#in face I think it’s a roman gladius

[thoughtsfromthecowshed]

Good Omen inspire piece I did for my phone background cause I needed a new one

[howtofightwrite]

So happy you're back after all this time! I have a question, do you happen to know how people fought in ancient rome? Particularly gladiators and soldiers? Sorry if this isn't the blog for this question tho!

I think we've covered both of these questions independently over the years.

Gladiators were a performance sport. It was more about glorifying the Roman Empire and its victories, than a conventional fight. As a result, most Gladiators were armed with specific variant, “loadouts,” designed to cosplay as various enemies that The Empire had conquered, and they only fought against specific countering variants. Specifically, the variants would be matched in such a way that it would be difficult for either combatant to have a decisive advantage over the other, with an eye towards creating situations that would result in a lot of visible injuries, without serious harm to either participant.

In case it needs to be said, gladiators were a significant financial investment, and they weren't casually killed in the arena. The point was for visible injuries, and a bloody spectacle, not a slaughter. Sometimes someone would die, but having them die on the field wasn't the intention, and they generated a lot of money, and on the rare cases when they were killed, it was meant to be a climactic moment, not someone taking a blade to the gut and collapsing mid-fight.

Obviously, I'm barely scratching the surface here, because it gets a lot deeper, but the simple answer is that in the vast majority of cases, gladiators were armed with weapons that were designed to make seriously harming their foe difficult to impossible. Also, the gladiators were something that evolved and became more complicated over time. When they first started in the Republic, it was a much more stripped down structure with prisoners of war being given a sword and shield and forced to face off against one another.

As for the Roman Legions. I'm not sure I've ever seen a comprehensive description of their training techniques. The Testudo, (or Tortoise) is one of the more famous examples of their specific combat style. Legionaries would create a shield wall, and the soldiers behind the front line would raise their shields to cover the formation against attacks from above (usually arrow fire, or thrown spears.) While being able to strike with javelins. In practice, the formation had issues, including being vulnerable to siege fire, and mounted archers were able to easily flank the formation. It's a neat story, but the formation had serious limitations.

One thing we haven't talked about before (I think) was the Roman's use of biological warfare. During sieges, they would load (locally sourced, I assume) corpses onto catapults, and then launch them into the besieged city.

Beyond, the major thing about the Legions was the extremely disciplined and orderly combat formations, with a lot of attention paid to managing battlefield movement. It wasn't so much about exceptional individual performance, so much as their ability to operate as a unit. This isn't a particularly mind blowing concept today, but in an era when professional soldiers were the exception, or limited to the elite forces, it had slightly more impact.

Regarding the details of their training, I've never seen any of that come up. Now, granted, I've really tried to research that degree of Roman history. So, if you're asking, “how, exactly, did they swing the gladius?” I don't know, and I don't remember ever seeing anyone credibly claim they had that insight. As far as I know, the only surviving Roman training manual was De Re Militari, (there's around 200 surviving Latin copies) which is far more concerned with overall strategic planning and command. If you're trying to write Roman era military fiction, it's probably worth reading. So, I'm not sure this is exactly what you were looking for, but I do hope it helps.

-Starke

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[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XLII

Quintus confronts you about your behaviour whenever Atticus is mentioned. Your body gets ready for labour.

Chapter list

Something is amiss; no letter from Rome has arrived yet, and you know that Lucius would never leave you without any kind of response for such a long time, even if it is the shortest of messages to update you on Lucilla’s condition. You don’t dare to ask Quintus about it, not wanting to risk unnecessary wrath over yourself by accusing him of omitting correspondence, although it would not be beyond him.

“Writing a letter again?” Your husband has applied perfume under his ears and on the insides of his wrist with larger quantities than usual, causing you to involuntarily gulp behind your cup as you take a sip of water. The cistern has been fixed by Gaius and Simon, so owing to their hard labour, you tend to drink more of it now that the servants don’t have to walk into the open fields outside of the city under a glaring sun. 

“Lucius hasn’t responded to my previous one yet,” you say, “Perhaps that it got lost somewhere, so I’m making sure that he will receive it.” 

Quintus rolls his eyes as he slides his freshly cleaned and recently sharpened gladius into the sheath on his hip, the steel dangerously ringing a little as he clicks it into place. He takes his magistrate’s neckchain and slides it over his head, securing it into place; a sign he still proudly wears in his duty as Praetor. You observe him getting ready for yet another workday as he completely seems to ignore your concerns about your brother not replying to your letter, his gaze averted as he readjusts the deep red sash on his shoulder, tugging it into place. 

“Could you get it sent out for me later?” you try to get a reaction out of him.

“Sure,” he states, “Just stop by my office whenever you are ready. Speaking of which, I’d prefer you sit with me today.” Quintus finally looks at you, something dangerous in his gaze. “I can’t be too careful with you nowadays. For all I know, you’re going to run off and get involved with Jews again.” 

You swallow the bile creeping into your throat as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. If it were up to him, he’d have you locked up in your room by now, and part of you fears that he might do so sometime soon. Turning back to your letter, you let out a shaky breath. “I’ll be with you soon, then.”

“Don’t take too long.” He halts behind your chair and tips up your chin so that you have to look up to face him upside down, and he inspects your face before he hums. For a second, you are afraid that he will press a rough and unforgiving kiss to your lips, but he releases you with a certain strain in his jaw. Tension flickers, and it is definitely not the good kind.

“I’ll be expecting you,” he promises, and leaves you to your writing. 

You dally on writing your letter for as long as you can, until you are sure that he is growing suspicious of your lengthy absence, and after another bathroom break, you find your way to Quintus’ office, an unsealed letter in hand. Upon handing it to him, you sit in the stuffy room and support your stomach as your gaze momentarily lingers on the large map of the Roman Empire hanging on the wall opposite you with an absentminded stare. 

“Do you really think Lucius has time for all this?” Quintus mutters as he holds up the letter with disinterest. “I’m glad that my sisters never send me letters like these. They sound like a waste of time.” 

You swallow at the mocking intonation. “You aren’t as close to them as I am to Lucius.” 

He sighs and puts the letter with his other papers. “Have it your way. I’ll get it sent out later today.” Unconvinced, you hum and take a novel from the bag you have placed on the floor, attempting to get somewhat comfortable in spite of the looming strain between you and your husband, as well as the deep ache in your lower back.

The morning drags on slowly, sweat beading on your forehead and underneath your stomach as the baby twists and turns. You have been experiencing new symptoms, a strange hardening in your belly and phantom contractions lasting for about thirty seconds at a time. Every so often, you flip the page, causing Quintus’ eyes to find you at the mere rustle of paper. He is on edge.

You grit your teeth and hiss as a painful wave shunts through your lower abdomen. Quintus looks up half-exasperated from his work, but his hard expression fades into concern as your book falls from your lap onto the floor. Quintus sits up straighter and leans towards you. “Are you alright?” 

You’d almost believe he’s worried. “Is the baby coming?” Of course not. You shake your head at his question without letting your discomfort show too much on your face. He hums and turns back to the paperwork in front of him. He hasn’t been out for fieldwork lately, apparently too busy with administrative tasks around Capernaum. Sifting through documents seems to be all he is doing these days, his patience growing thinner. You haven’t dared to ask him about it yet, but you doubt it is good news. 

When your pain seems to visibly subdue, Quintus stands and walks over to one of the side tables, grabbing the carafe of wine and pouring two chalices full to the brim. Taking them in his hands, he heads your way and offers one in your direction. You refuse it with a shake of the head, causing him to deeply sigh in what sounds like irritation. He places it down on his desk with such force that the dark red liquid spills over the edge onto the hardwood of the table. The gesture makes you jump in your seat and you look at your book laying open on the floor. Your husband picks it up and lets his gaze flick through the contents, causing you to mentally sigh in relief as you thank yourself for opting for romance novels around him instead of religious texts, just to be safe.

Wordlessly, he hands it back before pacing past his desk to look out the window that is not obstructed by your chaise longue, bringing the cup of wine to his lips to take a long sip. Some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders for the briefest of seconds, although an awkward air lingers between the two of you. You observe him as he gazes at the semi-translucent drink, swirling it around in the goblet before taking another swig, footsteps approaching causing you to straighten up in your seat and appear busy.

Primi Gaius enters the room, seemingly summoned by the Praetor. He clears his throat to gain Quintus’ attention. “Dominus.” 

Releasing the small curtain he had pulled aside, Quintus downs the rest of his wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Do you have brothers, Gaius?” You feel your heart drop at your husband’s tone and Gaius closes his eyes for just a moment, seemingly sensing his dour mood as well. It is plausible there is a lecture coming. 

“Yes, sir, one.” 

“Germanic origins and you only have one?” Quintus slowly turns.

“Yes.”

He hums and slowly paces back to the desk. “Older or younger?” 

Gaius remains silent for a second. “What?”

“Your brother!” He places his cup next to your untouched one. “I could have you drawn and quartered for not answering me the first time.”

You flip the page of your book, pretending to not pay attention. “Younger.” Gaius replies.

“Ah.” Quintus takes a candle between his fingers, bringing its wick to the burning oil lamp on his desk to light it. “And did he ever tell on you if you broke a dish, stole a fruit, did something with a girl?” He turns to the altar of Mars behind him, starting to light the candles resting in the candlesticks of the altar to Mars. 

“I do not often reminisce, but yes.” 

“—Atticus is meeting with Pilate in Jerusalem, and he’s telling on me, like a meddling little brother.” He shakes the candle in his hand so that it goes out. Gaius gives you a look from the corner of his eye, your focus immediately drawn back into the conversation. “He’s there right now, slandering our oversight of Capernaum.” 

As Quintus turns around to continue explaining to Gaius why he had called him in, he catches the Primi before he is able to turn back to the Praetor. Your husband’s gaze finds you for just a moment. You visibly gulp, but he doesn’t mention the moment of silent contact between you and Gaius. There is a narrowing in his eyes. 

“I need Pilate’s endorsement if I ever hope to get a promotion.” The candle falls back into its copper bowl with a clank. 

“Your record speaks for itself, Dominus.” Gaius flatters. 

“You have utterly failed me in the tent city.” 

The Primi grimaces. “I will do better,” he promises. 

“—You’re not enforcing the ordinances I suggested, and worst of all, they have no money… Zero! No one works. They’re waiting around for a spectacle from the Preacher, Who I might add, I thought we were done with.” He points an accusing finger at Gaius. 

The soldier collects himself, remaining calm in spite of Quintus’ obvious agitation. 

“And jailing them costs money, so.”

“How can I make it right?” Gaius asks after a moment. 

“You could kill Jesus of Nazareth,” Your heart drops at the cold, unfeeling suggestion, nausea creeping sourly into your mouth at the idea, “Make a very public display of it so they have no reason to stay.” Quintus pauses and sighs. “But…. Then they will revolt, and it gets bloody, and I hate the wailing.” He shakes his head. “Oh, I do hate the death wailing, I don’t know how Pilate does it. Anyway, we are not savages.” The Praetor seems to believe the words himself; he’d be the only one in this room to do so. 

A brief pause. “Let’s get rid of the tent city.” Quintus suddenly concludes. 

“What… How can I do that?” Gaius asks with uncertainty to his tone, as if he fears what your husband will offer, and rightfully so. 

“Gaius! Use your imagination!” He turns back to the recently lit altar sharply, gesturing at it. 

“If you see a damaged home…” Quintus licks his fingers and pinches one of the flickering candles to extinguish it, “Tell them it’s not up to code and tear it down. If you see somebody who’s sick,” he snuffs out a second candle, “Arrest them for spreading pestilence. Somebody selling wares…” He quenches the final flame, “Tell them they don’t have permission and shut them down.” 

Quintus turns and once again points at the altar, now void of light. When the Primi doesn’t respond, your husband’s volume increases in frustration, “Put out the fires, Gaius! Until it’s too cold, dark and miserable to stay…” The same description could be applied to living under the same roof as the Praetor, you bitterly think to yourself.

A dangerous flicker dances in his eyes, his brow lowering as he observes Gaius and his silence for a moment longer, taking a few steps in his direction. “Primi?” he presses with a lilt to his voice that makes the hairs of your neck stand on end. You have fallen victim to that tone of voice often enough to know that Quintus is growing suspicious of something.

“I know what I must do, Dominus.” With a determined step back, Gaius turns to leave, his gaze momentarily flickering over to you and softening before he leaves the room. Your husband stands in silence for a second, overthinking the words.

“Hm.” He grabs the chalice of wine you had denied earlier, taking a slow sip. “Why do you always do that, (Y/n)?” 

“Do what?” you ask, a puzzled look on your face.

“Freeze up whenever Atticus is mentioned.” 

Your throat runs dry as your heart skips several beats inside your chest before it starts to race instead. Caught completely off-guard by the question, you know you cannot hide that same reaction at the very moment, seeing a dark look pass through Quintus’ eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I just think it’s… Strange. Especially with the rumours circulating about. I meant to confront you about them earlier, but I had to discuss other… Matters with you then.” 

Your jaw tenses and for a moment you wish you had accepted the cup of wine even though you haven’t liked the bitter liquid in quite some time now, if only for the fact that you could have hidden your embarrassed flush behind a long sip of the drink. “They’re just rumours, Quintus.” 

“Sometimes, they hold truth.” 

“You know how people are,” you whisper, “I… Might have an inkling who has helped it into the world. It must be Cecilia. She has been trying to slander my name in front of you, just as she did with the Jewish texts.” 

It’s a poor excuse you’re just making up on the spot and Quintus narrows his gaze at you. “So far, all of her findings have been trustworthy.” 

“She’s just trying to impress you.” 

“Why would she do that?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe so that you will give her husband a promotion. Maybe she has a thing for you. How would I know her motives? All I know is that she has been foul towards me ever since arriving in Capernaum, even before I met her in the first place.” 

Quintus’ features soften. For a moment, he seems younger than he actually is, and lets out a sigh, almost as if he is feeling guilty about it. “Please, don’t stress me out right now. I can’t handle it with this… This baby in me!” You gesture at your huge bump. The tears you don’t have to feign, for they present themselves rather naturally. Your frustration regarding your situation bubbles up and you sniffle, causing Quintus to step forward and cup your chin in his hand.

He tilts it up to make you face him. “I’m sorry. As I said a few days ago, I just don’t want to lose you.” You are certain that he means that he needs to maintain his control over you rather than keep you close to him as a person, but you don’t say that out loud. “Stop giving me reasons to be suspicious of you, alright?” The question feels so strange that you can’t help but shudder. He leans down and kisses your forehead.

“I want to go and rest in my room,” you sniffle, wiping your nose on your handkerchief. The urge to cry has left you as fast as it had welled up. Quintus hums and gives a curt nod. 

“Go on,” he says, “I will be back home later.” 

You tuck a bookmark between the pages of your book and place it down on the side-table next to the chaise longue before standing up and brushing out of the room, pulling your cloak a little tighter around your shoulders even though it’s not cold at all. 

With discomfort shunting through your abdomen, you find your study and reach for the book of poems you had been writing down. Lately, you have started to add your prayers to them as well, pouring them onto the pages with heart and soul. They have been pleas, proclamations, expressions of hope. Every so often, you have found yourself writing as if speaking directly to the Father, as if you were a child rambling about what they got up to that day. The way that Jesus had called the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years ‘daughter’ has been spinning around in your mind for a while now. 

It still confuses you a little. You had always imagined the concept of fatherhood as a stranger with an iron fist claiming to know what is best for his children whilst being away constantly. It somewhat shifted when Lucius became a pater and you saw him interact with Aurelia, but now everything seems to be thrown from its axis.

Everything you have known all your life is rapidly shifting into motion; the more you learn about Jesus and God, the more you realise how little you actually do know. 

You flick to one of the prayers you’ve written down and start to pray it inside your mind, the discomfort in your tummy already becoming less. “Father God, I am Yours, the breath in my lungs is Yours, the heart in my chest belongs to You. Please let Yourself be known to me, Father, that I may find comfort in You, that Your greatness may fill me and give me strength in my hour of weakness.” 

Every so often, when you write down your prayers to Him, you find it more difficult than writing poems. You reckon this a strange and almost humorous thing; your usual writing doesn’t require you to step away from verbose wax poetic, but a prayer to God needs to be so raw that it’s stripped away from all that you’re used to, a bare-bones version of what you’d usually write down, the opposite of what the prayers to Roman deities contained. It’s a shift in culture in many ways, from pleading towards a pantheon of gods to only One, from garrulous drivel to genuine whispering. 

The way you pray, you find out, is just as much in need of transformation as the rest of you. With a sigh, you put the journal down on your heavy belly and tiredly scratch the underside of the bump. You huff a laugh when the infant suddenly kicks, causing the little book to nearly fall off. “Alright, I got the message.” You take it up again and start flipping through the pages. “What would you like me to pray for, little one?” 

In an attempt to get more comfortable on the sofa, you shift on the small seat, when you nearly bump your head into the corner of the mantlepiece. You flinch and hold your head even though the impact was barely a graze, and you look up at the area above the fireplace to make sure you aren’t putting yourself into any unnecessary danger. 

Then, your eye falls onto the small statue of Juno; it is dented from when you had thrown it against the wall a while ago in your fit of fear and anger. You grit your teeth and grab it, inspecting it up close. You don’t recall putting it back up there, so one of the servants must have done that for you. Biting your lip, you momentarily look down at the fireplace. The flames warm your face and lick the sky around it with orange tongues. Your gaze flicks back to the statue in your hand. 

For a second, you consider tossing it into the fire, but you know that it would most likely not melt at this temperature. However, you know it would be satisfying to see it wither away right in front of you, the very presence of the so-called goddess affected by something so insignificant and physical. With a sigh, you place it back onto the mantlepiece, knowing that you’d get questions if a soot-covered statuette from Juno was to be recovered from the ashes later on.

You take a deep breath, taking your journal again. “Right, the prayer—Hah!” 

Dropping the leatherbound journal from your grip, you immediately grab hold of your tummy as a deep, harrowing pain goes through your legs and lower stomach. It knocks all air from your lungs and you stumble to your feet, hoping that it would make the excruciating ordeal more bearable. 

Sweat beads on your forehead as you lean against your bookcase, which creaks at the disturbance, but you don’t pay it any mind. It takes you a moment to remember how to breathe, and you heave for air as you feel your unborn child twist and turn, visible through the skin of your belly under your dress. “Oh—!” you yelp as your legs nearly give out beneath you, and you turn back to the sofa, your heart stuttering inside your aching chest as a wet spot sits on the plush. You reach over to touch it and smell your fingers — it’s not urine that accidentally escaped you, which has happened over the past few weeks more than once, but it isn’t blood, either. 

It isn’t your water, that’s for sure, but whatever it may be, your body is preparing itself for labour, your baby eager to get out of your tummy. Bitterly, you would almost wish it to stay for as long in the safety of your womb as it can, staying out of Quintus’ claws for just a little longer. 

The pain subdues as you force yourself to breathe in and out through deep intakes of air, your head spinning less. Once you’ve calmed down again, you head for the bedroom to get yourself a clean dress, and tidy yourself up, finding a bit of spotting in your underthings. A rush of nervousness hits you right in the chest, nearly causing you to whimper as you lean into the sink, looking up at your expression in the mirror. Fear shimmers in your eyes.

You doubt that you will ever be ready, but nature will have its way. 

Exhausted, you finish redressing and slide under the comfort of the covers for a bit, glad to have the entire bed for yourself.

---

Next chapter Chapter list

[phill-art]

Commissions open!!

Here's the character I did:

Face: The character should be a female Aldarin human (Aldarins are essentially Romans, so quite dark tanned skin), Facial structure-wise, wide jaw between 25 and 30 years of age. 

Hair: with long brownish-blonde hair, braided as per the reference photo. 

Build: her body showing her as quite muscular (lots of exercise walking around the city in heavy armour!).

Outfit: They are better funded than The Legions, so their roman style armour is made of iron and steel rather than bronze. The skirt part of the armour comes down closer to the knees, as would the tassles/baltea (dangly strappy bits). Include the Emblem of Permadecio on her chest armor. 

Outfit color: Black and a dark navy. The shield worn by them would be a much larger shield, more in line with traditional Roman scutum. 

Shield: This shield would be the same blue and black as the armour, with the Permadecio emblem on it. The eye of the emblem would be centered around the boss with the pupil being the boss itself.

Cape: On her left shoulder, the one not decorated with the gryphon design, she would wear a shoulder cape. This is currently fashionable in the present Aldarin era. The cape would come down a bit past her knees, but only cover her shoulder and that side of her body (added references for this). 

Cape color: The cape would have a silver lining, a black exterior, dark navy/blue interior, and maybe some blue patterning along the black (feel free to play with this design!). 

Footwear: She should be wearing roman style sandals which come up about half-way to the knee. Again, feel free to play with the design of her outfit a bit, keeping practicality in mind.

Belt and belt items: On her belt, she would have a waterskin, a coin pouch, a clip pouch for carrying food rations, and a pair of vials with healing drafts inside (these would appear a magical red in colour). Not all these need to be visible in the illustration, just listing what she has to let you decide what can be seen. She would also have a scabbard for a gladius, a Roman shortsword. She might be wielding the gladius, or have it holstered, depending on the pose you go for.

Overall colour: Blacks, greys, dark blues, navy, silvers (if you think any other colours might work here, feel free to experiment!)

Emblem

The Permadecio emblem is a white eye with two feathered wings protruding from behind it. The intent is to state “we are always watching”, with the wings referring to the speed at which they move to help their clients. The pupil of the eye might be silver or a dark navy, depending on where it sits. 

[hermesserpent-stuff]

look at my son Mercury!! this is how he looks if he's not hiding his true for.

also! here is a short scene of him with clelia.

Clelia inspects her hive for their typical three week close inspection. Her eyes sweep for beetles and ants and anything else that could threaten the health of her hives. She watches their buzzing as she speaks to them and works. She likes keeping her bees updated on all the going ons of her life and the greater world. 

“Ryker is… well, Ive told you guys before, he is very determined. I really do think that if the boys are out there to be found, he and his brother are the ones to do it. I… I really do admire that drive he has. And the fact he refuses to give up.”

She murmurs a bit to the bees an a bit to herself.

“Admiring from afar is all well and good, but perhaps, if I might be so bold, a more direct statement would go a long way in cracking open that particular relationship. I could deliver your message to him. It is, after all, my specialty.”

Clelia spins on her feet at the unusual use of Latin, hand going to her gladius. A man with honey-gold hair leans against a nearby rock, eyes glittering with mischief.

“... I don't meet many Romans this far out.”

She says in greeting, eyes narrowed.

“I wouldn't think so. Much too far from the fat comforts of the empire for those less adventurous souls.”

He flicks a bit of his hair over his shoulder and practically floats as he moves closer. His voice shifts from light and airy to heavy like stone. There is a crackle of energy and it feels like a spell has broken. She can now see the wings on his sandals. 

“But I am no threat to you. I don't have a reason to harm one of my most devout.”

Her hand slides from her gladius as he winks and kicks up his legs to be floating on air. Mercury. Her god. He… he came to see her. 

“How may I be of service Mercury?”

She gives a half bow and straightens as he clicks his tongue. He rolls his eyes and shakes his hair with a snort. His golden freckles shine just a bit brighter in his merriment. 

“The formality is certainly unneeded Clelia. We’ve known each other for far too long for that.”

True. She had met him more than once, each interaction starting of with him disguising himself with a spell. But the playful demeanor generally stayed the same. He had helped her sneak and survive till Rune had taken her in. And even after that, every once in a while, he would pop up. 

“Alright Mercury. What can I do for you?”

“Ahh, I do miss when you were younger and I was Uncle Mercury…” He sighs dramatically and then speaks again. “Let's go for a walk. And maybe some honey oatcakes? They are one of my favorite offerings after all.”

“Before or after gold, Mercury?”

She asks as they begin to walk. His laughter is loud and supernatural in its echo. But it is familiar. It is… family. He is almost like a weird uncle. If your uncle could vanish from sight and often was currying messages from one god to another. 

“Hmm. You do know how to ask the hard questions don't you. Ah. After I suppose. But only for today!” 

He grins and she shakes her head. 

“Can… May I ask after the health of someone? Or someones?”

She ventures as the god bounces beside her, feet not quite on the ground. He clicks his tongue.

“They are alive and fine. Most of the time. But Im not allowed to say further because there are gods involved and I don't like being burned or stabbed, even if I would survive it. I have to preserve this beautiful complexion you know?”

She lets out a breath.

“Thank you.”

“MmmHmm. Now!! On to business! Who's the guy you keep telling your bees about? They say you chat about him a lot~!”

The god’s voice is full of teasing and her cheeks heat up. Ah. She forgot that the bees could speak to those who could speak to all. Which included gods. 

“Just a friend.”

“With that attitude, sure. I still think the relationship could open up into something more if you just sent a direct message!”

The god chirps, a far too wide grin on his face.

“I thought Venus was in charge of messing with relationships.”

Mercury blows a raspberry.

“You're dodging.”

“I'm being attacked, of course, I'm dodging.”

She teases back and he snickers. He then steps in front of her and grabs her hands.

“Don't choose to be alone. You let him touch your hand, you enjoy his company, and you await his return each month. It would make waiting easier if you knew that he was yours and you were his.”

“You sound like Rune.”

“I like~ Rune.”

“Because he helped me build you the only Roman shrine on the island.”

“And? I play favorites, Clelia. You know this.”

He smiles brightly and floats up. Her hands stay in his and they slowly rise with him. She blows a stray lock out of her eyes with a hum.

“I know. And… Fine. If - Mind you its an if- If he proposes a courtship, I’ll lay everything on the table, and if he chooses to go despite all the ways in which I’m… lacking, then I will say yes. Alright?”

“Perfect!”

He kisses her forehead and squeezes her hands.

“Ahh, Juno calls. I’ll come back when I can.”

“An honor to see you, Mercury.”

“Again, missing the days of being an uncle. How many favors do I need to do to get my title back??”

He complains with a smile. She snorts at him.

“I'll burn some honey oatcakes for you tonight Uncle Mercury. Best of luck with Juno and whatever Jupiter did this time.”

“Ugh, I’ll need the luck. Pour out some wine for me too, I have a feeling that I might have to do a lot of back and forth to preserve that marriage today.”

“But of course.”

He kisses her forehead again and vanishes in a shower of silver sparks.

[ixtaek]

Silly Game Time: WEIRD GLADIATOR FIGHTS! A modern, roller derby champion with standard skates and safety gear (helmet, elbow pads and knee pads) armed only with one small hatchet and sooooo much rage and bloodlust VS Julius Caesar with full armor for a Roman general, but armed only with a gladius and distracted by thoughts about politics

You've got $5 to wager on who will win (no split wagers). Place your bet!

I think the roller derby champion would figure out what's going on and have Caesar down on the ground before the poor guy even realized what was happening, and then could finish him off with the hatchet through the opening for the face in the helmet. So my money is on Sk8r Boy.

[ukdamo]

The Extra Mile

One of mine from a long time ago.

I scrambled to my feet with frenetic alacrity, raising clouds of red dust in my haste to stand up. For all the world, I must have locked like some uncoordinated, inky octopus. Once erect, l rubbed lily ribs where the spear had prodded me and looked, blindingly, at the face of my tormenter. He smiled, somewhat incongruously and disconcertingly, whilst thrusting his battle gear upon me. It was plain to see that I was intended to be a beast of burden for the obligatory mile.

I had been so soundly asleep that I had failed to hear the footfalls of the thirty or so approaching legionaries. I was awoken sharply be the jab in the ribs that this brute had given me. Bastard.

As we set off to rejoin to the file of marching soldiers there was much laughter from my erstwhile friends at the wayside inn: I could hear one of them order a round of drinks on the strength of having eluded the obligation to go the statutory mile. I didn’t resent their jocularity: I'd have made the very same response had out roles been reversed.

When we caught up with the other legionaries they were singing. I did not understand the words. No doubt it was one of such songs sung by soldiers the world over. The man whose kit I was carrying had a fair voice - resonant and tuneful. When the song finished he looked me in the eyes add smiled again. I could not refrain from returning his smile, notwithstanding the feelings of disloyalty that this stirred in me.

I tried to look at him without appearing to do so, in case I upset him. (His short sword – the gladius - swung in its belted scabbard. I didn't doubt that he was well versed in its use). He had fine features; more Greek than Roman. He stood a little taller than I and was of athletic build. His eyebrows and the hair on his forearms had been bleached by exposure to the sun. He had stubble on his face, dimples, a strong jaw, and dazzlingly emerald eyes.

When he smiled, he showed his white, even, teeth to best advantage. I came to think that, for all his otherness, he was like me. I was younger and more slightly built, a typical Jewish youth - olive completion, hazel eyes, lithe, supple, a bit stringy. Yet rigorous exercise and training would produce a figure not unlike that of the man striding purposefully beside me.

I was soon conscious of the weight of his battle gear. I had got hold of it with little thought for convenience of carrying. The legionary sensed my discomfort and, to my surprise, quietly but assertively redistributed the load so that it no longer chafed my shoulders. I could smell the sweat on him when he was near me. He took the water-skin from me and drank from it; he offered it to me with a smile on his expressive face. After some hesitation, I nodded and drank from it thirstily.

My young head was now spinning, though not from dehydration. Enmity and a firm grasp of faith seemed to be deserting me. This man was gentile. An oppressor. But I felt myself liking him. If anyone were ever to know, my shame would be made powerfully evident by the bruises that would surely result.

Since the singing had ended the only sounds were the thud of feet meeting the dusty road, the creak of leather, the clank and slap of weaponry, and the patter of perspiration on breastplates. In that silence I could hear the wordless communication that was binding me to this stranger.

When we reached a milestone I made as if to stop and set my burden down. The young legionary spoke to me in Greek.

‘Walk with me' he said, ‘an extra mile for friendship sake’. I understood well enough the words he spoke; I was young but I was bright and I had some schooling.

The file of soldiers carried on. I watched the acrid clouds of desiccating dust settling to the ground in their wake. We two were alone. The dust of obligation I shook from my own feet.

‘Certainly’, I said, touching his arm and pointing after the others.

We jogged until we caught up with them. The words he spoke I understood immediately; I am still living with their repercussions. We spoke a little after that in a Babel-born tongue of dog-Latin, Greek and disjointed Aramaic. I learned his name, and he mine, and we shared scratchy details of our respective lives.

Looking back, I suppose I sealed my fate by taking that first step beyond the initial milepost. I crossed my own personal Rubicon; a crossing more decisive than that of Exodus. I became a sojourner in trackless wastes. The Mark of Cain furrowed my own brow from then on. Naturally, the legionary perceived none of this. He could not have been expected to be aware of such things. He was unknowing.

Prompted by another of his eloquent smiles, I allayed my inward fears and beamed back at him. Perhaps this man was, more truly, liberator than oppressor? We drew near to Jerusalem and squinted at the city; the afternoon sun made its wails glaringly white, whilst the gilded ornamentation on the Temple blazed like the wrath of God. Well it might.

The road was busier here. People began to stare. Some hostile, some pitying. I avoided meeting their gaze. When we crested the rise at the Place of the Skull, the legionary took the accoutrements of war from me. He nodded thanks and offered his hand. Emboldened by an inner realisation, I clasped it in friendship, not caring what the onlookers might think. Traditional loyalties put aside, he thumped me playfully on the back and, with great agility, scampered down the slope after his confreres.

I sat down, raising a flurry of dust, watching him depart. I sat there for a long time. There was a gladiatorial contest in my head: milestones versus tombstones; friendship versus fidelity; liberation versus tradition; love versus duty. I felt the thump up of his hand on my back anew, as of nails in wood. The unwitting instigator of this flight receded in to the distance and was lost from sight at the city gate. He had given his name as Justus but, in future years I often thought of him more as Pandora. I have never regretted exchanging the Ark for that seemingly insignificant little box.

Some years later, I witnessed a man, somewhere near my own age, toiling up that same slope. His crime was to have walked the extra mile. He had spoken of tolerance and respect, forgiveness and peace. He met with none of these things. They snuffed him out.

I am now an old man. In the evening, I sit and gaze as the children play in the market, as the stallholders leave and the shadows lengthen. I am waiting for my own sun to set.

No-one bothers with me much: I have neither family nor good name. Sometimes, though, young men who are not put off by tales of apostasy come quietly, seek out my company, and talk. I share with each one the same thing:

In life you may choose any direction you wish; it scarcely matters, and you may travel in it as far as you will. But if you should chance to walk, in that chosen way, the extra mile, it will bring you to but one place - Golgotha.

It is not so terrifying a place as the timid make out. From what happened to me there I recognise it as the place where mundane journeys end and divine adventures begin.

© Damian

[dewi205]

Nico di Angelo Headcanons/Fic Prompts

- sometimes he sings Hazel to sleep

—— like Italian lullabies or idk Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift

- his eyes are actually gold like Hazels but it looks dark because his hair is always in his face

- when Nico is tired or just waking up he calls Hades “papa” or “padre”, Persephone “mamma Seph”, Thanatos “Uncle Than”, and Cupid “the b*tch”

- he likes wearing a small half man bun (with his shoulder length hair) when training

- he sees Lester (mortal Apollo) once in Camp and immediately tosses a wad of cash toward his head and sprints away

—— Lester starts chasing him screaming “ANGELLL!!”

- when he was in Tartarus and about to be put in a jar he bit one of the titans that put him in the jar and ripped a chunk of flesh off one of the titans’ hand, he kept the flesh in his mouth and rationed some of the meat to eat before eating the pomegranate seeds

—— he has always been eating meat raw-ish (it comes from his mothers side of the family)

—— baby has adorable sharp as fuck canines, comes from his mother

- it’s impossible for anyone to lie to Nico because there are no lies in death and shadows (it’s what Nico uses to judge souls), death consumes everything and Nico is The Prince so the only other person higher than his authority is Hades and Persephone, even Demeter needs to do as he asks when they’re in the Underworld

—— (Solangelo) Apollo is also the god of truth so if Will inherits that trait as well then the Will/Nico is just the most brutally honest couple that acts as judge, jury, and executioner at camp

- he is ambidextrous, so is Leo

—— as another way to commemorate his first human friend he learnt how to use Jason’s gladius and duel wields his sword and the galdius

—— he fights and texts at the same time

- Nico is absolutely horrible at archery but basically forced multiple archery experts (no one was spared, he asked dead people, gods, and living) to teach him their skills

—— as a way of coping with Bianca’s decision to leave him for Artemis

- one summer the heat actually became so ridiculous Jason walked up to Nico during breakfast, picked him up and put Nico on his lap to cuddle with an ice pack

—— Nico was only okay with it because it was so early in the morning he couldn’t work up the anger needed to shove Jason off (or eat, Jason ended up feeding him)

- the gods really want to make Nico immortal because he manages to keep relative peace in Olympus, and let’s be real, they can’t do shit without Nico and Hades smacking some sense into them

- sometimes when he’s REALLY happy and excited he doesn’t smile he just wiggles his toes, it’s always hidden under his shoes so no one can tell when he’s happy but yeah —— when he’s talking about mythomagic but restraining his enthusiasm he does toe wiggles

- Nico came out of the war with Gaea with Marie Antoinette syndrome, half of his hair turned white during his 3-day stay in the infirmary the night after they got his shadow traveling thing settled —— people saw his gold eyes during that time as well so people genuinely thought he ascended and became his namesake—an angel —— he meticulously dyes his hair black because he thinks the white hair means his body succumbed to weakness due to stress, Nico doesn’t like when his body betrays him like that (his partners are getting him to work on it)

- Hades and Persephone call Nico “Niccolò” and Mr.D calls him “Nico” ( no one knows why Nico is his favorite)

- he never grows taller, but Hazel also never grows taller, Hades children now forever exist as tiny and cute

- Nico can activate small parts of his Roman aspect as well, but it’s like really derpy (when he wants money he gets a diamond launched at him)

—— when Nico and Bianca were children Nico once really wanted this chocolate bar but didn’t have money so he wished reeeaaallly hard for money and was showered in like $20 in euros, dollars, yen, etc (he jumped like a startled cat, went up like 5 feet istg)

I don’t write fics or draw but if someone wants to use my headcanon please do there is no need to ask.

[bentejam]

Prophecy of Seven + Nico and Reyna!

Some notes I’d like to point out under Read More

✧ All Greeks are facing right. Romans, left. Got that idea from Final Fanatsy Dissidia.

✧ Official artwork aren’t historically accurate with how their weapons are drawn. While researching ancient weapons, I found out Hazel’s weapon Spatha is a Roman long sword. She has the largest weapon in their group. Annabeth, Reyna and Piper uses dagger (and spear for Reyna). Short sword for Percy, Nico and Jason (and later Annabeth with Drakon bone sword).

✧ In short, Hazel is bad ass. She’s probably physically the strongest in the group after Frank.

✧ I designed Nico’s Stygian Iron in a way that can “hook” the enemies. Since the metal used in the sword sucks the life out of their enemy, I thought it would be appropriate to have that kinda design.

✧ Speaking of swords, I noticed Roman swords tend to be straight forward, while the Greek’s have curves. You’ll notice just by looking at Percy’s Riptide (xiphos, standard Greek short sword) or kopis (which I use for Nico’s Stygian Iron sword) with Jason’s later weapon, gladius or Hazel’s spatha.

✧ People seem to think Armillary Sphere = Archimedes’ Sphere (One of Leo’s weapon). There is no known design for Archimedes’ Sphere but a scholar predicted what it looks like, that’s what I based it on.

✧ A nickpick about Leo’s toolbelt. It should be worn at the back and doesn’t have “cover”

✧ I was confused with Reyna’s description of her armor. I feel her accurate armor is a Lorica Hamata with medals hanging on it, but I went with Lorica Segmentata since it gives more protection and mobility. Yeah I know I shouldn’t have added those strap stuff on her sleeves, but it looks kinda cool on her.

✧ I purposely made Piper’s cornucopia that big. Idk how Pineapples can come out of that without sizing it up ahah.

✧ Despite the inaccuracies, I still like most of the official designs! <3 Do tell me if you see any errors in my artworks tho. 

[kingburu]

 Jason wakes up.

 His eyes flutter open to darkness. The air is stale around him—and shallow, as he draws a breath. He looks around, trying to gather his surroundings.

 Almost immediately, Jason hits his head when he tries to sit up. There’s a dense BONK of his head, followed by a soft, “Ow,” from his lips. The word is raw at the back of his throat, almost an inaudible whisper. Jason brushes a hand to his forehead, eyes squeezing shut—but nothing changes as he opens his eyes.

 He reaches out with his other hand and finds a velvety surface in front of him. To the left of him. To the right.

When Jason draws a breath, his lungs shudder. Not only is the air stale—but it’s shallow. There isn’t enough space to stretch the wingspan of his arms. To move around. He’s enclosed in darkness, and his chest already aches with his second breath.

 Jason finds his palm at his chest. His eyes graze the surface of his surroundings—and slowly, he lets a current ripple through the tips of his fingers. The scent of dead skin fills his nostrils, and he wrinkles his nose ever so slightly.

 Velvet darkness beneath the static of his fingers. Jason spits to find out where he’s positioned—which turns out to be on his back, as his own saliva dribbles down his mouth instead. He’s dehydrated. The back of his throat is as dry as a bone—which is when he wonders the last time he had water. The last time he ate, as his stomach aches.

 Jason presses against the top of his prison-hold, which doesn’t budge at his palm. He reaches to either side of him as far as he can (it isn’t—he can hardly bend his arms at the elbows), which feel as stiff as everything above him. He tries to jostle the container—but it doesn’t move. Jason wiggles onto his stomach with gracious effort—and his hands meet more soft velvet. A pillow, even. His fingers touch something wrinkled and rotted, like dry grass—which fall apart between his fingers.

 Twisting back into his original position proves to be a feat.

 Jason stares into the darkness of his velvet prison—and the air only feels thinner.

 There isn’t much oxygen wherever he is. He’ll die of suffocation if he doesn’t find a way out.

 And death…feels cold. Terrifying.

 Jason rifles through his clothes. He finds himself in light linens—something of Greek or Roman garb. There’s nothing to him. No knife, no sword—no weapon.

 “Okay,” he whispers to himself. He swallows hard to find some sort of hydration, then runs his fingers across the corners of his prison. There’s enough there that he can surmise a hard surface beneath the velvet—and if the surface is hard, then it has to be lined. If it’s lined, he can rip it.

 Jason grabs a fistful of fabric and yanks. It doesn’t budge—not right away. He twists his grip and pulls as hard as he can, until a loud RIIIIIIIIIIP fills his ears. 

 The next layer proves to be harder. Jason lights his fingers once more with a ribbon of electricity—which ricochets off his fingers—

 “Jumping Jupiter,” Jason hisses, as the flash of lightning slams into the—wood? 

 Smoke fills his nostrils, singeing the material above him. 

 Okay. Wood. 

 Jason presses his palms against the hard surface, to feel for a latch or a handle. Nothing. He has no weapon. Sparking the wood might start a fire—and Jason’s breath is shallow enough as it is. 

 He thinks back to basic combat training—before his gladius, before his javelin. Before Jason could ever even light a spark—when Lupa reminded him his own body was a weapon. 

 He punches as hard as he can. Nothing budges. 

 Again, another punch. The sound bounces off his surroundings, and his container vibrates. 

 “Hello?” Jason calls out. His voice is raspy. “Is there anyone there?” 

 Nothing. 

 Jason rips the fabric as far as he can. It proves to be difficult as his elbows bend. Which each movement, he feels warmth grow around him. Heat, from moving. 

 And again, Jason punches. He slams his fist as hard as he can I to the lid of his prison until it folds beneath his weight. There’s a give as his fist makes impact, and he feels the small bend from his fist. 

 “Just a couple more,” Jason whispers to himself. 

 He slams another fist into the wood—again and again, as it cracks in front of him, until his fingers burn with pain. It’s…harder, than Jason expects, exerting himself. He’s panting before he knows it—and grows light headed with each movement. Sweat mats his brow. 

 Before his final blow, Jason retracts his arm. His hand bristles with electricity—and he delivers one last hit. 

 CRAAAAAAAAAAAAACK 

 The wood breaks and singes from his fist, until his knuckles hit something cold. 

 Dirt falls on his face immediately. 

 Jason chokes as gravel and soil slams him in the head—and it burns as it reaches his eyes. Dirt spews on him like a waterfall, gushing against his face. Jason tries to plug the hole with his palm, but soil falls between the curves of his fingers. 

 He coughs and gasps for air as his lungs burn, and as his eyes feel like they’re on fire. The realization hits him quickly. 

 Jason’s buried underground like a corpse. 

 How? 

 It takes ages to reorient himself. Jason tries to rub the dirt out of his eyes, but his fingers are caked with soil. His mouth tastes like earth, and his throat feels like it’s on fire. 

 “One more time, Grace,” he mutters. If he doesn’t get out, he’s going to die of suffocation—dirt or not withstanding. 

 He counts to three. 

 One. 

 Two. 

 Three. 

 Jason takes in one last breath. He pulls his hand away and blows as he can at the falling dirt. Soil pollutes his small entrapment and he closes his eyes a second too late—but Jason forces his body up. He sits up as fast as he can—which almost feels like another THONK—and pushes his fingers through the falling dirt. He pries it apart and climbs through what he can as it fills his container. A slab of wood carves his side as he pushes through more dirt.

 There’s only darkness. Jason pushes and peels, while dust permeates around him and his lungs burn. Jason’s legs feel like putty as he pushes forward. The dust alone is enough to make him nauseous. Jason wants to puke as he feels around—for—for something. His head is dizzy from the force. Jason pushes and climbs and peels around him—until at some point, the tips of his fingers hit something different.

 Air?

 Jason’s eyes bristle with a different darkness. His head is dizzy as he tries to wriggle his arms. His limbs feel weak—and his head plunges with a heaviness.

 Before he can pass out, something touches his hand and gives him a forceful yank.

 “JASON!” he hears—the first time he’s heard his name in what feels like ages. “Jason—hold on, buddy—”

 Cold air hits Jason in the face like a whip. He rasps for air, with dirt on his tongue, and his face emerges from the dirt like an overgrown plant. His body isn’t his own as someone—two someones—pull him out of dirt. The air clears his lungs so quickly that it’s intoxicating—and he’s drunk on both sunlight and oxygen.

 Two sets of eyes stare at him, stunned. Jason…recognizes the roundness of one of the silhouettes, and the warm honey eyes of the other—even if it’s blurred under a layer of dirt. They stare at him in horror.

 They…look different. Older.

 “Frank?” Jason whispers softly. His gaze falls to the other person. “Hazel?”

 His taller savior is speechless—staring at him in shock.

 HIs shorter one, with the honey-colored eyes snaps out of it first, her hand flying to her mouth.

 “Jason,” she whispers, her voice wobbly. “You’re—you’re alive. How—?”

 Alive? Jason tries to make out the rest of their surroundings—but he can’t.

 He passes out.

 It’s not until later that he learns that he dug himself out of his own grave.

[asknarashikari]

You know... I tried imagining the full picture of Mei's Seiken and what her rider suit would look like.

Oh, if only I could draw.

I imagined that her sword would be a saber, just like Reika's, as opposed to the broadswords Touma, Rintaro, and Kento have. The Wonder Ride Book-slot is situated differently than Sabela's, which was situated at the sword's guard.

Mei's sword's Wonder Ride Book Slot would be at the curved part of her sword's handle.

Her sword would also have yellow and brown straps while her guard is a combination of red, yellow, and blue as a trail of red, yellow, and blue hearts travel from the middle of the guard towards the sword's tip and they're only found in the middle of the sword's blade

As for her suit... I imagine the right pauldron would look like bear paws (in muted red) and the left would be a bear's face (muted yellow) while a blue heart is in the middle of her chest.

The three colors then spin around mei's suit ]

She'd have black pants and either a gray or black open skirt-thingy that's tied to her waist

yes the mock up is atrocious, but it's a concept. lol

as for her helmet, I think she'd have red eyes that forms a really warped heart then on top of her helmet is a sleeping bear curled up with the paws forming the mouth guard.

So yeah,, mock ups are ugly, but I hope you get the picture lol.

**For those not in the know, this ask is referring to a bunch of fanfics I previously wrote where Mei had been given a sword by Tetsuo, which became a Seiken, and allowed Mei to transform into a Kamen Rider.

Oh boy. Do I have some THOUGHTS on my vision for Mei as a Rider.

I actually did envision the Seishinken Benzaiten to be of a similar style to Rekka/Nagare/Ikazuchi, mainly because of this design element here. That’s where the heart design I was describing to be, and the other styles of Seiken don’t have this kind of element in them.

It ties back to how the four of them are linked together. And Kento and Rintaro were the ones who trained her in swordplay, so naturally the style Mei would’ve learned from them would suit a sword more similar in style to these three.

Admittedly, it’s a little hard to see where the Ride Book slot could fit in here, especially when the Ride Book “opens”. I pictured something like Suzune’s Ride Book slot as well as the Rider emblem (which all the Seiken have).

Seeing as it’s Tetsuo’s Seiken, he would probably take design cues from it, even subconsciously.

So yeah... basically what I had in mind is Rekka/Nagare/Ikazuchi, with Suzune’s Ride Book and emblem situation (without the bendy bit).

As for her suit... I was leaning more on the bear theming being more subdued and stylized, in a similar way to Sabela’s helmet being the stinger of an insect instead of a straight-up bug shape being slapped on it ala every bug themed Rider since 1971. I also imagined her armor being more streamlined, no shoulder pads or heavy chest armor or anything.

For the color, I envisioned it being mostly white, with the metal parts being silver. Then there’s hints of red/blue/yellow throughout. Like her visor, her gloves and her leggings, stuff like that. Nothing too “in your face”.

And I did have a name for her in mind too! It’s Gladia, as in the Roman gladius sword. I’ve actually had this name in mind for a Saber Rider for a loooong time, in several ways.

[christoffero]

new proect !! to oppose  my desert ash wastes stuff , i have started a sort off lost worlds, either ghost archepelligo or steampunk 1889 ,venus, with lizard men ......... i had a spare historical roman command spur - with standard bearers and musicians wearing lion pelts ..... it was simply cut a notch in the cloak for the tail , and hollow the face out and replace with a cut down lizard head . also adding standard,  the gladius and shield brought it all together.... either from conquered foes or slave auxillarytroops ...... i was thinking of adding the sigmentum armour , but lizardmen have built in scale armour !!!!, but legionary shields for guard troops , plus a few extra bits will do.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gaius | Against The Current | Platonic [Male reader]

Dialogue prompt: "I get it. For real."

You find common ground with your Primi as you stand guard.

Requested by: J Bart

The tent city grows by the day in spite of Praetor Quintus’ orders, and you fear that some time soon his anger regarding it will reach a breaking point. The encampment is starting to burst at the seams and the amount of Roman troops present around Capernaum are hardly enough to contain it. Coupled with the Primi Ordinae’s indecisiveness regarding the situation makes it so that you don’t make a move to do something about it, either. 

Gaius stands beside you with a look on his face you’ve been seeing on him a few times recently, and you wonder what it means. His hand rests on the hilt of his gladius as he stands with pursed lips, overlooking the encampment whilst keeping an eye on the pilgrims. You are aware there are certain rules for them to adhere to, but neither of you enforce them, knowing when to pick your battles. It would be like emptying the ocean with a thimble and you aren’t keen on wasting your time. Besides, you’ve overheard the sermon on the Korazim Plateau as well, when the Primi had asked you to accompany him there, and you had been touched by the words that were said by the very Messiah these pilgrims are pursuing. 

It’s worlds apart from what you are used to. The Roman deities seem to be more keen on vengeance as well as seemingly assisting those who seek them out of sheer arbitrariness. And then, everything you thought you knew from the Rabbis you’ve overheard from time to time while patrolling seems to be very much different from what Jesus preaches.

Turning the other cheek and praying for your enemies is not something you ever expected to be heard from Someone Who lives under Roman oppression. Part of you is almost offended that He expects His followers to display some kind of weak naiveté, as if said enemies would repent because of their passive behaviour in some way. You shake your head, unsure as to why you even care, for after all, you’re a Gentile, a Roman soldier whose only duty is to the Roman Empire and the plethora of gods that–

“Centurion?” You’re snapped out of your thoughts as Gaius suddenly addresses you, and you turn to him with a questioning look.

“Yes, Primi?”

He gives you an expectant look. “Did you hear what I said?”

You swallow. “No, sir. Apologies.”

Gaius lets out a long sigh. “I asked what you think of this.” He nods towards the pilgrims. You blink in slight confusion as you straighten your back. Your armour slightly stresses under the movement as you rest your hand on the hilt of your sword. 

“I don’t know.”

Gaius narrows his eyes unconvinced. “Humour me.”

When you realise he will not drop the subject, you avert your gaze back to the pilgrims. Your eye falls on a man struggling to make fire. A woman in the background is hanging her laundry to dry. It seems she failed to get out a particularly tough stain.

“Honestly? I think Jesus’ words hold weight. I mean, why else would someone leave everything behind in order to pursue Him and willingly live on the streets for weeks? They’ve been here for almost a month now and Jesus hasn’t been sighted in quite some time. Why bother otherwise?” You’re stating the obvious. Gaius exhales once again. 

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” 

The Primi gestures for you to walk with him as you continue your patrol around the perimeter of the encampment. In momentary silence, the two of you observe the pilgrims. 

“People are bringing their sick children. Risk the journey all the way over here in spite of the danger, and I can’t help but wonder why they’d do something so perilous only to catch a glimpse of Him.”

“There are whispers that Jesus is healing the sick and the lame.” you tell Gaius. He purses his lips and nods. 

“Right.” says Gaius, “And from what I’ve gathered…” 

He trails off, but you know what he wants to convey. In spite of your attempts of pushing it away, it’s tugging at your heartstrings too, that this Miracle Worker seems to be no mere magician.

You ponder for a moment. “I’m not married nor do I have children. But if I had an ill child and no other choice but to travel all the way across the land, if this Jesus of Nazareth was my last resort, I think it would be in my parental instincts to at least try it out. At some point, I bet one has little left to lose.”

Gaius’ eyes flicker with something and you wonder if it would be considered rude to pry. After all, the man is a rank above you.  “Well, unlike you, I am married and I do have a son.” Gaius tells you, although it’s no new information, “Sons.” he corrects himself, which you find an awfully odd mistake to make in the first place, but you decide to not question him.

“So, what’s it like? To be a father, I mean?”

A bittersweet flash crosses his face and you’re almost inclined to throw caution to the wind and ask about it anyway. “It’s a blessing.” he mutters, “But then, it can be a curse as well.” 

At this admittance, your frown turns a little deeper. “A curse?”  you parrot, and something in Gaius’ gaze changes, as if he regrets calling it that way. He hums and turns to you, halting in his step. A little away, a baby starts to cry, causing the words to get stuck in the Primi’s throat and both of you to look at the unfolding scene before you.

The mother of the child shushes her infant, holding it close against her chest as she presses her lips to its forehead. As she rocks it back and forth gently, she casts an anxious glance your way, as if you’d walk up to her and arrest her for disturbing the peace and making too much noise in public. Something akin to guilt tugs at your heart, for you realise the effect your presence has on people like her, as well as the pain your people have caused theirs, and are causing still. 

“Children can be a vulnerability.” Gaius explains. “One day, you may hold your child for the first time, and you will realise just how much they depend on you, and everything within your instincts will make you want to give them everything they could ever desire. A dangerous love sometimes, one that could be used against you.” 

“I never took you for a pessimist.” The comment is meant in good humour, but it doesn’t land the way you intend it to, causing the two of you to look at one another in heavy silence. Gaius starts to walk again, and you follow suit. 

“I am being realistic is all.” Gaius says. “What I am trying to say, is that it means that you suddenly live for something else. Before I had children, I lived only for myself. For my wife as well, of course, but otherwise I often only thought about myself. And now, I get it. For real. Their determination to chase what is needed in favour of their children, no matter the cost.” 

There is more to Gaius’ words than meets the eye, that much is clear. The two of you circle the camp with a slow pace, hands folded on your back, as you ponder what he said. 

“But what I don’t quite yet understand,” you start, “What does this have anything to do with Jesus? I get it that fatherhood will awaken certain instincts within a man, certainly. However, there are others who do not have children, yet have travelled all the way here to meet Jesus. There are people who are here for themselves.” 

“This is not about parenthood,” Gaius clarifies, but there is an edge to his tone that teeters on emotional, as if he’s trying to hold back his frustration, or desperation, or something else altogether. “This is about… Well, redemption, I suppose. People are seeking redemption from maladies, and I understand why they’d risk everything to get to it.” 

For a moment, you try to weigh your options in what is appropriate to ask. Gaius is your superior, but there is something in his eyes that you know he wouldn’t show to just anyone. Perhaps it is the heat of the moment that has him on the precipice of tears, perhaps it is a momentary lapse of reason that he opens up to one of the men under him, but whatever it is, you don’t wish to waste it. You like the Primi and his calm demeanour, appreciating his reservedness and what that means about him revealing this side of him to you. Perhaps you could even start saying that the two of you are friends.

“This is personal.” you remark, and Gaius’ face snaps to yours at how void of judgement you are at his vulnerability. “There is something about Jesus that touches you on an emotional level. It has to do with your children, but to you as well.” 

The Primi closes his eyes and exhales. “I… We shouldn’t talk about this on the job.” 

You shrug. “We could meet at The Hammer later tonight?” The kind smile that spreads over your face has Gaius sigh in what sounds like defeat, although it does not represent at all what he feels. It is refreshing to him that someone is interested enough to listen.

“I need to go home after duty.” 

“Trouble with the wife?” you mean it in a lighthearted way, but Gaius’ does not mirror your smile. Yours falls upon realising this, and you wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary. “I apologise, sir. I did not mean to impose on your privacy, nor did I mean to appear like I’m not taking you seriously—” 

“—It’s fine.” Gaius cuts you off. “It’s alright. No offence taken. My ah… One of my sons, Ivo… He’s been ill for a long time.” 

Both pity and confusion appears on your face, for you feel bad for the situation of Gaius’ son, and at the same time, Ivo isn’t a Roman name. Gaius must be able to read it on your face, for his shoulders slightly slump as he realises your puzzlement.

“You see, the situation at home is that Marius and Ivo—” 

“—I won’t ask.” This time, you are the one talking over Gaius. Gratitude glitters in his eyes. The Primi has been sticking his neck out enough as is for all the things he has been saying to you, and you don’t want to pressure him to reveal any more than he wants to, nor does he desire to lose his job over something what was supposed to be casual smalltalk.

“Do you think that Jesus of Nazareth would take pity on us?” There is so much emotion in his voice that you are almost inclined to put a hand on his shoulder. After a moment of hesitating, you do so, and squeeze it.

“We are Romans. We have hurt His people.” As you state this matter-of-factly, you can see the cogs in Gaius’ head start to turn. After all, you do not immediately shut him down for entertaining such a thought, something that other centurions might have laughed about. You seem to understand him. “I think He would.” you finally add. Tension leaves Gaius’ form as your words hit him. “I have seen Jesus’ sermon, too. If He puts into practise what He preaches, then it would only make sense that He would.” 

Gaius inhales deeply before he continues, “I suppose I should consider asking Jesus about Ivo. No healer has been able to get him better up to this point.” You smile and once again squeeze his shoulder before letting your hand fall back onto the pommel of the sword strapped to your hip. 

Suddenly, you are overcome by the urgency to say words that form on your tongue without you realising it, and you speak them before you can even comprehend what they might mean.

“The worst He can say is no. You have little left to lose, and everything to gain.”

Silence again. The Primi halts in his step.  “You are right.” he tells you. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For listening.” 

The two of you share a meaningful look that can mean nothing more but the start of a blooming friendship. “You’re welcome.” you tell him. “Let me know what you decide to do. And how things go, too.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Gaius muses, smiling a little. “But I do have a question.” 

“Go on.” 

“Why are you not trying to stop me? To chastise me in some way for… Taking interest in this Jewish doctor?” You can tell he is choosing his words carefully, but you don’t blame him for it. 

“Because, as you put it,” you reveal with a small grin, “I have ‘taken an interest’ in this Jesus as well.” 

Before Gaius can inquire about it, you continue your patrol in front of him, and you hear his footsteps quickly walk up to you as you head out before him.

“Where are you going?” 

“We are on duty.”

“Hold on— What did you mean by your interest in Him, and what did that smile mean?” 

You stop in your tracks and pivot towards your superior, someone who has surprised you in the most positive sense of the word today.

“Let’s talk about it over a mug of ale at The Hammer some day soon. My treat.”

Gaius takes in your words for a moment, and then smiles.

“Alright,” he says, a soft chuckle leaving him. “I think that is a good idea.” 

At that, you continue your patrol around the encampment of the pilgrims. You choose to ignore Quintus’ behest.

[bunkernine]

Octavian, but like, with murder and corrupted morals during the Roman Prequel books

The Son of Lightning

“You’re lucky death isn’t allowed,” the pale blond snarled at me.

You’re lucky they allow ugliness. Snorting, I grabbed the next rung of the ladder. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He grinned wickedly, teeth sharp like canines. “You will be.”

(The Son of Lightning, ch 8)

The Missing Vestal

“Death before dishonor,” Octavian murmured. “But a man who kills another never had honor to begin with.”

Reyna ran without a word. I grimaced and threw the rock at him. “What’s your problem? She told us about her dad because she trusted us.”

Octavian’s jaw clenched. “My family has a long history of death and corruption. It’s in your blood and it won’t go away. Reyna’s cursed her entire line.” He threw the rock back, but it flew past my head. “Don’t chase after her. She needs time.”

“I won’t let that happen,” I scowled at him. “She’s not cursed. And neither are you for that matter. Fate and ancestry is stupid. Nothing is ever set in stone.” 

Octavian watched me, and his forehead creased. I didn’t know much about his family, but I was certain that whatever he was implying wasn’t going to happen. I was sure of it. 

“Okay,” he said softly, and then didn’t speak after that. 

(The Missing Vestal, ch 17)

The Games of War

I grabbed Octavian’s arm. “You can’t seriously think that’s okay.”

“Of course not,” Octavian snatched his arm back. “Have more faith in me, Wolf Boy. It’s ridiculous that they would think we can kill a god. They’re immortal.” He gave me a disgusted look. “Especially not a Fifth Cohort disgrace like you.”

“You know whose fault that is.” I glared. 

“Jason.” Despite her brave face during the meeting, Reyna looked nauseous now. “We’re not killing anyone. We’ll find him and figure out what happened.” She glanced at Octavian. “Immortal or not, murder is wrong. There is always another way, even if it may seem like the only option.”

He scoffed. “I know that. Believe it or not but I have morals.” He cracked his knuckles. “As if anyone wants to deal with a death nowadays.”

“Either of you kill that god-” Reyna looked them in the eye. “I’ll do something worse than death. This is my quest and I can not have it go wild.”

“I would never,” I promised.

Octavian nodded grimly. “Never.”

(The Games of War, ch 7)

-----

For a moment, it seemed like he would do it. Octavian’s hands gripped the golden hair, and his knife was pressing into the god’s neck. An anger I had never seen erupted through Octavian’s facial muscles. 

“Do it,” The god giggled deliriously. “Come on, boy. Do it,” His voice grew deeper with each word, more wanting and begging. “Do it. Do it. DO IT. DO IT.” 

Octavian cried out and dropped the knife like it burned and jumped away, breathing hard. He began shaking his head, clutching his temple. “No, no, no, no-” he gasped, head darting up to me and Reyna. He looked scared, with our faces no doubt mirroring that. 

The god began to cackle, the wretched laughter echoing through the cave, until it suddenly stopped and he slumped over. My hands trembled, the gladius slipping out of my fingers and clattering to the floor.

“Jason...” Reyna’s cried. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t kill him,” I choked out. “He’s unconscious.” I licked my lips, grinding my sweaty palms against my thighs. “Unconscious,” I repeated. “Not dead. I can’t- I won’t-”

“It’s okay,” Octavian breathed, placing a hand on my shoulder. His face was pink like taffy, and in his eyes was fear. “It’s okay, Jason.”

(The Games of War, ch 24)

The Witch’s Wrath

“Are you crying?” I laughed at him. It couldn’t be- the Octavian sobbing like a baby? This was gold. Octavian’s head whirled up, and the laugh died in my throat.

“It was an accident,” He cried. His shaking hands wiped across his chest, staining his clothes red. “An accident, I didn’t mean to-” He grabbed at his chest, gasping out, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to, Jason, you have to-” He scrambled back, gasping.

He must’ve been having some kind of attack again. It wasn’t unlike what happened in Tampa. I shifted between my feet, staring at what Octavian did- what he didn’t mean to do.  

There was a lot of blood. I recognized the fallen soldier as one of the Senate’s spies. His face coated in the unfamiliar red, his pulse gone. One of Octavian’s knifes was nestled in his side. My eyes flickered to Octavian’s panting and rocking. It was too late to save this man, but what could I even do?

A small part of me didn’t believe Octavian. But a much bigger part of me did. It was an accident, I thought, and pulled the knife out with a sickening squish and bile rising in my throat. Wiping the pugio clean on my shirt, I crouched next to Octavian.

His pupils were dilated, and he couldn’t stop shaking. I asked him to count with me, if he could, and slowly, Octavian calmed down. I didn’t force the air like last time- that felt too invasive. 

“It was an accident,” Octavian shuddered, sobbing into my shoulder. I patted his back, my eyes never leaving the body a few yards away. Auribus teneo lupum. I needed to do something, tell someone, but right now Octavian needed someone too. Who knows what would happened if I left him alone. 

I’ve seen death before. Lupa would bite into an animal, holding on until it went limp, and then devour the poor thing. I’ve looked into the face of Proserpina and Thanatos and demanded help. I’ve argued with ghosts and listened to their stories. I knew about Reyna and her dad. 

Yet somehow, all of that felt different. Octavian had always been different. It felt like it was always going to come down to this. His father, his siblings, his prophecies- they were always going to lead to this. 

I bit the inside of my cheek. No. Things were going to change.

(The Witch’s Wrath, ch 26)

------

On the way back, I watched Octavian. I’m not sure why. I thought maybe something would change. He slept with his head on Reyna’s shoulder, nose whistling softly. My mind searched for his hands that should be stained red, or some sense of fear and madness. Some sign that he was disturbed or upset. Instead, he slept like a baby. 

I turned away before Reyna could ask what was wrong. It didn’t feel okay that when I looked at my own hands, all I could see was me pulling out that knife. I shakily exhaled, whirling the pinwheel in my hand. It spun slowly, as the bus kept driving. 

(The Witch’s Wrath, ch 28)

------

Octavian’s look of betrayal will never leave my memories. He left, his father’s hand on his back, leading them out of the temple. Reyna’s face held no emotion. She waited until we were out of sight, before she whipped around and pushed me against the wall. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She hissed. “Jason, what is wrong with you?”

“He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I don’t care!” Reyna yelled. “You should’ve told me! We promised no secrets and you hid this? Do you know what you just did?” 

I pushed her away. “Octavian’s going to get help and figure it out. I helped him.”

“You think they’re going to help him? After all that happened, you think, those- those,” Reyna sputtered, “those people are going to help him? You think Octavian’s going to come back better?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “His family knows what’s right, don’t they?” With Reyna yelling at me like this, I was starting to think I hadn’t thought it through. With exposing that the government was crooked and there were spies everywhere with the Titans, I was beginning to regret telling them about what Octavian did. He was my friend and I had just directed him down an evil path.

Family doesn’t mean anything, Octavian had said back in Oakland. My family... I know they’re into some bad things, but what can I do? It’s been going on for generations. I’m not going to become like them. Why do you think I want to be praetor? It’ll be different this time.

It won’t, I realized. And it was because of me. “We’ll help him,” I desperately assured Reyna. “We can help him.”

“Honestly, Jason?” Reyna’s eyes were cold. “I don’t trust a single thing you say anymore. I don’t think what Octavian did was right, but you? You knew what you were doing. You knew he wanted to be praetor. This sick little game between the two of you has gone too far.”

“No...” I trailed off. That wasn’t it. I didn’t care about those titles, I didn’t want them. It wasn’t about our rivalry. I thought I had been helping him. Reaching out, I called, “Reyna, I-”

“Don’t touch me!” Reyna shrieked, pulling away. “I don’t trust you Jason! This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.” She wiped at here eyes, a nasty look on her face, hurt and angry. “You didn’t want people to see you as selfish and power-hungry like your father? Well congrats, Jason. That’s all anyone can see.”

“Reyna-”

She shook her head, stepping back and then when she was far enough, she sprinted away. I wiped at my face, chest heaving. I hadn’t lost just my home in Camp Jupiter today. I lost my family as well. 

(The Witches Wrath, ch 36)

The Fall of Rome

“Don’t do it,” Octavian urged. “You can’t come back from something like that. She’s not a monster.”

“But she is,” I growled. 

Octavian hesitantly reached out. His cold hand went over mine and he lowered my sword. The Venus girl darted away, running back to the ranks of the Titan army. My anger flared.

“What is your problem?!” I yelled. “She’s one of the bad guys.”

“We both know it’s not black and white like that,” Octavian winced. “Just focus on the mission.” 

Even though I was still angry, I can tell by the whipping winds that our fight was not done. The girl was gone anyway. “Fine,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”

(The Fall of Rome, ch 24)

-----

Reyna and Octavian were both splattered with ichor and blood. I didn’t ask about the latter, nor did they seem inclined to share. Reyna was nauseus, but Octavian seemed only anxious to keep moving, like something was going to catch him. 

“What now?” I asked, slumping to the ground. “It’s over.”

Octavian’s armor jostled. “You’re weak, Wolf Boy. It’s never over- Hoc est bellum.” This is war. 

Reyna held out her hand. “It’s all you now, Jason. We’ve toppled the Senate, right? All that’s left is the throne. Let us be your sword and shield.”

I swallowed, glancing between their faces. Reyna’s hair had falled out of her braid long ago, and Octavian’s face was streaked with blood. I didn’t know how many monsters or people, even, they killed for me to get here. Now was not the time to give up.

“Okay,” I stood, taking her hand. “Krios, then.”

(The Fall of Rome, ch 25)

------

Octavian couldn’t even look at me. It wasn’t my fault- I didn’t ask for praetor. After all that happened, that was the last position I wanted to hold. I just wanted to go back to Gwen’s comforting embrace at the fifth cohort, back to the warm hearth with the Vestals, back to whipping winds of running in the forest as I howled. Instead, I was dripping with gold and purple.

“I checked the stuffing,” Octavian threw the empty stuffed animal skin at me. “Death and confusion is coming your way. Maybe that’s what you deserve.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

Octavian seemed almost disgusted. “No, I wouldn’t. You don’t deserve a death from my hands.” He stormed away, and I stared after him. Still, I couldn’t help but feel unnerved.

I’ve seen what Octavian could do. Death was one of them. Whatever his father and the Senate did to him, changed him. But it was my fault they even found out. It was my fault for becoming praetor and dooming him to Augur. I remembered how much Octavian would’ve hated this outcome these past few years. I hated it too, but Octavian abhorred this. 

But I was the one who made it happen.

Just then, I was afraid. 

(The Fall of Rome, ch 35)

[alternimundi]

in progress

some country stuff

ROMA—> DAERMA

name comes from founder who was one of two abandoned twins suckled by a bear that lost her cubs. when she sent them to the ~urban world~, after learning the language and the flow of the city they were in, they spent time trying to solve disputes between humans by being a total outsider with no prior knowledge of human civilization. eventually they gained a following as community leaders, and seeing that many people wished to leave their city, the twins decided to make their own. while scouting out new land, the twins, in accordance with the traditions of the people, decided to give the city one of their names, using omens to determine which one of them would lend their name. after walking separate ways, DAERMICA (she whose name means fearful, fierce) counted more birds in the sky than her brother LUCELUS (he whose name means rays of light), and thus named the city DAERMA. despite naming the city for herself, Daermica wanted her brother Lucelus’ help in the city as a fellow leader. After the main houses and buildings in the city were completed, Daermica did as custom and, in the dark of night before sunrise, sowed a line around the city called the “pomerium”--this was not the city wall but the religious border, a sacred space with limited activity that preserved the heart of the city. As Daermica sowed this sacred border, though, a figure cloaked in shadow approached the pomerium line from the outer limits of the city, known only to Daermica by the faint sound of footsteps. She did not announce herself, in order to retain cover in case of attack, for Daermica, like all Daermans after her, was strong but smart, and would not put herself at risk in such an undeterminable situation. The figure seemed to approach her directly, however, and in the dark of night the bear-cub (“ursula”) drew her gladius from her side, readying herself for attack. The stranger, too, drew their sword, the metal blade ringing in the blackness. Daermica, as a skilled swordswoman, was quick to position her blade to disarm the stranger—but Ferox Fortuna moved the stranger’s feet at the wrong time, tripping into a lunge towards her, and Daermica, believing this to be an attack, thrust her sword forward. But as the stranger fell forward ever more, the movement was not a block of their blade, but a fatal wound to their soft underbelly. Daermica rushed towards the stranger who now lay on their back, coughing and wheezing, and uncovered their hood to find the face of her brother Lucelus. Daermica wept and tore at her hair as her brother’s blood stained the sacred heart of their city. Though she continued to lead, the weight of this accidental death burdened Daermica until she was reunited with Lucelus in the underworld, where they now live peacefully and without fear. Lucelus’ blood remains a stain on the legacy of Daerma—though some argue this was the fertilizer necessary to build the great empire, the first death in a history of conquest. But all true citizens honor the twin bear-cubs.

GREECE/ELLAS/HELLAS/ELLADA —> EUPHRODAS / GLAUCEA

Not as much of a backstory here, though there are two names I am going to use for it, which is significant. “Ellas” is the ancient self-descriptor of the Achaeans, used almost exclusively. This comes from Hellen, son of Deucalion and Pyrrha, who fathered sons that all went on to father their own tribes across the land. This makes him a sort of all-father figure. I think I will say fuck it and make a guy named Euphron who has four daughters named Dromea, Amometa, Iuolia, and Khoirile. Their names make up the main four tribes of Euphrodas. As for the Daerman name for Euphrodas, I will go with Glaucea (this word means grey and Graecea also might mean that). What’s it a reference to? No idea! Probably fog or something. I don’t fucking know what the Romans were thinking, ever.

[alien-rainbow]

By Your Side Until My Death(9/?)

Chapter 9: The World We Made

Available on AO3

Princess Artemis, the eldest daughter of the kingdom of Olympus is to be married to her childhood nightmare. In a land where anything remotely magical is banned, Zoë fears for her and Ladon's life but knows that she could never leave the princess's side if she tried. Magical beings, a forbidden romance, family secrets, and safety for magic all wait beyond the kingdom's borders.

- 3rd person, will be completed eventually, teen, not completed, Zartemis

READ PLEASE. Okay, so there was a lot of background going on in this chapter.

Cohorts: These are like the cabins, there are 20 of them for the 20 cabins in the PJO series, I decided to use greek names and move some people around if they are Romans. The only time I used Roman names is if the greek counterpart was part of the royal family.

Praetors: Two people who are elected from any of the twenty cabins and are (presidential system) like the president.

Centurions: These are like the vice presidents, but there are a lot of them. They can make decisions but need the approval of both of the Praetors but if 75% of the Centurions want an action to be taken, they can go forward without Praetor's approval. But Chiron can put a stop to anything he believes is really bad but for the most part, he just guides and observes.

Normal People are just called campers and each Cohort has a cabin that corresponds with gods and their skills. If you want the full list of Cohorts/Cabins and their god/skills, look at the endnotes (There is more explanation in the chapter too)

--------------------------------

Annabeth with the help of Will and commentary from Nico gave the girls a quick tour of the camp. The first stop was the big house where the leaders met to talk. The leaders consisted of one immortal, a centaur named Chiron, and a group of twenty centurions that represented the twenty different cohorts, and two elected praetors from any of the twenty centurions. The centurions were divided based on skill and dominant traits, and in some cases who you were born to.

Percy for example was one of the only members in cohort three, the cohort of water. People that lived in the cabin were closely related to Poseidon, the immortal of seas, or water nymphs, or were incredibly good when it came to any water activity.

Annabeth was a mortal who was incredibly good at changing any form of magic and was in Cohort 6, where the children of Minerva usually went. They were known for Strategic thinking and Leadership, Annabeth was the centurion. Nico is a child of Hades, the immortal Death, The Underground, and Darkness, and is the centurion of Cohort 13. His younger sister Hazle was the only other occupant of Cohort 13.

Will pointed to a solid gold cabin, which seemed to either reflect the sun or was glowing itself. Cohort 7 was for children born to Helios, the immortal of Day. Healing was another large part of Will's Cohort. Will told them that he was a few generations removed but was a descendent of Helios.

"So you have solar powers?" Athena asked after Will finished talking about his Cohort.

"I'm honestly a better healer but I can heal and control light," Will said smiling bright enough to rival the sun itself.

"He also glows," Nico said smirking at the puppy-eyed glare Will sent his way.

"That's not important," Will shoot back at the smaller boy.

"He's the best medic we have," Annabeth said trying to get the conversation back on topic. The two continued to quietly bicker but there was no real heat.

"So how long has Jason been here for?" Thalia asked out of the blue looking away from the two boys over to Annabeth.

"He's been here since he was a toddler, why?" Annabeth asked confused.

"His surname isn't by any chance Grace?" Thalia asked quickly. Nico stopped his conversation and turned to look intensely at Thalia. Artemis, just like Annabeth was confused by the woman's question. She knew that Thalia had a little brother who was said to have died in a wolf attack but besides that had no family that she cared about.

"Why do you want to know?" Nico said before Annabeth could answer.

"I don't see why you need to know?" Thalia said narrowing her eyes at the shorter boy. Before another fight could be started Annabeth jumped in to supply Thalia with her answer.

"Yes, his full name is Jason Grace," Annabeth said still looking confused but trying to stop an oncoming storm.

"Where is he now? Can I see him?" Thalia's voice was shrill and urgent.

"Probably at the arena sparring with Percy, and I guess so?" Will offered to take them while Nico stated that he would be coming with them. Reyna opted to go with Thalia saying that they would meet up later that night. With that, the four hurried off towards the arena.

"What was that about?" Annabeth asked after the group had disappeared from sight.

"I don't know..." Artemis said turning to Zoë who shrugged. Annabeth then continued on with the tour as if nothing had happened. She showed them the climbing wall which was cover in lava. The amphitheater where the campers met at night for a sing-along, campfire, and a variety of other things. The stables held more Asseros' and a few unmagical horses, and pegasi. They then walked past the cabins, each held one Cohort and a number of campers. They ended their trip by walking past the armory then heading to the arena.

They entered the opened roofed area to see Thalia and Jason stabbing at each other. Nico, Will, Percy, and the feather girl sat on the sides watching them spare. Thalia had her long golden spear out, her shield sat on one of the benches next to her brown leather bag. Jason on the other hand was fighting her with a golden gladius.

The three walked over to the group that was already sitting to watch the two dance around each other.

"What did we miss?" Artemis asked sitting down next to Reyna who turned to her with a sarcastic smile.

"Nothing much, except that Jason is Thalia's presumed dead little brother. And they are both the children of Jupiter, the immortal of the sky. But besides that, not much." Artemis and Zoë both gave out shocked reactions before turning to watch the two reunited siblings spar.

The match ended with Thalia disarming her brother and a golden spear pointed at his chest.

"I win," Thalia said grinning at her brother.

"My turn!" Percy yelled grabbing a bronze sword running up to the spot where Thalia had just stood.

"Water first," Jason said grabbing a cantine and drinking the water that poured from it. He then walked over to the blond positioning himself lower to the ground getting ready to go again.

"Bro... what if we had a homoerotic sword fight..." Percy said smiling like an idiot before striking, they exchanged a few blows before backing away giving the other time to think. "jk, jk," Percy said referring back to his earlier comment. The two exchanged a few more swings before Percy spook once again, "...Unless?" The ravenett struck once more causing Jason to get knocked to the floor.

"I am literally the straightest person here," Nico said shaking his head at the Percys comment.

"What do you mean by that?" Artemis asked. The elder princess was confused at their language, straight? homoerotic? And why no one else found it strange that the two boys were acting playfully romantic towards each other.

"By what?" Nico asked looking at her instead of the stone floor.  

"Straight?" Artemis asked her cheeks burning as the others looked at her like this was a ridiculous question.

"Straight is another word for someone who likes the opposite gender," Annabeth explained.

"Are you implying that males can love other males? And females other females?" Athena asked astonished at the information.

"While yea, there's nothing wrong with loving who you want to love," Will said softly. "I mean Nico's my boyfriend," He said smiling and gesturing to the boy next to him. A blush covered the pale boy's cheeks as he mumbled something about 'Significant annoyance.'

"Really?" Zoë and Reyna said simultaneously.

"Yea, and don't let anyone ever tell you differently," Nico said his eyes darkening "Because they are  wrong."

Artemis felt a weight lift from her that she never knew she was carrying. She had never been interested in being intimate with any male. The thought of marrying any man and having his children make Artemis sick. The news that this wasn't a bad thing, that she could love a  female, a girl!  It made her happier than she could say. Zoë, Reyna, and Thalia wore a similar expression. Athena just looked thoughtful and happily surprised.

Artemis turned to look at Zoë and smiled at the older girl, for some reason her aunt's words from the day before came back to her,  "So who is it? I also know the face of heartbreak, whether you know it or not. " Artemis remembered telling her aunt that she loved no one, only for her aunt to ask her if she was sure. Then before her aunt could say who she believed her heart belonged to, Hermes had interrupted. Artemis wished now more than anything that she had gotten to hear her aunt's last words before they fleed.

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WHAT COHORT##BY BIRTH##TRAITS AND/OR POWERS##CENTURIONS##OTHER STUFF

Cohort 1: (Jupiter) Sky and Justice [Jason] Cohort 2: (Juno) Family and Unity [OC] Cohort 3: (Posiden) Sea and Freespirt [Percy] Cohort 4: (Demeter) Earth and Stability [Katie] Cohort 5: (Mars) War and Physical strength [Clarisse] Cohort 6: (Minerva) Strategic thinking and Leadership [Annabeth] Cohort 7: (Helios) Day and Healing [Will] {Apollo is his name in both Romand and Greek, I did what I could} Cohort 8: (Diana) Moon and Independence [Bianca] Cohort 9: (Vulcan) Medal and Inventions [Leo] Cohort 10: (Venus) Munlipltiveness and Indisisviness [Piper] Cohort 11: (Mercury) Trickery and Stealth [Connor] Cohort 12: (Bacchus) Madness and Facetious [Pollux] Cohort 13: (Hades) Death, The Underground and Night [Nico] Cohort 14: (Iris) Messenger and Color [Butch] Cohort 15: (Hypnos) Dreams and Self-preservation [Clovis] Cohort 16: (Nemesis) Balance and Vengeance [OC] Cohort 17: (Nike) Pride and Victory [Holly and Laurel] {They refused to pick one} Cohort 18: (Hebe) Forgiveness and Childress [Paolo] Cohort 19: (Tyche) Good Luck and Balance [Chiara] Cohort 20: (Hecate) Magic and thoughtful [Lou Ellen]

Praetors: Frank and Hazle