the most desperate moments. Had his wisdom prevailed over carnal instinct, perhaps you all would’ve been spared ( you vowed that no such mistake shall exist in your tale ).

Twenty-nine days to the day, the truth exposes itself in words that seem all but untangled in Father’s eyes. At first, he thinks it’s a joke — another ingenious quip from the woman he had fallen in love with. Of course, you’re a goddess! You’re...you’re you! he stammers through the occasional laugh in an attempt to deny the knots forming in his stomach. But as Athena’s explanation accumulates in length, reason dictates that what she spoke was indeed the truth, and the night no longer made room for laughs or efforts of denial.

As the sky darkened and the Moon rose to its throne alongside the stars, Father made his way to the cobblestone park, mentally preparing for the worst, secretly hoping for the best. What greeted him was nothing — and nothing was the most cruel sight he could possibly witness.

With that came the end of all things for Father: the end of his promising career, the end of love, the end of all significance of his ultimately fruitless life. But some endings can forge a path for beginnings as well, if only we were tenacious enough to search for such things. Father was not devoid of that opportunity, and it lay there on his very doorstep, but like so many, he failed to realize the presence of a blessing when it arrived before his very eyes.

Just a mere four days following Athena’s departure, another being similar to her nature was delivered to the forefront of the house Father had long called his own. In a golden cradle inscribed with Greek symbols for protection lay the infantine Cordelia, eager to play with the phenomena that dwelt deep beneath the alcoves of the unseen world — the world within our own, visible only to those wise enough to seek it.

You could not say Father tried, for he did. With his most earnest efforts, he struggled to love you, christened you with a name that would assure glory, furnished you with the tools with which your wisdom would grow — but he could not love you, not truly. Try as he might — and try he did, you know it — he cannot give what he does not have. This lesson you learned with a maturing mind and a dying heart.

ACT II

SCENE I: THE GODS ARE ONLY AS DIVINE AS WE

For the price of the brilliance of your mind came the asphyxiation of your soul. The absence of love and parental guidance during the days of what would’ve been your youth sealed the Fate with which you are now burdened. Father wanted to provide you with all that a child needed — with all that a child could not have lived without ( until you came along, and became living proof that survival did not necessarily equate living, because although you escaped the unyielding grasp of scarcity, you did not escape unscathed ) — but just after two years of upholding the pretense of completeness, he eventually succumbed to the wounds from the past — the same wounds that would induce his desire for an untimely death.

Through the eyes of robbed innocence, you witnessed the volatility of humans: how easily they gave in to the emotions that taunted them with gusto. Young as you were, you wore the crown of wisdom and prudence with pride, accumulating lessons of the academe as quickly and comfortably as you did the lessons of life. With your left hand you danced among the stars — the residue of the Palmer legacy — discovering a love for the precise and scientific along the way; with your right hand you played with the prospect of the unknown: toying effortlessly with the ideas of liberation, war, death, and what came after — the very things that would terrify even an adult mind. Your mind searched for locked doors — undiscovered thoughts and furtive concepts laying in wait for the right person to unearth them — the key to which was your knowledge. You, devoid of naivety and joy, would feel the gift of wisdom before you would feel its painful sting.

As you grew in numbers measured only by years, the hallways of Father’s decaying home ( it felt utterly dirty, almost sinful even, to call it your home. This house — life absent from the creases of the wallpaper and love lacking from the nook and cranny of every room — was not a home; merely a structure built out of necessity, nothing more ), they trembled at the sight of you. Your silence was tumultuous, for with it came the perusing and keen gaze of your curiosity.

What of Father then? Well, Father searched for his soul in cracked bottles of foul smelling liquor and women who wore bright red lipstick and 4-inch heels. Always, the musk of other men and the stench of smoke clung eagerly to their skin. Sometimes, when they saw you wandering about, you recognized in their eyes the same innocence that was taken from you; and just as they felt your stare strip them down to the barest bone, they looked away. You never saw the same face more than once. In the morn, when you woke to cook breakfast for both you and Father just before heading to school ( he never learned how to fend for himself, not in youth, and certainly not in adulthood ), the rooms were rank with the smell of alcohol. Then, all you could do was stop the bile from rising in your throat as you rode the bus, caving in to the desire to vomit as soon as your feet met firmer ground. But you accumulated years once more, then again, and again, and again, and Father’s stank did not seem so vile — only a customary piece of decor that would forever be hung upon the walls of the withering house.

Escape, however, was not out of reach, no matter how ephemeral it felt. It was always ingrained in your nature: to find comfort in the structured. Within the pristine white walls occasionally stained with intrepid graffiti bearing words which wrung true, you discovered that there were crevices in the world — waning in number they were, but they endured nonetheless — where content could abound, and with it came the smallest traces of happiness. You found such a place at school, frightening as it was for those who feared learning as much as they feared knowledge itself. There, you found common ground with other individuals who were not so completely unlike yourself ( they were less miserable, yes, but at least they too appreciated wisdom as it came knocking down their front door ), and for once in your life, you were not so alone.

Then Poverty — the brutal master of the unprivileged — disillusioned you once more, and again came your descent into the recesses of your own mind. You learned to distrust not only other humans now, but life itself: how cruel it was in its unpredictability, to take happiness from a child he has already robbed once just as quickly as he gives it. Humans were fickle in their ways; Fate was fickle in his choices. You shed all pretenses of false youth with which you clothed yourself. You prepared for the worst, all while shunning the best. So arose the daughter of Athena: from the floods of tragedy she awakens, misery and prudence abounding all around her.

SCENE II: THE GODS ARE DESPERATE FOOLS

Tragedy allowed you to unearth yourself, whilst it only permitted Father into further deterioration and self-deprecation. In matter of a decade, the wealth granted him by his parents just prior to his decision to live alone — along with the money he himself had gathered in his short lived days of glory — consumed itself into nothingness. You made the mistake of looking to him for a solution ( a mistake you will make no longer ), instead of looking to yourself ( a solution you will use for the remainder of your days ). Through gritted teeth and the suppression of guilt, you used the brilliance of your mind to navigate your way through society, living paycheck to paycheck ( of course, we use this liberally only in a metaphorical sense ).

Father, it seems, remained ignorant to all that went on around him. You knew why this was so. Long before tragedy struck, you unearthed why this was so, and with such precision, your hypothesis turned into fact: after Athena abandoned him to cruel solitude, he created a world where only he and the hopeless dwell. It is a world of desperation and deceitful joy, far from our own. Through this world, he built a convincing delusion: that everything was alright ( indeed, the apple does not fall too far from the tree ). It was not until he scraped the bottom of his wallet only to find lint and crumpled paper did he awaken, albeit only momentarily.

When all seems bleak, we do the inexplicable — things which do not necessarily make sense to those who witness it; things which do not make sense even to ourselves. Despair drives man to ends he never would’ve gone; and only the gods know what trenchant despair drove Father to his parents’ doorstep.

You had never learned of their existence, and neither did they yours ( up until that pivotal moment, you were but an unfulfilled wish, and they were but ghosts of a time uncharted ). But the prodigal son must find his way back, one way or another, be it by his will or not — such is his Fate, no matter the tale. You marveled at the transparency of emotions written on their face: how easily sorrow turned to joy, joy turned to anger, anger to shock, shock to disdain, disdain to disappointment. You, young as you are, uncovered the importance of masking emotions — this way and this way alone secured you the upper hand. As your precocious gaze fell upon their faces, you wondered how individuals of their tenure would be so bereft of such knowledge; how quickly they succumbed to the lustrous temptation of emotion.

The silence that fell upon them was deafening; and amidst that silence, you heard four hearts beat in unison: one, two, three — a fleeting moment passes into history and you are ushered inside a house which rivaled the grandeur of the building that saw your youth fade into premature adulthood — but where Father’s home sunk along with Time, his parents’ remained afloat above years collected. A butler was eager to take your backpack heavy with novels ( it felt strange, to have been waited on all of a sudden, when all your life you had depended on no one but yourself ); he escorts you to a room away from Father and his parents. The woman — Nana, you would grow accustomed to calling her — turned to you before you went your separate ways: We’re so sorry sweetie, but we’ll see you later. The adults just need to have a little chat ( how ludicrous must one’s mind be to fail to recognize an adult trapped in the corporal existence of a child? Had the suspicion in her eyes not been a dead giveaway? ).

What went on in the room adjacent to where you stayed remains a mystery, although your juvenile mind was quick to speculate ( they placed a toy before you, mistaking you for a simpleminded child, entertained by the silliest wonders, as though a mere toy would put a halt to your ever wandering thoughts — evidently, it was not ). The walls reveled in their thickness and you failed to hear even the faintest whisper. You do not know how long you spent inside that room, your separation from books seemingly increasing the loneliness, but they entered just as soon as you felt anxiety eating away at your fingertips.

Formalities were the foremost priority in their eyes, so it appeared. Introductions seemed the least of your concerns, but that did not prevent them from carrying on nonetheless. Nana went first, then Papa; but they urged you to call them the monikers with which you refer to them as now. They had told you their first names and you chose to forget, because you knew they would be no more than a few lines in the lengthy narrative you were creating, harsh as the thought may be. You noticed that Father had not followed suit, and it was only then that his absence made itself known to you.

Then you see him, far behind the door left ajar. Half of his face was naught but a silhouette, a poetic manifestation of his spiritual separation from our world. There was despair in his eyes, but also fear; and as his gaze locked with yours, you saw the softest sheen of hope: a passing thought it was, but it grew in prominence as you prolonged the shared stare. Beneath the liquor-stained gaze of a drunk lay the hollow shell of the man Father used to be; and in that single, unforgettable moment, you see the glory he once held within his very palm.

Father fades from view as Papa closes the door, and all connections with him are severed. Then comes the question that will decide the path upon which you shall tread: Will you stay with us? [ REDACTED ] cannot come with you, but we’ll take care of you.

Eager eyes fall upon you. With you, they would project the dreams unfinished by their son, but even if you would refuse doing so, Papa and Nana would shield you with their wings nonetheless, for they feel as though they failed the first time they attempted to raise a child, but this time they will not. Sometimes all people coveted was a second chance — and you, daughter of wisdom, are now given the burden of choice of whom you would give it to: to your grandparents — intent on redeeming themselves — or to Father — a man who would not survive the cold bite of sheer loneliness?

The decision is set in stone when you look outside the window of the second story of the building. Father walks away, stumbling upon stone and sand, doomed to return to a dwelling devoid of vigor and of you. It’s for the best ( this is the first time you justify your actions in order to deny any notions of immorality; from thence, this becomes a habit that eats away at both your conscience and your humanity ). Now all Father has to do is look after himself. He is free of the burdens he saddled in my name. He is free of me ( but Father needed you more than you ever needed him — you know this. You abandoned him at his weakest. Indeed, humans are fickle in their ways — and you are not exempt from this ).

SCENE III: THE GODS CLAMOR FOR THE DAYS OF SPLENDOR LONG EXTINCT

Days come and go peacefully but the doubt in your heart will not leave you be. Papa and Nana dote on you endlessly, much to your disdain. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined living in a world where opulence abound; amidst the colossal and destitute vestibules of their home ( it becomes another place you fail to call home: because exuberant as this edifice was, it was not without a feeling of desolation ) unfamiliarity took residence. You feel like a literal stranger in this home — a mere prowler granted the liberty of roaming to her liking only for an indefinite time, up until the rightful owners of the property come barging in and you are forced to take refuge in dark corners, in hopes that you would never be found. But this was not the case, and you were not so much a boarder who paid rent as you were an inhabitant.

Oh, the gods knew how much you wanted to belong — to find your place among people you so dearly wanted to call family ( the word was all too unfamiliar to you, and perhaps that’s where the fear stemmed ). Still, your mind was not your mind if its primal instinct was not to doubt the intentions of even the pure. Twisted your thoughts had become, and even the sweetness of the words of Papa and Nana seemed to rot your teeth with overcompensation. Then, your soul was asphyxiated by sheer absence; now it grows restless because of excessive presence.

You could not deny the call of intuition: how fiercely it cried that even your grandparents acted only out of selfish gain. Perhaps it was not wrong in its assumption, but perhaps you needn’t always seek to be right. Your inability to accept things at face value becomes the source of torment. To suspect a little was wise; but to suspect constantly was no longer wisdom — it was self-deterioration.

Skepticism made little to no room for acceptance; and although you wanted to recognize the love Papa and Nana endeavored to make known to you, you could not — not so long as doubt inhabited every crevice of your heart. Days come and go peacefully — until they do not.

It was both a blessing and a curse to be right about nearly everything: that though the reward for the accuracy of your suspicion created a monstrous ego destructible by none other than yourself, it also meant that your assumption of constant tragedy was justified; it meant that misfortune tailed your every move, and the distrust planted in your heart had every reason to exist.

Your grandparents built a library for you in an attempt to destroy the walls of wariness you built around yourself. You never stepped foot in it for you feared you would find too much comfort in the place and begin to call the rest of the building home. As you saw it consumed in flames, the memory of your refusal set forth regret.

Akin to the winds of change, the Chimera came without any forewarning. Such a creature existed only in the novels you read, never to haunt you in your waking moments. Imagination could not have concocted a vision more terrifying than what lay ahead of you, just as you had arrived from school. It stood double, triple, quadruple your size, violent flames writhing from its unhinged jaw and a venomous snake in the place of a tail thrashing from behind. When you fought, you fought with words — with rapid quips and statements that silenced your opponent into dumbness. But this creature could not be stifled or hindered by words, disarming as they were when unexpected.

Still, you would not stand where you stand now if it were not for your craftiness. Suspicion had long kept you on your toes, and knowledge made an excellent substitute for swords and shields. While you had not met the Chimera head on ( to do so would’ve been folly: it would’ve devoured you either in flames or in an enclosed mouth ), you followed the tactic preset by Bellerophon during a forgotten time: with the equipment the basement provided, you created your own crude version of a led ball. When opportunity struck, down its throat you jammed it and history repeats itself, as is dictated by the Fates.

It’s this singular moment when all your worries are given appropriate justification. For once in your life, you are bereft of a logical explanation: circumstance has allowed you to feel lost and devoid of judgment ( and you are not even given ample time to repress and compartmentalize, as you have done time and time again ). In the midst of the struggle and strife, you forget to search for Papa and Nana: vulnerable to even a human attack. You find them in the corner of the bedroom curled into a tight embrace, the solidity of their grasp morphing two figures into one. You remember the fear that flooded their eyes, overflowing the rim of their irises. They were terrified and traumatized, but ultimately unscathed.

Success was yours for the time being, but there were things that needed answers, and you had to look to the scorned and the abandoned for them. Thirteen months following your betrayal of him, your eyes fall upon a familiar sight.

Father had not changed, save the untrimmed beard which now clung to the gentle sag of his skin. His room held more empty bottles and stronger memories of disdain. The air flourished with the stench of recently lit cinders from cigarettes and the recognizable stank of loneliness. Father was dying, and you perpetrated his death with treason.

Still, you looked to him for one final attempt of searching prudence in unlikely places. His face was wrought with both hope and agony as he laid his eyes upon you, the drunken gaze surprisingly coated with gentleness ( you did not know this then, but this would be the last time Father looks upon you with waking eyes ). But as your nature permitted only so little emotion to persist, you got right to business, offering no words of sympathy or apology — both long overdue. You ask of your past and he answers. You ask why the monsters had not come before and he explains ( the stench of liquor you had long detested turned out to be your saving grace; at the expense of your protection, Father sacrificed his life ). You inquire of what to do next and he provides a solution — the final moments of prudence from Doctor Palmer. He tells you of a Camp where safety abound — a Camp where you would finally find belongingness. You thank him for his cooperation and turn your back, unaware that he had more to say — more to confess, it is safe to use such a bold term. But you do not grant him that. He does not deserve that.

When you walked out of the front door of the place you could’ve called home, you leave only with a loaded gun ( which you did not know how to use, though you promised you would learn ) and three fundamental truths ( which you would forever live by ):

There would be no more words of or for Father. He is the emblem of the past you would much prefer to forget. As you do with all other repulsive memories and emotions, you will store all recollections of Father — be they good or bad — in a neatly wrapped box, sealed with the promise to never open such things.

Do not expect anything from Mother. In fact, it would be best if you destroyed the habit of calling her Mother. After all, you had long survived without the concrete presence of either parent, why would you need it now, after all you’ve endured? Mother Athena never could’ve been a mother, not with her stature. She may be your mentor when the day comes, but she is foremost a god, untouchable by even you.

Your distrust was never misplaced. Deep down, your intellect knew it was preparing you for the worst. With this covert tool you will find survival. Through this and only this can you find the willpower to go on. Sow the seeds of distrust and suspicions; water them with constant vigilance; and cultivate it with doubt of all ( even of self ).

Through hell and high water your feet walked with hardly any cessation, outsmarting one monster after the other. You had not the experience to fight, but your brilliance reigned supreme — this much you were certain. Finally, when the road became too weary to bear all on your own, by Athena’s guidance you crossed paths with a satyr who showed you the way to Camp Half-Blood. Long gone are the days of Cordelia Marie Palmer, child prodigy. Now come the days of Cora Palmer, daughter of Athena ( you were claimed the same night you arrived, much to your surprise ). Here now begins the true tale of heroic tragedy.

INTERMISSION

You are only twelve when you first taste the bitter sting of war. You had grown in strength from your first year at Camp ( the twelve months passed in its entirety and yet you do not leave; after all, you never truly had a home laying in wait for your return ). The detached persona remains intact, even with the presence of so many others who are not unlike yourself. Among your cabin, you were the most recluse, and that spoke volumes. Though no outward connections were ever created, an intrinsic admiration for your fellow campers was honed by instinct ( and perhaps a unique type of love, too, existed when you weren’t so eager to deny it ). To see them die by your side reminds you why you distrusted the Fates so much.

The gods demanded so much from children — indeed, even with the torment of circumstance, those who surrounded you and even you yourself were naught but children, forced to become soldiers in a war you did not instigate — and yet they repaid so little in your favor. Once the bloodshed stopped and the anguish slowly subsided, the gods returned to the security of their thrones, abandoning you all to face the consequences of their actions. It was a brutal play, but the gods were gods. They would not be gods if they did not care so little, you repeat to yourself, day after day, memorial after memorial — all so you may contain the anger which threatened to overflow as do tempestuous dams when filled to their brim.

ACT III

SCENE I: ALL YOU ARE GRANTED IS DIMINISHED CONTROL OF THE END

Father is dead and everything is worse now.

The threat of war dissipates almost in full and it leaves nothing but tender scars in its wake, waiting for the gentle kiss of healing. There you stood amidst them all — pitiful heroes who dictated the course of Fate — and you were among them. Your wisdom no longer went unrecognized. After all, your habitual tendency to slip into a subconscious need to correct the amiss and silence the idiotic could only yield one result, and the result was revealing to the entirety of Camp the essence of your ways. Silent you indeed were when the situation called for you to be silent, but the words with which you armed yourself earned themselves a certain repute — whether it was good or bad depended on who you asked.

Thus came the dawning of your time: to helm a quest all on your own. A prophecy was uttered and you, child of wisdom, were at the forefront. The gods placed upon you the task of searching for and retrieving the Harpe — the adamantine sword Perseus used to decapitate Medusa. Two others were placed by your side, not primarily for guidance, but mostly for assistance. They were inexperienced — strong and apt they were, it was fair to say, but inexperienced nonetheless — eager to take orders from you, their leader. Indeed, the position was unfamiliar to you: you worked better behind-the-scenes, pen and paper in hand. But the burden of leadership was appointed to you and you only. You set off, awaiting the arrival of sunrise, sword in your right hand, and in your left, in the place of a shield, perpetual doubt.

The quest went smoothly, save the occasional monster attack which harmed neither you nor your companions. Then by the dictates of instinct and against those of reason, you read the tabloids.

DOCTOR [ REDACTED ] PALMER FOUND DEAD AT 48 ( they leave out the details of his death, indicating only that it was caused by a heart attack. The time and place for the wake is stamped at the lower right corner of the paper, inviting former friends and distant family members to come. You wonder if anyone ever accepted the open invitation ).

It does not take long for the words to sink in. The box with which you locked away all memories of Father rattles in its place, the threat of spilling open just mere millimeters away from you. Someone asks if you are okay ( how stupid that question truly was, how incapable of reading the situation ); you do not know who it was, but it is enough to shake you awake for at least a few moments. The newspaper finds its proper place in the bin and you carry on with the quest. You truly were excellent at that: running from things and using obligation as a convenient excuse.

Camp Half-Blood welcomes you with words of congratulations — you, leader of this quest, has succeeded, accomplishing the task appointed you all while keeping your companions unscathed from battle. You greet the kind words with an equally kind smile, held together for the sake of politeness.

That night, however, you allow yourself to grieve: and for the first time since you were birthed into this world, you offer the darkness your tears. There were no words befitting for the situation, save a few:

Father is dead and everything is worse now

— because now, the guilt of leaving him to the company of his own deteriorating mind eats away at your conscience, no justification strong enough to wrap this up into a neat little box. Finally, you realize ( and how painful this realization comes ) that the reason behind your distrust is because this is how you see yourself: a blight on society — selfish by every right. After all, how can a thief trust his fellow thief? You can surround yourself with the accomplishment of tasks uncountable, but that will never relieve you of your treacherous nature.

The night paved way for sorrow, but the day did not. Once the sun shone high above the sky, you were back to who you truly were: cold, detached, the perfect strategic machine built by the gods to do their bidding. The box containing your memories with Father is intact once more; it no longer rattles or writhes. The time for weeping was over; the time for work has come again.

SCENE II: ALL YOU ARE IS A GHOST OF WHAT YOU PAINT YOURSELF TO BE

The years spent at Camp Half-Blood were kind to you — if not the kindest. You remained within the recluse of your own company, forever doomed to distrust even those who earned your admiration. Ten years to the day, the wounds from the Titan War have begun to heal almost in full. The sun shone out the clearer, and while your walls of distrust never weakened or rendered themselves vulnerable, you found that they were no longer needed ( still, you kept them up, just in case, you would say to yourself ).

But war never dies — no, not truly. It can lay in a fitful dormancy for a time interminable, but it will always wake, just as vigorous as before, just as eager to consume all within its path. Good or evil, it did not care; it was blood that it was after, and blood does not take sides.

You had hardly slept a wink ( you hardly slept these days, in fact; an unnameable threat lies in wait, biding its time so it when its stroke fell, it fell perfectly — with this thought, your heart grew heavy, and slumber was much more akin to a privilege than a necessity ) when you were called to the meeting room. Chiron wore the news on his face: tragedy was waiting for fresh meat. You did not know that you would be among its prey.

Here you all are again, caught in the game of the gods. Except this time, you would fight alongside unfamiliar faces borne by individuals whom you have long called enemies. You detest it — you detest it all; and yet, you cannot escape it. You have been given duty, and duty must not go unfulfilled, no matter the cost.

The Fate of this quest hangs upon a flitting thread. You do not know what lies in the end, if any of you are even permitted to see the conclusion of this quest. What worries you, however, is not uncertainty — for uncertainty is constant, especially in the lives of demigods; it is your thriving distrust — the instinct upon which you have long depended — that is the ultimate matter of concern. You had hardly granted faith to those who had known you all your life ( Father knew this; Papa and Nana knew this, too ); and to give it so easily to people whom you should regard as foes? Indeed, the gods were desperate; otherwise, they would not have come to such a reckless decision.

You sail now straight into the land of the unknown, and you cannot promise success to accompany you on the journey back — if you are even granted the privilege of a journey back.

FINALE

Look to the East in search of the rising sun, young Hero — here you will find the courage you desperately lack. You — eager as you are to meet foes in battle and face Death without so much as flinching — must learn that it is not in dying that we find difficulty, but in living. Wise as you are for one so young, you have much to unearth; and this quest, whatever its Fate may be — whether you sail towards triumph or defeat — will teach you all that you do not yet know. Dig deep, young Hero, for it is in the buried that we find what we find what must be wielded in combat. You search your heart for bravery but you find it empty: it has long been punctured and bled out by the distrust you hold so closely to your chest. There will come a time — and the time dawns nearer and nearer — when the walls with which you surround yourself will have to crumble. It is the inevitable; and though vulnerability will plague you, strength will lie in wait at the finish line. Yes, young hero, clutch your fatal flaw closely, closely, closely — hold it so close so you may grow sick of it and let it go. Young hero, do you not understand what the audience is telling you what you should do? Let go — of all repressions and all suspicions. Only then may tragedy strike so hard that the gods will not have any other choice but to call you a hero.

FATAL FLAW/DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:

DYSPISTIA — distrust.

Wisdom grants a person to see the world for what it truly is: a dark and awful place perpetrating its own demise. It seems a bleak vantage point, but it is the harsh reality of the land upon which we tread so carelessly. Cora recognizes this — rather, she recognized this at such a young age, seeing men such as her Father fall prey to the sweet caress of sorrow; in the women who came home with him, the light of innocence fading from their eyes; and in her grandparents too, who were so eager to force a young girl to choose between her own survival and her loyalty to her Father, if it meant that she would stay with them and give them the opportunity to raise another child in the place of the one they lost to circumstance. It would be fair to say that this judgment is harsh — after all, there is still some good in this world, albeit waning in number; and Cora sees this, too. A hallmark of her personality is her ability to weigh things out, and with this particular case, the bad outweighs the good. Man can no longer trust fellow man because either may give in to selfish desires. That said, her distrust comes from such a deep place, which makes it all the more dangerous and impossible to rid the self of. She grew up exposed to the treachery of man and to the lack of dependability they possessed. At a very unripe age, Cora discovered that you cannot depend on others for anything; and thus, you could not trust them to keep to anything, even their word. Above all, however, what I think nailed the hammer on the head was her own treachery, the sufferer of which was her Father. The irony of it all is that Cora is so quick to preach about man’s vulnerability to treason, and yet when presented with the decision between her own survival and remaining with her Father, she chooses the former, even though she knows that that would entail betrayal at its finest. More than that, she is very self-aware, constantly searching herself for flaws and defects so she can correct them; and therefore she knows that though she’s justified her abandonment of her Father, her real reason for the decision still comes from a terrible place. Cora trusts not even herself to remain true to what is good. How can she possibly trust others — whose minds she cannot read and whose actions she cannot predict — when she cannot even trust herself? Her fatal flaw stems from an extremely dark place, something that goes all the way back to her childhood. It’s this damaged perception of the intents of other people, along with her own deteriorating conscience which allow distrust to subsist.

EXTRAS:

p e r s o n a l i t y

( + ) brilliant — the mentors of our youth have long impressed in our psyche the beauty of our existence — how privileged we are to even step foot onto this Earth, no matter the time span — be it great or diminished, we are blessed to have been given the opportunity to live. It is through our souls that this gift of existence is realized: souls, intangible sentinels which grant vigor to our withering bodies. But in all its wonder and mysticism, the soul is rivaled only by another element which brings value to our otherwise invaluable lives: the mind — the mortal mind which gives meaning to the inexplicable and questions the implications of those which are already explained. Every human is given that gift — of a mind so curious and precise in its nature, each differing in its scope and its usage. Every now and again, however, a mortal somewhat greater than other mortals is favored by the Fates ( if you so perceive. after all, to those who actually receive such favors may not regard them as so ), and these mortals are granted minds more complex, more curious, more permissive and less limiting. Cora Palmer is among those mortals who possess such a gift. Her mind works in ways that it perceives things differently — not necessarily in eccentrically, but definitely in manners that no other human or even demigod would see such things. She recalls the day her mathematics teacher asked: is math discovered or invented? She knew the answer to be the former, primarily because she herself was proof of it: she saw patterns in nature ( and in other settings as well; don’t think for a moment that her brain would be caged by a single setting ), and she connected those patterns to figures, figures to formulas, formulas to solutions and answers. Her mind is a thing of wonder: always correct in its hypotheses, never mistaken in its conclusions. It transcends intelligence — it is materialization of something even greater than what most can fathom: it is brilliance itself. Unfortunately, no one ever told Cora that her brilliance would be her own undoing: she wouldn’t have succumbed to it so easily if it were so.

( − ) arrogant — it was sweltering Sunday afternoon when she first became acquainted with the thoughts of Sun Tzu. When she came upon the world of myths she believed were only myths, Cora often wondered if the great warrior had been a demigod himself. A man such as he — so comfortable with a sword within his enclosed palm and his feet upon a battlefield, a sight at which most would cower — would’ve fit the demigod profile with ease. Perhaps it he could’ve been a befitting as a son of Ares: eager to slaughter those marked as foes; or perhaps he could’ve even been her sibling with whom she will never be given the opportunity to know personally ( not that the relationship would bear substance — no such relationship exists in her life, be it bound by blood or not ). Some things Cora would never know the answer to — yes, these things existed, much to her dismay ( and, secretly, her relief ) — but while this question passed out of memory and wandered into a time forgotten, the things written by his hand were not. One phrase in particular fails to fade into triviality, and remains an eminent thought ( or was it more appropriate to call it a reminder, with the way it haunts her waking moments and her hours of slumber? ): know thyself. Know thyself, you know yourself, Cora repeats for the nth time — the exact number she’s already lost to incessant persistence. Truth be told, the statement sounded less like a statement and more of an argument: as though she herself needed convincing. But — as she was with nearly all other things — Cora wasn’t wrong. She knows herself to a fault, she knows others ( or, at the very least, creates very accurate assumptions of who they truly are ) to a degree which even they themselves fail to reach. Cora is well aware of her brilliance, of the shield of invulnerability she creates with the power of her mind. Long has it been since someone lay steps ahead of her ( and she is certain that such an opportunity would never exist again ), and she knows the advantage she holds, all because of the nearly limitless depth of her brain. However, Cora remains unaware of one aspect — an aspect which should not have gone unnoticed: how easily she falls prey to her ego, which has long stood unchecked. The girl relies too heavily on her own abilities, placing herself upon a pedestal higher than those whom she should regard as her equals. She has spawned this belief that she is better than all others who cross her path ( and perhaps she is right, but that is not for her to decide ). Indeed, Cora knows herself; but mayhap certain things ( her arrogance claiming the top spot of this list ) she turns a blind eye to.

( + ) methodical — how easily we all forget the haste at which the rat race moves once we succumb to the folly of immediate glory. If assurance lay anywhere, it lay here and here it dwelt with comfort: in the impermanence of all things, especially of things greatly coveted by man. Akin to the cat locked in perpetual search of the light with which he is so easily teased, man follows those deemed worthy of his time and love to the ends of the earth. Stray but a little from the path — the narrow walkway provided by the gods in his favor — and he risks defeat; and, ultimately, loss of the thing he highly craves. Swift strikes the hammer of impermanence, and with its blow comes the destruction of all notions of earnestness and grandeur. But there is a secret known only to a few — a minuscule percentage of the otherwise massive population accompanying the introduction of the budding century: Fortune — cruel and harsh it may be to nearly all given the due time to walk upon our world — is not without its biases: it favors not only the bold, but those who work toward boldness with the utmost devotion. Youth was kind enough to forewarn Cora of this immutable fact, despite having been exposed only to the limited revelations permitted by an unripe age ( and though these revelations were limited, they were more than sufficient for any other child who did not possess her wisdom, infantile as it was ). The tenderness of her age did not inhibit the realization by which a fragile heart was felled: in order to be where she wanted ( Father claims her destiny lay in the Hall of the Greats, as aforementioned; her grandparents believed she was to follow in their footsteps which, though waning in influence, remained prominent within the field of astrophysics; and Athena, privy and clandestine as her thoughts were, probably intended her daughter to follow the path paved towards glory — after all, Cora’s success was her own as well: a victory to which her own name was attached by default. All who surrounded her seemed to forge an idea of where she was to be, once Slumber came and refused to leave — but where was it she wanted her feet to traverse? The answer — or the jarring absence of one — terrifies her ) — in order for her life to be given some measure of value — she needed to prepare for the worst by constantly being at her best. Cora discovered how vicious the world was to the idle — to those who bide their time not for thought, but for indulgence. She was not to be among them; not if she wanted to know the worth of her while. Sleepless nights were pursued to ease the attainment of a valuable existence. Plans — long-term or short-term, detailed either way — were formed because I have to, she reiterated, both to those who questioned her ways ( friends, they were called long ago, but they too have passed out of memory ) and to herself. It was an arduous process: to have her mind constantly search for all the problems and formulate a solution for each one long before they even present themselves as problems — but it’s gotten her this far. The method to the madness ( madness of the mind, this kind of madness was ) was an effective companion. If she prepared for every possible circumstance — may the odds surrounding such circumstances be substantial or not — then Fate would not be able to take Cora by surprise. But one can only plan for what they foresee, and while hardly devoid of prudence, there exists a limit to all things: even her ability to prepare.

( − ) inflexible — we are to be as the waves: commanding in our fury, malleable in our undoing. Violent as they were when unconstrained, even the seas knew to bend to the will of the Moon when she claimed her rightful place in the sky alongside the uncountable constellations and the infinitive darkness among which she dwelt. It seems an old wives’ tale, how we are told all this: no more than a collection of synapses lost to youth and time, mere reminders our parents tucked us into bed with — pillow on the right hand, life lesson on the left. But guides were not provided for each child, extensive as their numbers were. Most travel through earth and time with a mother or father ( or mother and father, or mother and mother, or father and father — whatever the case may be ), the frailty of their tiny palms upon which the promise of the world rests is locked into another palm — old of age and etched with features to make it evident so. Some, however, are not so lucky on this front. There were they: the children who — long before they could even recite their ABCs or sing songs of lambs and bridges in full — discovered innocence too was mortal, as nearly all things in this world are. As naivety met its end, so came knowledge — the landmark of the passing of youth. Cora was among the latter, and she too lacked the proper guidance supposedly owed to every child. Father was less like a father and more like a ghost: an unrestrained and fading spirit trapped in a corporal existence, slowly rotting with time and sorrow; and of course Athena was never a mother, more akin to an unfathomable constellation than to the child’s early perception of love ( she tried, in her most earnest efforts, to provide Cora with the guidance she required when the need was dire, and she tried, in her truest desire, to love as much as a god could love, but it could not be enough to fill the void Cora was born with ). With that, she grew, never to know that we are to be like water — flexible when the time for flexibility arises. Through her systematic ways, Cora stood firm by the belief that rigidity was equal to reliability. To bend to the will of circumstance — even when it called for such an action — was a foolish man’s alternative. Arrogance fueled this belief; the effectiveness of her methods the deciding factor. Her plans — in all their precision and accuracy — proved that adaptability to all other things was unneeded. After all, when you had prepared for everything, how could you stray? Why would you stray? This incapability to bend and break as the wind demands would one day dictate her downfall, although she knows it not — at least, not yet. While the other demigods with whom Cora must now work learned to be as adaptable as the waves, she bears more similarities to the rocks against which they crash: rigid, planted firmly in placed, doomed to erode overtime, even with their seemingly abounding strength.

( + ) subtle — treachery exists in one too many forms: in sizable manifestations, it rocked civilization and inaugurated wars ( this kind of treachery we have grown familiar with through the aid of these reiterations of the myths of old ); but a certain kind of periodic treachery exists as well, and though meager compared to the former type, it is not to be easily brushed aside. It seeps into friendships and poisons relationships; it destroys reputations and corrupts security. This kind of treachery frightens Cora, although she is quick to deny it. As she is aware of so many other things, she is aware of how easily this treachery manifests itself in even the seemingly tightest bonds. That is the threat perpetually faced by ordinary mortals. But Cora — and the rest of her kind with whom she has long called companions — are not ordinary mortals: demigods are more susceptible to the threat of betrayal than all others who roam this Earth. After all, when one charges into a war front, they do not want to be surrounded by those whom they distrust. But one can never be sure. The most ideal solution ( the solution Cora has opted to bypass ) is to create indisputable bonds, ones which can outlast lifetimes. However, even such bonds are corruptible — this, Cora firmly stands by. They do not eliminate the threat of treachery. Room for such peril always exists, no matter how narrow, and therefore risks exploitation. With that, Cora forged another solution, though she is not the first to go down this route ( her decision to favor this solution marked the first manifestation of her fatal flaw; thenceforth, she could rid herself of it so easily, although no evidence of effort was ever noted ): she built walls around herself higher than those which already existed. The construction of these impenetrable walls started in her youth, and they only grew in size as she quickly shed innocence. Her eyes — expressive as they were when curiosity knocked at her front door — hid behind an unreadable blankness; her face — bright and intense it was when immersed in a world existent only in her mind — was devoid of emotion. They cannot betray what they do not know, through gritted teeth and loneliness she reminded herself. It bestowed itself upon Cora easily, this ability to conceal what went on within the recesses of her mind ( and the gods know how great that number was ). Through this, Cora gained the upper hand in most things: in spirited debates, in games of chess, in hand-to-hand combat ( her adversaries could only anticipate as much as she allowed to display in her actions and expressions, and she allowed none ), in life. Through her subtlety, she was indecipherable, inscrutable, a mystery masking a human being ( there are moments when she feels less like a human and more like a machine — an enigma to curious hands and wandering minds ). Through showing nothing, she risked nothing. They cannot betray what they do not know.

( − ) detached — the gods do not believe in rewards undeserved — this, we’ve established before. For each blessing bestowed, the need for a sacrifice equal in weight ( sometimes, when the gods or the Fates — depending on who steered the wheel of fortune at that particular moment for one particular individual — felt especially malicious, the sacrifice was preponderant to the gift for which it was exchanged ) was demanded. It was a curse borne by every hero consumed by history, given the privilege of immortality through tales and songs forever exclaimed by a chorus of voices from people unseen. It is a curse which has withstood the test of time, haunting the heroes who place one foot firmly in the promise of glory and another in the assurance of death made certain. The demigods tasked to board that ship have long endured this curse — they were all of them birthed with this obligation, desired or otherwise ( of course, it was the latter — it was always the latter; for who would ever willingly give their lives away to agony even when the possibility of glory was dangled before their eyes? ). Aloft the juvenile head of a then youthful Cordelia, wisdom and brilliance were crowned. When consciousness finally prevailed over naivety ( it did not take a long time for the former to do so ), she wore this crown with pride, and it remained within the security of an upturned chin and a watchful eye. This gift did not go untouched, for through their guidance, Cora discovered the fragility of the world and all who inhabited it. She forged a shield — not one of physical prowess, but of another kind of power that grew too great for words — which guarded her from all the travesties she discovered always hung around the corner. For this, Cora sacrificed one which she determined was unneeded — an element which appeared all the unappealing in her eyes: companionship, in exchange for security; trust, in exchange for peace of mind. The logic devised by her unerring mind seemed without fault: to lead a life of loneliness was preferable to one preyed upon by constant treason. She knew of the fickleness of humans, how quickly friend turned to foe, foe to relentless huntsman, satiated only by the downfall of the person whom they intended to snare. She saw this in Father, in her grandparents as well, in herself too, when she was brave enough to acknowledge the thought ( truth be told, she saw this in the gods too: she could not be fooled by their glory; she knew they too had to give in to treachery at one point or another to seize and secure the power upon which they greatly depend — her Mother Athena was not exempt from this generalization ). Through her sacrifice of friendship, Cora bore upon her shoulders the burden of loneliness — loneliness so harsh it puts the bite of the first winter day to shame; loneliness so cruel it breeds a life of misery and torment within a mind caged by itself. Separated from all other humans and demigods by the walls she elected to build, Cora stands alone, never to have her thoughts discovered or the authenticity of her self unearthed. Alone, she has chosen herself to be, and alone she will remain to the end of her days, or so she chooses to believe. After all, one can only outlast solitude so long as willpower holds out; and though she does not lack it, it is waning in size. Subtlety is the seed with which her distrust was spawned; detachment was the ruthless sun which permitted its seemingly unending growth.

( + ) pragmatic — for each concept of abstraction exists one of its polar opposite, neither preponderant nor inferior in weight. These elements and their consequent paradoxes are trapped in a perpetual game of tug of war, constantly waging war against the other, ultimately keeping the balance of the universe intact. For every action comes an equal opposite reaction — such are the ways of our world, whether we like it or not: for every child born, another mortal meets his end; for every fire kindled in secrecy, another flame consumes itself and leaves nothing but ashes in its wake; for every dreamer lost to the greatness of whatever masterpiece he may be constructing in his mind or with his hands, a realist arrives, bearing the weight of constant sound judgement upon his shoulders — the same weight which keeps his feet firmly sewn into the ground upon which he walks. Through the realist’s eyes, Cora sees the world and all who roam within it. Knowledge is perceiving things and people for what and who they truly are; wisdom is acknowledging that each situation is identical to all those that precede it, the minor details — names, places, dates — changed only to create the pretense of difference. Always, the past repeats itself in manifestations that suit the time periods wherein they are recreated: the same foes battle the same heroes; the same heroes are felled by the same tragedies; the same tragedies are sung throughout history, only by new voices and new faces — new victims to the folly of admiration. As he grows older, the realist becomes more and more aware of this, which is why he is not so easily swayed by the promises of a worse or better tomorrow: for he knows that tomorrow will stay exactly the same, no matter the actions of man, granted so little control of so few things. With this piece of information borne in mind, however, the realist is more cautious with his tasks — and Cora is not an exemption to all others who fall within this category. She knows of the troubles that haunted the heroes who have long ventured into a time forgotten, and she knows that these same troubles plague the heroes of this new juvenile age. The probability of failure always outweighs the chances of success, which is why it must be addressed as early as possible, long before it even manifests itself as a probability. The practicality of the views spawned by her mind exists hand-in-hand with her methodical nature: through the former, Cora creates an intrinsic need for the latter; through the latter, the reason for being of the former is justified. The dreamer — great and successful as he may be — is a fool, for Cora ( above all others ) knows that those who dwell only in the stories birthed by their brains will never grow accustomed to the harshness of reality; while the realist — miserable and tortured by their own perceptions as he may be — will always be one step ahead ( and the gods were foremost witnesses: of the importance Cora placed on being a step, or maybe ten, ahead of her foes. In her eyes, before the battle of the fist comes the battle of the mind; and what weapon would be more terrifying than that forged by realism? ).

( − ) repressive — to an individual bereft of better judgment, attaining a long coveted desire is a blessing handed down directly to him by the gods out of the goodness of their hearts ( oh, how foolish can one be to come to the conclusion that the gods even have hearts, much less do something charitable purely for the benefit of another ). But the gifted and the favored know that the aspects of themselves envied by all others who lay eyes upon them are the very things that bring about their destruction. A painter who aspires to be like Van Gogh lacks awareness of the demons he warred with, once he got away from the scrutiny of the public; a writer who longs to pen verses and novels as Sylvia Plath did does not acknowledge the part in history where she claimed her own life out of despair and agony unavoidable; a fool who desires the brilliance and acumen of a wise man does not understand the responsibility and affliction attached to what he perceives to be a gift. The astute are forever doomed to fall victims to their own thoughts — thoughts which — although impressive for they are thoughts beyond the wisdom of their years — seep into the recesses of their beliefs, corrupting all notions of joy and innocence, beauty and wonder. Perceptions turns to poison, poison induces death: death of the self and death of their belief in the goodness of humanity. On those nights when sleep fails to come easily ( and lately, those nights have only increased in number ), Cora, too, succumbs to such thoughts ( she succumbs easily, but only because it is the nature of her kind: children of the wise and the damned ). Did it have to be this way? To accompany every situation reviewed with an analysis rationalizing its existence, no matter how terrible the situation may be? To place all emotions under the jarring scrutiny of judgment, if only to provide ample justification on why they are immoral? Oh, how the woe of wisdom claims a life: not in a physical sense, no; but in a metaphorical one. What little spirit still survives within Cora suffers just a little bit more each time she rationalizes herself out of feeling — as though it is taboo to do so: a sin with which her hands are marred. Father did not deserve anger, for he acted out of despair. Papa and Nana did not deserve tears, for they acted out of folly. Athena does not deserve bitterness, for she is a god and it is in her nature to abandon. Always, there was a reason why every emotion should be suppressed in favor of apathy. But, child of wisdom, did no one tell you that moving on from squalor was not equal to running from it? To move on, she first had to face the emotion — if that implied her heart would break into a thousand pieces did not matter. This was the right route, the healthy route ( the route she opted not to pursue ). Instead, she stored those emotions into neatly wrapped little boxes, stamped with an argument as to why they never should’ve existed in the first place, sealed with the promise that they never would be opened, even when temptation seemed all but waning. Cora knows the misery that accompanies meeting such foes head-on; but she remains ignorant of the greater misery that escorts this false anesthetic with which she has become addicted to.

( +/- ) goal-oriented — when the value of the self and of all other things has been reduced to rubble, what remains is the value placed upon the scope of one’s achievements, no matter how minute in the eyes of the deities who look down on them. As the impossibility of the attainable increases, so does the self-worth of the individual who relentlessly pursues it. We wrestle with the concept of undue grace — if we do not work for the astonishing, then are we entitled to receive it at all? What worth would our lives have if we do not sacrifice what little time we are granted for those which we deem deserving of our love? ( Indeed, the gods have increased the breadth of their influence to the inhabitants of our world: no other logic as foolish as this exists other than that shared by those whom we blindly revere ). Written on the palm of our brittle hands — penned by the same hands which bear such things — are the words of our destiny, albeit invisible to the mortal eye. It becomes a subconscious drive: the magnetism of these unseen words. An individual instinctively follows the path written by him during a time immemorial, at the end of which awaits the thing they desire the most — be it glory or power, or perhaps something less corporal such as immortality. But some are devoid of these hidden destinies, and the Fate which shall befall them on a later time remains unclear. Consequently, there are two possible alternative walkways between which they must choose: the first is a trackless journey — one without a fruitful destination stationed at the end or a concrete beginning from whence they built lifelong foundations ( this is the walkway creatures devoid of all motive take — those who are hollowed out versions of themselves following a tragedy from which they could not move on ); and the second is a torturous expedition, for it robs mortals of the one characteristic that places them above other creatures: free will. This course is shaped by those other than the man involved, forever dictated by beings greater than he — by the gods or by the Fates, it did not matter; what mattered was the false sense of worth that accompanied the attainment of the tasks assigned them ( this is the walkway Cora has inevitably followed: because as brilliant as her mind may be, she remains uncertain of what to do with the residue of her years, if there are any to remain following this quest ). The worth of her life is dictated by the situations wherein she proves her intelligence be more than just a piece of shock value with which she hinders the idiotic or excites the easily impressed. It stands as evidence: that she is more than a series of silencing quips; that she, in her prime and in her ruin, is enough. Through this ceaseless cycle of receiving assignments and accomplishing them, Cora creates an illusion of direction: that somehow, some way, her life is not devoid of a concrete path ( though this path is not built by her own hands, and she knows this ). But her eagerness to complete the tasks she is given grows at a terrifying rate. There are moments when Cora realizes that she will not stop — not for friend or for self — if only the security of her success is ensured. It creates the internal dispute: if the life of another is endangered at the cost of this quest, would her morality reign supreme, or would she fall victim to her intrinsic need of external approval? Cora is, for numerous times now, devoid of an answer; but unlike her attitude with the other questions lacking a solution, she is not eager to know the response to this particular query. Truth be told, Cora does not trust herself enough to give the correct answer — the morally right answer.

h e a d c a n o n s

when your shadow crosses my door,

Darkness creates refuge for clandestine thoughts — dangerous concepts which should not be tampered with so lightly, especially under the scrutiny of others who are quick to come to undue judgments. Hence, sleepless nights — nights when the blackness of the sky overpowered the ebbing sheen of the Moon and the weak glimmer of stars struggling to reclaim their position in the heavens — were breeding ground for the most perilous thoughts: the boldest of the bold, it should to be fair to say; but their courage to unearth the deepest desires of the mind does not lessen the danger they pose to the human bearing them, especially when acted upon. Cora, however, was not so quick to pursue such thoughts and translate them into reality. When she ventures into the hazardous section of her mind ( and this happened often, perpetrated by sleepless night after sleepless night ), she treads carefully, allowing sufficient time for judgment and pondering before finally choosing between two alternatives: acting upon them or letting go ( the third option was suppressing the thought until forgotten, although she’d much rather say it was only between the two ). But this quest — this unspeakable quest and the burdens that rally against her self-built walls, colossal only in size but crumbling slowly through its weak foundations — has paved a wider pathway for such thoughts ( indeed, she found enjoyment in exploring the unknown; but too much of even the things we love can breed contempt ). One, in particular, Cora has sworn to secure in her keeping and her keeping alone: long has she feared of what dwelt in the West, but the truth divulged with the rest of the details of this quest dispelled all such apprehensions and gave rise only to doubt and hatred ( as was the frequent case for the girl ). But with these newly discovered — and ultimately stocked away — emotions came a secret thought — a covert little whisper that has tried to eliminate itself from Cora’s psyche but failed to do so. In her heart rests a budding respect for the Romans: it came almost immediately, especially at the revelation of their ways — strict and militaristic, it seemed, but it was the way Cora had always wanted things. If she excelled in things other than the academic, it was in following orders. Beneath the pretense of skepticism and aversion, Cora holds a secret admiration for the Romans and the discipline with which they governed themselves. Perhaps she would’ve even found ease being among them, had the divide not existed.

please enter without fear.

Tomorrow is the immediate future all individuals look toward for encouragement. In the midst of a bleak and disheartening present, it was the next day that bore the only realizable promise of hope. Heroes, especially, had a tendency to fall into this habit, whether they were aware of it or otherwise: Odysseus looked to the light of the next day as he journeyed back to Penelope; Dorothy was eager in her pursuit of the Yellow Brick Road because it held the vow of rewarding her with home once she had reached its conclusion; Frodo and Sam, heavy as their Burden was, rationed their food evenly for the adventure that lay ahead, but also for the one that turned back once they had completed what they set out to do. It was human instinct: to hang onto the little snatches of hope which presents itself during the darkest points of our individual quests. But to the mind which could only perceive reality for what it was and not for what it could be, tomorrow was but an expected visitor who always forewarned them that he might not be able to make it. Cora’s mind was set on the matter: tomorrow is not promised anyone — not her, not the Greeks, not the Romans ( not even the gods, she would’ve said if she didn’t risk being smote right then and there ). All they were granted was the time in which they existed: the present. Beyond that, Cora needn’t look too far, save when the matter involved strategy in war; then, they’d have to look as far as insight can permit them to. Indeed, as soon as the quest was introduced to them and she was indicated to be among the Company who set out towards the unknown, her mind immediately jumped to what should be done next. But task given her aside, when merely the wonderment for the sake of wonder was in question, she didn’t bother with what tomorrow had in store. Perhaps the others had already prepared themselves mentally for the journey back. Perhaps they thought only of home as soon as the Ship departed. But not she. Cora will plan for the potential Fate of this quest and strengthen their defenses as far ahead as her mind can conceive, but she does not entertain the idea of seeing the end of the journey. It was an inkling that rattled her bones, and she was frightened of what it whispered: it guaranteed demise ( failure, perhaps? Was she just too terrified to label it appropriately? ), whether it be her own or someone else’s. Either way, Cora isn’t prepping herself to be eager for the journey home — she might not even be a part of it in the first place.

but remember not to ask where i’d been,

When the clock struck ten, the halls had to be devoid of all noise ( save the moaning of Father and the women he constantly brought home, of course ), creating silence that was so pristine you could hear a pin drop. This was one of the numerous rules Father had concocted to create a false sense of discipline within his home ( again, it felt vile to call that building — which held beauty in its vestibules once — home. It felt disgusting, like a nasty lie which called upon a violent reaction in the depths of Cora’s stomach ). They were unnecessary, this much Cora knew. She was a creature of habit and perpetual self-control; whether the rules were present or not, she would’ve exercised an extensive level of restraint, even with the instinctive response to rebel that Youth often bestowed upon its sheep. Each rule she followed, not out of respect for Father ( for she had none of that ), but because it was convenient for her desire to mold herself into the very best version she could possibly be. When the clock struck ten, the halls had to be devoid of all noise — turning pages of books accumulating years within the corners of its spine was hardly noise. This was done with ease. Homework must be completed before dinner; otherwise, food would not be presented on the table until done so — homework was completed hours before her feet touched the floorboards of the house. This rule and the threat that accompanied it lost all impact when Cora realized how painfully easy it was to complete the homework given them, even after she was accelerated to a higher grade. She discovered some sick sort of enjoyment in following the rules intended to torment her into a life of discipline, ignoring the clauses of threats accompanying them, for she did not need a reminder. But one rule in particular Cora was rather vexed with: The television in the living room is simply for display. No one shall turn it on, for news or otherwise. Then, when she had not been consumed wholly by her thoughts and the desire to belong among her peers was quintessential, she realized they were all exposed to the splendor of television. It seemed out of character for her not only to prioritize curiosity over discipline, but also to nurture this desire to defy the orders clearly placed before her. Of course, cautious as she was in her actions, Cora never actively pursued these sudden spurs of rebellion; especially not against Father, who — unlike her — was so quick to succumb to emotions. It was best not to anger him. As poverty overtook their lives and Father searched for himself at the bottom of empty bottles and beautiful women who did not demand much, they eventually had to sell the TV. It was not until at the age of eleven did Cora — following her adoption — witnessed firsthand all that dwelt within the small box of wonders; and by the gods was she enthralled. She had been prohibited for so much for so long but this, in particular, hammered the loss of her innocence right into place. During the last moments of desperation, Cora attempted to reclaim it through watching as much as she could, taking in as much as her mind permitted her to ( and it permitted her to retain so much ). Although doomed never to reclaim the childhood she lost to maturity and anguish, the habit persisted, and she now possesses an unusual and inexplicable love for cartoons.

or what had fed me in this empty room —

Money remains a prominent vice, corrupting the already corrupted and luring the pure to join them. Women sell their bodies, men bare their souls, and mortals shed flesh and grind bone to attain even just the slightest taste of wealth. But what then presented itself only as reward, money has transcended even that and achieved a greater power in society: it has become a need, a requisite to living. Without it, comfort is put on hold and survival dies with the softest flicker. When Father’s soul departed this world but his body persisted, damaged as it was, the responsibility of keeping them afloat was placed partly upon Cora’s shoulders. Though the obligation was never groomed into a formal statement or even given a second thought, the Father and daughter who inhabited the slowly deteriorating house — the paint barely clung to the walls, the roof slowly caved towards their upright heads, and vermin roamed the halls freely, calling it home more comfortably than Cora ever did ( the building seemed to die alongside its owner — it understood his plight more than his own daughter ) — came to what appeared an unspoken agreement: he would assure their survival with what little remained from the days of glory, so long as she assisted in any way she could. But what could a ten-year-old do that made a substantial difference? Even with her greatest efforts, what accomplishment could she permeate that would pass for a presentable contribution? Then it dawned on her — the very thing which would later bring about her torment could presently be used as a tool, a perfect device to feed the ambitious while satiating the desperate: her intelligence, burdensome as it was, provided her the perfect means to find some extra cash — of course, perfect did not necessarily equal right. Be that as it may, she had no choice ( or rather, a staggering lack of realistic ones ): people paid a high price in exchange for test answers — especially from the smartest person in class. Fools and idiots alike clamored for Cora’s help, and this need she exploited for as long as she could, just until her grandparents literally came knocking on their front door. The only threat to her underground business was a tattletale, though the odds of such a person prevailing were minimal. An advantage to a terrifying aura was existent after all. Sometimes, when the guilt ate away at her conscience, she reminds herself, You have no choice. After that, a deep breath. Once more, the whisper consumes the deafening silence, It’s their future for your survival. Remember that. And as she does with all other emotions, Cora wrapped that guilt into a nifty box and set it aside.

curtained with fine webs of silk.

Books made safe and trustworthy companions, cold as they were. When the edges of pages darkened slowly into a deep brown and the spine showed the first signs of age with the lightest cracks, they seemed almost human, and steadily, their warmth grew within the grasp of youthful palms. As real human beings were spurned in favor of seclusion, the significance of the company provided by books grew in size, as though they had not already taken up a considerable portion of Cora’s life long before. Before Father abandoned his daughter to look for his soul in places and things and people which would later reveal themselves to be fruitless expeditions, he left a gift — perhaps the only real gift he has given her without harming her in some way during the process ( Father’s rules — effective as they were in enforcing a sense of discipline — and Father’s constant reminders of the greatness that would await her later in life, if only she followed the path of knowledge — affirming her belief that she would one day attain the unattainable — robbed Cora of the childhood due her: full of life, beauty, and wonder. In its place stands premature wisdom, yes, but there is also so much misery and pain hanging onto the toughness of her ankles when she threatened to wander even in the slightest ). But with books, she unearthed only goodness her mind could never perceive ( not even when she attempted to ). At three, she tore through stacks of books; at five, she devoured them by the shelf; at nine, she had nearly finished the miniature library situated in their home ( this was the only part of the building she could safely call home ), from Machiavelli to Shakespeare to Nietzsche to Hugo to Tolkien. It was the first book she ever laid her eyes upon, however, that led to this undying love for the realms that existed within printed word: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath — the only novel to be published by the poet — was the key to this then undiscovered door of affection for books. At the meager age of three, she read of war, of breakdowns, of sadness and of anger through the words of Plath. Cora’s brilliance never yielded so easily to youth, and though she mightn’t necessarily have understood the themes explored by the novel in full, she understand enough to know the truth about books: that unlike humans, they were steadfast in their words, for they would never change. Dark and dangerous as they were to the impressionable mind ( she herself never had this problem, needless to say ), they at least told the truth, refusing to hide behind pretenses of fallible honesty.

ignore the seethe of all my memories.

When we are born, we are presented with the promise of glory. Demigods and mortals alike are granted that promise, but it came with a condition: one had to strive to the best of their abilities to pursue that glory relentless; otherwise, the promise would die along with their corporal existence. Work ethic was never the issue with Cora. Whatever she set her mind to, she could achieve, simply because she coupled natural excellence with discipline — discipline which she has long hardwired into her system. However, when it came to the promise of the future, before perseverance can abound and glory can be achieved, one had to choose a path, first and foremost. All her life, Cora is reminded of the marvelous life which awaits her — a life that persisted even after Death has come knocking on its doors, and not simply as a visitor; and her intellect was quick to affirm that destiny, for she knew that with the prowess of her mind, she could be stopped by only a handful of things, among them her own self. What she so desperately lacks — and by complete misfortune, it seems to be so — is a path. Before Cora discovered her origin as a demigod, she constantly looked to the future in anticipation of what lay in store for her. However, what greeted her was an unwanted sight: it was the multiplicity of options — the limitless probabilities to a limited life. Cora could’ve pursued anything she wanted, but she wanted so much and was also presented with so much that to choose one was simply an insult to her capability. Following the first Titan War and Father’s death, the realization came upon her in an instant ( and she was thankful for such a realization ): caught in this new life where the certainty of death outweighed the percentage of success, she no longer had to choose. This is among the multitude of reasons why she opts to stay at Camp Half-Blood the whole year round ( at the forefront, of course, remains her inability to acknowledge a place as home, even when presented with one ). At the end of all things, Cora chose not to choose, planting herself firmly in the belief that her Fate had already been decided, whether she liked it or not.

come, take my hand: i am human at your touch.*

The foundation upon which morality was built has long induced confusion among humanity across ages lost to time and history. It should be simple, especially when reduced to the duality of options, but it is not. Right is not necessarily right, and wrong is not always wrong. The relativity of what is morally correct and what is not creates a dispute among judges and wise men: for how could morality be sought out with precision when its very foundations lay in its subjectivity? Every now again, when man comes to the belief that all has been figured out, someone comes along to disprove his theories and render him scrambling for the truth yet again. With the ushering of this brave new world came Cora, a girl who attaches the most logically sound explanations to the vilest of actions — indeed, this is a fine exaggeration, but to regard it any less would destroy all intents of emphasizing the malevolence of her decisions — decisions which have long been justified by arguments that made the utmost sense. A very prevalent problem with Cora is how easily perceives what is wrong to be right, simply because she has concocted reasons for their existence — reasons which, by their truest nature, are not devoid of logic. They abound with only with logical that it destroys any room for claims otherwise: what is wrong can be right, so long as it is given the proper justification. But Cora does not do this simply to commit wrongdoings for what they are, no; she does this to create the belief that for all actions that may fall within the scope of moral ambiguity, a reward preponderant to the action is granted — at the expense of doing what one might regard as an atrocity, another regards only as a sacrifice for the greater good. Cora has long forged the idea that heroism must come at a price; and if that price is treachery against another individual, then the route must be pursued regardless. It creates this perpetual cycle of differentiating right from wrong before realizing midway that the lines between both sides blurs every so slightly, releasing humanity from abiding by the rules of ethics. What should create a moral cold war within Cora’s mind fails to do so, because with the way she sees things, if only to uphold efficiency and secure success, the end will ultimately justify the means.

*source

a d d i t i o n a l h e a d c a n o n s

Cora is the traditional ISTJ which, coupled with her Enneagram result of 5w6, create an individual who becomes the hallmark of an immense capability and constant hunger for information. They do not seek knowledge in the same manner as Intuitives, who devour information when the desire arises, but they accumulate it in a such a way that it follows a specific method. In other words, they are more careful with their approach. To summarize her personality, however, can be done so in a few words: most efficient problem solver.

Based on the Pottermore test, Cora is a Slytherin-Ravenclaw mix. She does not actively hunt for knowledge purely for knowledge the way Ravenclaws do — although she can also appreciate intellect for intellect only — rather she uses what she absorbs and imbibes into her plans, propelling her forward towards her goals, as would a Slytherin.

Coffee and tea never truly worked their caffeine wonders on Cora. Her primary choice for stimulants were canned soft drinks (it was imperative that they did not come in the bottle — a purely preferential decision) and bags of candy. It didn’t really matter what kind of candy — although sour belts were preferred — so long as it gave her the necessary rush to work overtime.

There was a very extensive period when Cora obsessed over Black Mirror. She couldn’t watch more than two episodes at a time, considering she would immediately delve into a deep analysis of the elements present in and the themes tackled by each episode.

Reasonably so, Cora detests modern technology. It is among the many things which have earned her distrust. She keeps her iPhone 6 purely for communication (although there would be no apparent need for it, considering she had no friends to text, as lonely as that sounds).

When she does use her phone, however, she signs all her text messages with the initials of her first two names succeeded by her surname typed out in full.

On the subject of names: Cora has not gone by Cordelia following her betrayal of her father. It seemed hypocritical, among many other things, to not only go by the name he had christened her with, but also to bear the name of King Lear’s daughter who had remained loyal to him to the end.

Cora is a musical snob. She refuses to listen to anything released after the year she was born, with the very unbiased exceptions of Hozier, Rihanna, and Beyonce.

p o t e n t i a l p l o t s

i. THE UNKNOWN

One of the hallmarks of Cora’s character is her recluse nature which, of course, stems from her instinctive distrust of others. Needless to say, her initial reaction to this quest — apart from creating strategies in her head to achieve the task in the quickest and most efficient manner possible — was to build walls higher than those which already existed. Cora distrusts her fellow campers, she distrusted her family then, she even secretly distrusts her judgment in fear of taking the wrong step towards the nameless Fate that awaits all of them — how is she supposed to put her faith in the Romans, especially considering the fact that they were all, up until a few moments past, sworn enemies by default? These traits are the very things that make it so fun to portray her character! She’s thrust into a situation of discomfort — she above all else, I think, because skepticism comes so easily to her — and there’s no getting out of this. Unlike Camp Half-Blood where — which through its massive size — she is allowed to avoid nearly all, if not all interactions, had there been no explicit need, and unlike her first quest which she was conveniently at the helm of, accompanied by two other demigods who took orders as easily as she gave them — there’s no escaping human contact on the Argo II. Yes, it’s massive too by its own right, and yes, locking herself in her cabin is always an option, but for the sake of the quest, Cora is forced to interact with 13 other individuals, half of whom are people she does not know at all; otherwise, she risks sowing the seeds of division and thereby endangering the fate of the quest itself, which is the last thing she wants. With this, I’d like to explore those first bouts of awkwardness and obvious distrust, be it with fellow Greeks or the Romans. Cora hasn’t had a real conversation in years, and she’ll be dealing with individuals who are as headstrong as she is. I think that’ll make for color interactions. With her characterization, I draw very heavy inspiration from Captain Holt from Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and truth be told, I think Cora will follow a similar storyline. She’ll start out as this unreachable “robot” devoid of all emotion, until she eventually sheds her walls a little bit, perhaps talking to the others on a deeper level and finding common ground. Maybe there’ll come a time when she’ll dispense advise (because she’s quite great at that, frankly enough), and through that she’ll discover that although she isn’t wrong that the world is full of every reason for distrust to persist, there are some individuals who are worth trusting, even if they comprise but a small percentage.

ii. THE UNWILLING

Angst and drama are among my favorite plots to explore. I do love softness and fluffy plots on certain occasions, but the reason why I provide such a strong basis for torment for all of my muses is because it makes for great drama later on. The fact that Cora suppresses her emotions so often — and she does this so well, leading her to believe that she genuinely is okay — which, of course, she isn’t. I wouldn’t say she’s lying to herself, because like I said, she truly thinks she’s moved on from those past demons, but her firm belief in this makes it all the more enjoyable for me as her writer. I’ve been trying to recall what went on during Heroes of Olympus, and while I don’t remember precise plotlines, I do remember snatches of the demigods being forced to face their past and all other things from which they run, if I’m not mistaken. With Frank, it was the death of his mother; with Nico, his sexuality, with Hazel, her own death; with Jason, his abusive mother, and so forth. I know the roleplay doesn’t follow PJO and HoO canon, and this potential plot for Cora is based purely on my unrefined guess that they will have to face some trials similar to the ones faced by the heroes in the books, but I’d really like to explore her unwillingness to acknowledge the vulnerability of her emotions. She’s buried them with the utmost security, but if this quest will be as dramatic and excruciating as I envision it to be, then I do think those repressed emotions will resurface, whether she likes it or not. What’s worst is that suppressing feelings can take its toll on the human mind, and honestly, I’d like to have her reach her breaking point and spontaneously combust, and perhaps for a time become an ineffective member of the crew. One of the things Cora boasts about is the strength of her mind, and if the emotions she has long repressed and compartmentalized so she may believe they no longer exist are the only things left occupying her brain, then what else would dictate her worth? I think even she would question that, when faced with this situation, which will only aggravate things. First and foremost though, I really want to see her confronted by the heaviness of the feelings she has tried to and effectively ignored nearly all her life.

iii. THE UNSPEAKABLE

The last plot point I really want to unearth just a little further is Cora’s relentless pursuit of the success of all things she participates in. When I listed and expanded on her key personality traits, I vaguely implied that she is willing to compromise her morals for the betterment of the quest; and in her headcanons, I touched on her moral apathy — or rather her twisted morality — and how she justifies not only the actions and sometimes wrongdoings of other individuals, but also her own actions and wrongdoings through the genuine belief that she is in the right. Before or following potential plot point number two, I think that the vulnerabilities of the other demigods will have to be explored as well. Again, of course, this is based purely on my hypothesis that this quest will torment them emotionally and render them defenseless for a time. As sinister as this plot may be, I think that it isn’t beyond Cora to either want to abandon another demigod, or perhaps manipulate said demigod into abandoning the quest themselves, if it means securing the success of the quest, or at least giving them a fair chance of doing so. Of course, based on her perception of it, it will be nothing more than a justifiable sacrifice done for the greater good — which, I think, highlights how dangerous she is as a companion. One of the reasons why Cora distrusts others is because she herself is aware of her own volatility and how easily she would sell out others in order to assure the betterment of the world — at least, it is so in her eyes. She’s a terrible team player, not just because of her inability to relate to others, but also because she herself cannot be trusted — not wholly at least, and definitely not for the time being. This may change, especially if plot point number two is explored first, and she comes to the realization that the misdeeds she has so long been justifying and attaching a rational explanation to, although the explanations may be valid, do not lessen the immorality of the act. She has yet to learn that, so this last plot point can go either way, to be quite honest. Whatever the path undertaken, however, I really want her to unearth some moral clarity at the end of it all.

m o t i v a t i o n

There are some points throughout my application that can be a little ambiguous or even contradictory, so I decided to add this section just to clarify how I ultimately see Cora as Dyspistia, metaphors and fancy writing aside, along with what motivates her as a character. One of the highlights of her characterization is her moral distortion — how she views immoral things as moral if they are either in her favor, or if they work towards the end goal she is seeking. In the potential plots above, I discussed how this might later work into the game, along with how it may change as the quest progresses. Apart from that, I also reiterated one too many times how self-aware Cora is, and I think this is how she truly perceives herself. She does not think that by burying her emotions or by justifying her sins she is fooling herself. In fact, I think she’s convinced herself so well of this lie that she believes it to be the truth — which is more dangerous, of course, because it’s harder to rid a person of something they believe to be true. I do think she is very self-aware, but she is blind to so many aspects of herself. Again, I think this can be explored as the game moves forward. Lastly, I wanted to clarify Cora’s motive for success, which is sort of just realizing the worth of her life. For the entirety of her existence, others have convinced her that her wisdom and intelligence will take her places, but she’s never truly decided that for herself. She continually pursues the triumph of quests and battles because it convinces her that her intelligence has indeed been put to good use, despite the clear absence of a concrete ambition. Cora works relentlessly towards victory, even when the gods give her tasks nearing impossibility such as the quest, because in a way, it feeds her delusion that she is heading towards somewhere significant — which is what everyone’s always told her all her life, which is also what she’s convinced herself to achieve; because otherwise, I think she wouldn’t be able to live with herself knowing that her brilliance has amounted to nothing. Above all else, however, with Cora’s character, I wanted to explore how a single individual can know so much and yet learn so little. Her polarizing characteristics and vantage points are evidences that even wisdom personified can make mistakes, that even the intelligent can falter in their judgment. One of the things that makes me so eager to write for Cora is the probable descent into the realization: that despite what she believes, she is capable of being wrong and of making the wrong judgments. She’s convinced herself otherwise, which is why she constantly affixes a logical explanation to her actions, in part because the internal dictates of reason are telling her that without the appropriate justification, she has come to the most achingly incorrect judgments. At this point of her characterization, she doesn’t want to acknowledge any of that and has done an excellent job of lying to herself to present these things as the truth — when we all know that they obviously are nowhere near the whole truth. Overall, I just wanted to give her flaws that matched her capabilities in ways that would haunt an emotionally repressed and mentally conflicted young adult.

m i s c.

( aesthetic. )

( character inspiration. )

( pinterest board. )

( mock blog. )

( character tag. )

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