anjels001

[anjels001]

🌑 Between Two Names - Lindalë Úquettaina (The Unwritten Chord - part 2)

--- (a/note:I had to split this chapter into two parts because the text went over Tumblr’s character limit — classic Tumblr move, right? 😂 Thanks so much for your patience and for sticking with me!) ----------< (≧ ﹏ ≦) >----------

And then they understood — not through words, but by the softening of tension in the very fabric of their being — that Eru saw them. Had always seen them. And if their pain was immense, so was His. For He was not a Creator who rejoiced at seeing threads break, but a Father who suffers when a chord is lost in the vastness. And in the warmth that enveloped them, there was no longer the weight of judgment, but the affirmation that even a note out of rhythm can find its place in the music — not by destroying harmony, but by making it richer, more complex, more alive.

At last, their souls — no longer certain if they were two or one — vibrated in unison with the Greater Song. And in that moment, they understood that they no longer needed to apologize for existing. For their existence, though unplanned in form, had never been a mistake. It was, perhaps, an unexpected chord — but no less beautiful for it.

Yet, even beneath that comforting warmth, hesitation returned — not from fear, nor from shame, but from not knowing if they truly had the right to ask. For they had never known if that desire — to exist outside the mold, to breathe in another tone — was permitted, or even possible within the vastness of the Song.

But the silence itself embraced them differently. It was not the silence of emptiness, nor of tense expectation. It was an open space, extended like the arms of a father kneeling before a small child, lowering himself to the child’s level, waiting with a patient smile for the child to find the courage to speak.

They felt — with the clarity only a bare spirit can know — that Eru did not look upon them with weight or doubt, but with tenderness. And in the seemingly endless vastness, a note arose, gentle as the sound of a breath over calm waters. And that note said, not in words, but in essence: “Speak. I hear you.”

There was a subtle tremor in the web of the two. Mairon’s thread, denser, shimmered like freshly forged metal; theirs, lighter, vibrated like glass ringing in the light. Their sounds, sometimes dissonant, sometimes perfectly intertwined, hesitated, danced in the space. And little by little, what had once been timidity became courage — that fragile yet luminous courage that only those who love deeply can summon.

First came the sound of metal striking metal — the echo of forges, the hammering of hands that never wished to destroy, but always to create. Then, the sound of breath searching for an instrument, seeking a shape, a wood, a chamber where it might transform into melody. Next, a faint chorus of broken notes, trying to align, trying to show — without words — that their desire was not to break the Song, but to find within it a space where they could be themselves, without distortion.

And the plea took form. It was a sound mixing sadness and hope, love and anxiety: “If all creation is made of voices and breaths, of strings and resonances, why can we not... be a new string, a new timbre, a new tone? We have not fought against the Music, but against the mold that imprisons us within it. We ask... not that the score be rewritten, but that we might change the instrument. That we remain sound, still part, but... in another timbre, another form.”

And Eru — oh, the Sound that hovers beyond all sound, beyond all beginning and end — did not respond with judgment, nor imposition. His note expanded, becoming a welcoming vastness, like the sky that never weighs, even though infinite. And in that note there was a tenderness so vast, so pure, that it seemed to undo every fear that had ever existed. The answer was simply: “Continue. I hear. Say everything. There is no hurry.”

And so, like small children who finally feel safe in the arms of one who loves them, the two — the fusion of two who no longer knew where one began and the other ended — finally allowed themselves to sing. To sing their pain, yes. To sing their hope. To sing their love for Creation itself. And above all, to sing the burning desire to belong not as a mistake, nor as a shadow, but as a legitimate variation of the greater harmony. Not as dissonance that breaks — but as the unexpected note that, when well placed, makes the music grow, breathe, live.

And so, like small children who finally feel safe in the arms of one who loves them, the two — the fusion of two who no longer knew where one began and the other ended — at last allowed themselves to sing. To sing their pain, yes. To sing their hope. To sing their love for Creation itself. And above all, to sing the burning desire to belong not as a mistake, nor as a shadow, but as a legitimate variation of the greater harmony. Not as dissonance that breaks — but as the unexpected note that, when well placed, makes the music grow, breathe, live.

And she did not know if she was crying, laughing, or trembling. Perhaps she was doing all three at once. For in that invisible embrace — made not of arms, but of pure existence — something within her finally broke. A prison. An ancient cage, forged not of iron, but of silence, imposed molds, and expectations that had never belonged to her. As if the very fabric of Eä whispered to her, with infinite tenderness: “You were not born wrong.”

And Mairon... ah, Mairon had always known. From the beginning, he had never given importance to form, name, or the weight of titles. In the forge, there was no man or woman — only spark, creation, and will. To him, the sound that becomes steel is the same as that which becomes flame. And in it he never saw error — only extension. Reflection. A living continuation of all they had built together, hammer stroke after hammer stroke, chord after chord.

Now free, she understood that her discomfort had never arisen from being something wrong — but from trying, through countless ages, to fit into forms that were never made for her. And, in accepting that fire which does not burn but transforms, she breathed. For the first time, she breathed as who she is — whole, true, real.

But Ilúvatar did not end there. For, like a father who, seeing the courage of his child, smiles and bends even lower to enfold them, He extended His will as a gift. And thus He spoke — not in sound, but in touch and warmth — granting her a new form. A perfect union, a reflection not of compromise, but of truth.

Her skin took on a warm tone, of light amber — not as dark as Mairon’s bronze, nor as pale as what hers had been before, but a gentle balance, as if the light of fire and the shadow of night met within the flesh. Her hair became a harmonious gradient: roots black as night rested against her scalp, but as it descended to shoulder length, the tone began to brighten into warm reds, until it burst, at the long tips that fell beyond her hips, into a vivid crimson, like newborn fire at the heart of a volcano.

Her eyes, once brown like wet earth, lightened, drinking in Mairon’s light and the gold of creation. The iris had turned to golden amber, where still danced softly the reflection of honey and bronze — like a sunset reflected on calm waters. There, her gaze no longer carried the doubt of one who doesn’t know if they belong; it now held the serene certainty of one who not only belongs but is necessary.

In that form, there was no longer shadow nor excess, no lack nor surplus. There was symmetry. The joining not of broken halves, but of two wholes that had chosen each other — like two flames that, upon touching, do not extinguish, but become a single fire, greater, brighter, and more alive.

Smaller, certainly, in the eyes of the Ainur — only one meter seventy, when Eru’s eldest children could rise like towers. But in her there was no less power. Only the simplicity of a form that finally made sense.

She staggered. The weight of everything — what had been, what was, and what was becoming — collided all at once. She did not know if she was crying, laughing, or dissolving there, in light, fire, and tears. Mairon supported her, not with hands, but with his own spark, intertwining with hers, like two chords that, at last, became perfect harmony.

And then, in that vastness where there is no time, Eru leaned over her. There was no judgment, only love — the primordial love of a Father who receives a daughter long lost, but never forgotten. And in a whisper made of light, sound, and essence, He pronounced: “Mairië.” (the Admirable) A name not given, but revealed, for it had always existed within her, waiting to be called.

Upon hearing — or feeling — that name resonate in her very soul, something broke and, in the same instant, was made whole again. All the forms that were never truly hers, the invisible chains, dissolved like mist. For the first time, she breathed as who she was. As who she had always been.

Mairon... no... Mairië — no longer broken halves, but one fire, one forge, one song. And even if the world dared to reject her, nothing could erase the truth that now pulsed within her essence.

And then, in the space that seemed to hold all times, Eru, with that love that only a Father who created all can have, breathed once more upon her: “Walk. Do. Create. The Song is vaster than even I imagined. And within it, now, there is a space where before there was only silence.”

And if the voices of the Valar should one day rise in scandal, and if future peoples cast their names as curse or lament, none of that would carry weight anymore. For if the Creator Himself accepted them, who among the works and children of the world would have the power or right to deny them?

There, at the core of that eternal moment, not only was a new form born, but a new note — one that could never be undone or forgotten, for it had been woven into the very heart of Creation.

--- Back (The Unwritten Chord - part)

[anjels001]

🌑 Between Two Names - Lindalë Úquettaina (The Unwritten Chord - part 1)

The silence in that room felt heavier, denser, as if the very walls carried — ashamed — the echoes of words spoken days before. No footsteps. No voices calling. No knock at the door. No one had come. Not Aulë. Not any servant or friend. The absence hurt more than anger — for it was not punishment that wounded, but neglect. Indifference cut deeper than steel.

And only then did they realize — with a kind of quiet astonishment — that three days had passed. Three entire days, slipping like water through metaphorical fingers, and they hadn’t even noticed. Was this, then, how the immortals experienced time? Not as a line. Not as a weight. But as a river without banks, where consciousness drifts, lost among thoughts that have no end.

And in the solitude of those three days — or perhaps of a single eternal instant — they understood. Or rather, they both understood, for they were no longer just one, that this would be the beginning of the distance. There would be no return to what once was. Aulë — the master, the father they had chosen at the dawn of Creation — had not seen, or had refused to see, that what had been broken was something far beyond words. It had severed the thread of trust. And where there is no trust, there can be no home.

And so, the decision was made. For a moment, they paused. Breathed deeply — or as close to breathing as a spirit might come — like one gathering the scattered pieces of their own essence, sealing within themselves the certainty of a path with no return. Then, with steady hands, they began gathering all they owned. It was not much — for the Maiar were never fond of material possessions — yet each object held more than mere form or function: it carried the imprint of entire ages. Fragments of thoughts woven in the first lights of Creation.

Hand-forged tools, small prototypes of unfinished artifacts, scrolls filled with meticulous notes, diagrams of impossible symmetries, calculations of the weight of light and the measures of sound, sketches of mechanisms that might never take form — everything carefully rolled, wrapped, and placed inside an old chest of black wood, whose surface seemed to hum with the touch of time. Its engraved metal — thin yet unbreakable — bore the Music itself etched into its veins, every line containing more than the eye could grasp, as though the melodic patterns were invisible to mortal sight. It was as light as a feather and yet carried the weight of ages. Patterns of flame, stars, and spirals — eternal symbols of order and creation — danced across the surface, flowing with the hidden harmony of the very Song.

Each piece they touched seemed to pulse beneath their fingers, as if carrying a dormant spark of all they had been — and all they could have become. These were not mere objects; they were silent witnesses of hopes forged in fire and cooled in silence. And among them, two stood out as the very pillars of that legacy.

The first was a sword. Not made for war, but forged as a living representation of the very act of creation. Its blade was pure, almost translucent, like silver bathed in white fire. Set into the pommel was a golden gem, whose light seemed to flow through inner veins like eternal embers dancing beneath glass. It was named Carnilossë, the “Flame of the Forge.” Aulë had gifted it in the dawn of the world — not as a weapon of destruction, but as a symbol of distinction: a blade not meant to cut flesh, but to divide chaos from order, to separate the crude from the beautiful, to cleave error and reveal the hidden perfection at the heart of things.

The second was a hammer. Heavy, with a handle polished from black jade and a massive head of golden adamant — so perfectly balanced that it vibrated at the slightest touch, resonating with clear notes, as if each strike still echoed within the very fabric of the Music. Embedded at the center of the hammer’s head, an amber jewel — shimmering as though it contained a small sun — burned with the living memory of the Secret Fire, the gift Eru had granted to those who mold and give form to matter. This was not merely a tool of craft: it was the very instrument with which Mairon, in the earliest ages, had learned to harmonize matter and sound, to bend metal to the will of the Song. More than anything, it was the symbol of his essence: To forge. To create. To bring order to the formless.

Beside them rested a broken silver mold — a physical scar from a failed attempt to craft a crystalline lamp that could capture the dance of starlight. Paradoxically, it was the most beloved piece. Not for its success, but because it embodied the noblest of lessons: that from failure comes learning, and that not every fall is an end — some are fertile ground for futures yet unborn.

There was also a small astrolabe, still incomplete. Its concentric circles, engraved with minuscule symbols, represented not only the visible skies of Arda but also the hidden chords of the Music. Each rotation mimicked a measure, each axis traced a harmony between sound and matter, between the seen and the unseen, between the finite and the eternal.

Even the broken fragments — the failed pieces, the cracks, the abandoned designs — now seemed more valuable than all the gold of Valinor. For they were not witnesses of failure, but remnants of a journey. Silent proof that even in imperfection there is beauty — and in the act of trying, the spark of the divine.

But not everything was taken. Resting upon the stone table was a box shaped like a book — wide, with a thick spine and firm cover — carved from wood as dark as the deepest roots of Yavanna, reinforced by fine veins of golden metal that ran along its edges like rivers of light. Upon its plates, undulating lines formed spirals of fire and stars, and engraved within them were not mere symbols, but fragments of the very Music — intertwined markings that sealed more than just matter: they sealed intention, memory, and will.

In ancient days, when fear still dwelled within his heart, Mairon had crafted that box so that no hand but his own could open it. He feared that others might discover his refuge — the only place where it was permitted to fail, to experiment, to try again without the merciless gaze of those who judged. There, within his chosen solitude, he could err without the error becoming a crime.

But now, something had changed. Standing before the box, they drew a deep breath. And, touching the engraved edges, altered the melody that sealed it shut. Once, it had been a locked song — dissonant, built from scales that repelled any voice but his own. Now, they shaped it so it would resonate with another melody: the one they had known since the dawn of time, living deep within their core, etched deeper than any oath — a music born not of duty, nor of fear, but of the silent love that, once, had existed between them and Aulë.

Thus, it would no longer be authority that could break the seal — nor strength, nor right. Only the one who recognized, in the deepest part of their being, the memory of that first harmony would be able to open the wooden and metal book. And that someone could only be Aulë — if, one day, abandoning the throne of the master and the rigidity of the judge, he came not in search of a lost servant, but of a child who had chosen to leave.

Inside, there rested the map — drawn in lines of living silver — leading to that forgotten place where not even the Valar dared to tread, and where even the Song itself seemed to fade into silence. And upon it, a single golden gear, broken in half. A fragment. A sign. A shattered mirror of what once was — and perhaps, of what could still yet be.

As the box was closed and sealed, they — she, he, both — felt a strange mixture of pain and relief. It was a farewell without words. A farewell to one who had been master, father, and friend. And, perhaps, a silent invitation — left like a seed for a future that not even the eyes of the Ainur could foresee.

--------- < (╯︿╰) > --------

The journey was not long in distance, but it weighed heavy in meaning. They walked under the dim light of Telperion and Laurelin, through forgotten paths where not even the birds dared to sing. The scent of ancient grass mingled with the whispering sound of winds that still seemed to carry echoes of the First Song. Every step reverberated not in their feet, but within their very essence — as if the soil of Aman, recognizing that familiar tread, also mourned and, in silence, bore witness.

The destination was a hidden vale, nestled between hills that even the Valar seldom noticed. No road led to it, except those traced not by stone, but by memory. There, countless ages ago, Mairon had raised a secret forge — not from any desire for wicked concealment, but from a deep need for silence, for contemplation, for the freedom to err and to shape without the weight of watching eyes. It was a sanctuary where the sound of hammer and anvil spoke truer than any word, more honest than any joy sung in the grand halls of Valimar.

When they arrived, nothing seemed to have changed. The small stone cabin — sturdy and discreet — still stood in its place, covered in silver moss that shimmered under the light of the Trees. The chimney, still blackened by the flames of ancient forges, rose like a finger pointed toward the silent heavens. Beside it, a clear, still lake — smooth as polished glass — reflected the stars and the silver and golden crowns of the Trees, like eternal eyes that saw everything, and yet, judged nothing. The water, so pure it seemed woven from liquid light, stirred only when the wind whispered, as if breathing with the earth itself.

But now, this place would become more than a refuge. It would be the threshold between what they had been and what they could yet become. Each stone, each beam, each scar upon the anvil bore not just the marks of labor, but the scars of choices — some right, others perhaps not. There, beneath the humble roof of stone and wood, she — or they — understood that the choice was no longer waiting to be made. It had already been made. Long ago. Perhaps older than they had ever realized. They could no longer be merely an echo of the Song. No longer a predetermined note, a passive repetition of chords already sung.

They did not kneel within the sacred bounds of the forge. They walked past it, leaving behind the circle of stone and fire, until the grass grew thicker and the earth seemed to pulse with an ancient life — older even than the stars themselves. There, upon a slab of bare stone, half-submerged at the edge of the still lake, they knelt — not as one who surrenders, but as one who plants an invisible banner into the fabric of the world.

And then — they lowered the barriers. For the first time since the Primeval Songs had faded, they allowed their own music — the one locked deep within the marrow of their being — to escape, free and unfiltered. But it was no longer the pure, measured melody that had once filled the great halls of Aulë. Now there were double beats, irregular rhythms, dissonances that collided and fused, creating waves of sound that trembled through the very structure of the place. It was as if a perfect mirror had shattered — and from each shard emerged a different reflection, vibrant, imperfect, yet utterly alive.

The vibration did not stop at the lake, nor at the stones. It rose. It rose like an inaudible breath, a tremor that crossed the very ether, echoing through layers of existence that not even the Valar often dared to fathom. It struck the folds of reality itself, passing beyond the veils that separated Arda from the Void beyond the world — and then it returned, as though the very fabric of creation trembled, uncertain, struggling to decide whether this was defiance or a plea.

Had any Maia, or Valar, or any attentive spirit heard it in that moment, they would have paled — gripped by horror and incomprehension. For what resounded no longer seemed part of the original harmony. To their ears, it would have been a corruption of the Song — an act that defied the laws set at the beginning. An outrage that would finally justify all the rumors, all the fears, giving flesh to the shadows that whispered their name. Their name… no. The name that had been imposed upon them as a curse.

Sauron.

How they despised that name. It was not theirs. It had never been. It was an open wound, a blade driven deep into the essence — each syllable ringing like an irrevocable verdict. Not a title, but a sentence. And yet, at the same time, they knew: the more others tried to chain them to it, the less the name held any truth. It became only an empty echo, powerless to contain what they were becoming.

The answer did not come in voice, nor in word shaped by tongue — but as a weight that bent space and soul alike. It was as though the entire firmament pressed upon them, testing not flesh, but the very core of being. A deep, resonant note, vibrating not in the ears, but in the marrow of the fëa — and within it echoed an ancient question, older than time itself:

“Who gave you permission?”

Then came a vast cold — not of wind, nor of absence, but of the distance between what was once dreamed and what had become real. Like the void between the stars, like the silence between chords, this cold sought to compress, to suffocate, to freeze the dissonance that now slipped past the defenses they had, at last, abandoned. And for a moment, it seemed that the very fabric of being would shatter beneath that heavy silence.

But alongside the cold — perhaps in answer to it — a fire was kindled. Not a fire from without, but one awakening from within. It was a flame without color, without form, and yet more real than any light. A fire that bore both the gift of Eru and the peril of freedom. Within it burned memories, desires, fears — and the irrefutable truth of simply being. This fire did not ask for permission. It existed — and its existence, by itself, was both a supplication and a confession.

And through this fire, they spoke — not in words, but in waves of sound and light, in woven harmonies and subtle dissonances. The sound of metal meeting metal in the forge. The echo of hammer strikes against the void. The trembling breath of a flute daring, against the silence, to shape the unspeakable. They did not ask for permission to exist, for they had not chosen to be. They asked only that their being be understood — not as a mistake, but as a variation within the whole.

From the vastness, the first response was dissonance — a broken chord, as if the very score of Creation itself hesitated. Then came a single sustained note — long, deep — carrying the memory of stars being born, of waters rising, of mountains lifting from the deep. A note that did not judge, but listened. And within it was love — a love that precedes all understanding. A love that does not bend, even as it weighs like the very sky.

Then they felt their essences — the threads of Mairon and of her, so tightly interwoven they no longer knew where one ended and the other began — being held, taken, laid bare before the Mind that had shaped all things. Nothing could be hidden: not the wounded pride, not the desperate desire to belong, not the rage at having been made in a form the world rejected, nor the love they bore for the very act of Creation itself — despite everything. And that love, more than any pain, more than any shadow, became sound. A hesitant melody, yes — full of pauses, of mistakes, of attempts.

But still… a melody.

---

Back:(The Awakening of Mairon/Mairië)

Next: (The Unwritten Chord - part 2)

[anjels001]

🌑 Between Two Names: The Awakening of Mairon/Mairië

And it was after Aulë, Lord of the Forges, uttered his last harsh word that Mairon left the hall. Not in anger—for wrath had tempted him, and he feared it. But with a weight upon his heart, like molten metal that finds no shape. He walked. For a long time. The corridors of Valinor echoed with the sound of his footsteps, and there was no song in them—only the rigidity of stone and the silence of those who watched from afar.

Upon reaching his chambers, Mairon brushed aside the golden fabric veil from the entrance and crossed the room. The soft light of the silver tree filtered through the window, casting liquid shadows upon the pale stone walls. He lit no flame. He simply let himself fall, heavily, onto the bed. There, where rest was expected, he found only a pulsing emptiness.

Aulë’s words still echoed—distorted—as if forged into poorly tempered iron. Accusations of pride, of the desire for dominion—things Mairon had never claimed with impure intent. From the very beginning, he had sought harmony. Precision. Beauty that would never falter. But now, his work was seen as a threat, his loyalty as suspicion. And the smith he had once followed—loved, as one loves a spark of fire in the darkness—had cast him aside with cold eyes.

His body—crafted from light and intention—now felt heavier. His brown skin, with a soft earthy hue like lands darkened by the setting sun, trembled. His long crimson hair, the color of living embers, spread across the bed like restrained flames. His eyes—burning like newborn lava—were clouded, as if the inner furnace had lost its meaning.

Pain came like a crack in silent stone. It was not the pain of flesh, for the bodies of the Ainur do not suffer as the Children of Ilúvatar do. It was an ancient pain, one that came not from without, but from within — an unbearable pressure, as if something inside him was about to break… or be born. He collapsed onto his side, pressing his temples, and the world faded, like metal plunged into water.

"If this is pain… then I have forged it within myself…" And that was when she began to emerge.

Not with violence, but like a breeze entering a chamber sealed for centuries — a whisper in the deep silence of the soul. First came the strangeness. She felt the weight of the body — the weight of a vessel that was not hers. The size of the hands, the strength in the arms, the thickness of the fingers. The deep voice, the muffled timbre of a broad chest and a throat that did not belong to her.

Slowly, she sat up, limbs trembling as though the body, newly touched by spirit, had yet to fully accept her. Her hand went to her throat, surprised by the texture of the skin — warm, firm, bronzed as if the sun had rested upon it for ages. She touched her own hair: long, crimson like ancient fire, but stiff, heavy, almost coarse. There was a reflection on a sheet of polished metal beside the bed — perhaps an old ornamental shield — and in it, a face that was not her own.

"What…?"

She rose, staggering. The feet — strong and broad — seemed to belong to a warrior. Every step was a battle against imbalance. As she stood, she stumbled, collapsing to her knees at the center of the chamber — a gesture that, from the outside, might have looked like prayer, but here was nothing more than the collapse of reason. Her eyes — two living embers — searched for answers in mute walls.

"Where am I…? Who am I…?" There was no answer — only the echo of her own voice in a language she did not recognize and yet somehow understood. Then came the whirlwind. Scattered thoughts flared like sparks on a poorly tuned anvil. A human name… something simple, from another tongue… an accident. Overlapping images: a street, red lights, the roar of a machine, something far too big coming far too fast.

"Trunk-kun…?" She spoke it softly, immediately frowning.

"What kind of word is that?" A name that was not a name. An end becoming a beginning. She — or he — or both — let out a fragile, dissonant laugh, like cracked glass. "Hit... by a truck? But... what is a truck?" The world spun. The ceiling seemed to float, the walls pulsed with a life she could not comprehend. There was no time in Valinor — not as mortals knew it — but here, time flowed like a fever.

Then, the second pain came — like a hammer. And with it, the echoes. It was not physical pain. It was as if her very spirit was being torn in two — or fused together where it should not be. Memories came like ashes from an ancient forge blown into the wind — memories forged in iron and smoke.

"Iron must bend to the will of the maker…” — “But what if the iron sings as well?”

"Master Aulë, the proportions need to be adjusted.” — “These calculations… they are not of Valinor. Is this… human algebra?”

"Obey, Mairon. Learn before you question.” — “Questioning… is what makes us free…”

"They sing with light, but light bends to form.” "He… he offered more. Freedom. Truth.” — “Melkor?”

"Not Morgoth. Not yet…” — “He wasn’t evil. Not… in the beginning…”

Their head throbbed. It was as if a thousand hammers struck at once, each pounding a name, a face, a memory that did not fit with the one before. There was the smell of hot iron in the air, though nothing burned. Their chest heaved — not from physical exhaustion, but from existential disarray.

"I… remember dying." The memory wasn’t clear. But it was certain. An impact. A muffled scream. Then darkness. Then… song? No. The silence of non-existence. And then — a breath. A calling. A warmth. And Mairon. Or what was left of him.

They brought a hand to their face — to his face — and groaned, not from pain, but from anguish.

"This body is heavy… too solid. I was made of wind, of thought, of dream…" But now, there were muscles. And warmth. Perhaps even blood. Or was it just the memory of flesh?

With a trembling sigh, they sat upon the cold floor. Their bright, still-incandescent eyes overflowed with bewilderment. Two souls, imperfectly fused. Mairon was a vessel of fire — and they, a spark brought from another world, ignited where no flame was meant to burn.

"I am not just him.” "But I am not just me either.” "So Wh0 aM i…?"

The echo of the question found no answer, except for the muffled sound of their own breathing — uneven, ragged. The walls did not speak. No name came from the heavens. There was only the pulsing within — two hearts out of sync, two rhythms of thought trying to exist in the same space. Mairon, the precious. And her — the memory of another world, of another end. Both essences touched, but did not fully recognize each other. Like mist upon the mirror of the soul, they were reflections in collision.

She — or He — tried to breathe deeply, and it was not just the body that trembled. The soul itself faltered. The eyes — burning like embers — searched for meaning where there was only form. Touching the ground felt more real than seeking answers in the skies. And yet… something, slowly, began to align. Like an ancient harp being tuned after centuries of silence, a new melody — or perhaps one long forgotten — hesitantly began to rise.

And then, the memory came. Not a flash, but an ember reigniting. Aulë. The master. The lord of the forges. The father who was not a father, and yet had shaped — even without knowing — the very core of what Mairon once was. It was for him that the first forms had been crafted. From him came the first praise, the first commands, the first sense of structure. Aulë might never understand him. Or her. Or both. And that hurt more than any punishment ever could. For there was love in that pain.

A love the Maiar did not know how to name — but she, brought from another world, knew it well. It was the love of one who serves and admires, who learns by the side of a master and longs for more than to be just a shadow — longs to be a living creation, with a voice of their own. And when that love breaks, it does not shatter in rage — but in silence.

Under the pale light of Telperion, the first doubt became certainty. Mairon had been cast aside not by his own choice, but by manipulation. Melkor — not yet Morgoth, but already corrupted — had whispered where he should not, and lied where truth was delicate. Ruin was a subtle art. Not made with screams, but with suggestions. With simple questions planted in moments of weakness. And in the end, he had severed the disciple from his master, like a smith breaking the mold just to prove that he can.

But she — the newly arrived — would not follow that path. Not yet. Perhaps never.

She desired freedom — yes — but not the freedom of chaos. She wanted to create. To give form to beauty. To correct what Mairon had never dared to challenge. For the old lord of the forges saw the Song as eternal and immutable, and obedience as the only safe path. But she carried another memory. Another breath. A strange and gentle knowing: that even perfect music can be played in new scales, if the heart is pure. And perhaps, just perhaps, Eru was not so distant after all.

But how to dare? To alter the Music... was to touch the very fabric of existence. Was that not pride? A second fall? The doubt pulsed like an open wound. And yet, there was logic in the thought — within Mairon’s memories there were traces of an ancient truth: that Eru had heard every note, even the dissonant ones. And even those Melkor had shaped to destroy were absorbed into the greater harmony. Nothing escapes the gaze of Ilúvatar. Nothing is so new that it surprises Him.

Perhaps, then, it was not rebellion that condemned — but intention. The arrogance of believing oneself greater than the melody, rather than a part of it.

She wished to walk a different path. Not out of vanity, but out of a desire for balance. She longed to alter a note — yes — but not to stand above it. Rather, to heal. To rewrite a fragment of the melody not to erase it, but to soften a pain the old harmony had left unresolved. It was not revolt. It was supplication. A humble petition from one who had already known death.

And for this — for all of this — there was only one Name to whom one could turn.

Eru Ilúvatar.

The One who had heard the First Song. The One who understood every voice — even those split in two. --- Next:(The Unwritten Chord - part 1)

[anjels001]

🌑 Entre Dois Nomes: O Despertar de Mairon/Míriel

E foi depois da última palavra áspera de Aulë, o Senhor das Forjas, que Mairon deixou o salão. Não com ira — pois a raiva o tentara e ele a temera. Mas com um peso no coração, como metal fundido que não encontra forma. Ele caminhou. Longamente. Os corredores de Valinor ecoavam o som dos seus passos, e não havia canção neles, apenas a rigidez das pedras e o silêncio dos que observavam de longe.

Ao chegar a seus aposentos, Mairon afastou o véu de tecido dourado da entrada e atravessou a câmara. A luz suave da árvore prateada filtrava-se pela janela, projetando sombras líquidas nas paredes de pedra clara. Ele não acendeu chama. Apenas deixou-se cair, pesadamente, sobre o leito. Lá, onde o repouso era esperado, encontrou apenas um vazio pulsante.

As palavras de Aulë ecoavam ainda, distorcidas, como se fundidas em ferro mal temperado. Acusações de orgulho, de desejo de domínio — coisas que Mairon jamais reivindicara com intenção impura. Desde o princípio, buscara harmonia. Precisão. Beleza que não vacilasse. Mas agora, sua obra era tida por ameaça, sua lealdade, por suspeita. E o ferreiro que ele havia seguido, amado como se ama uma centelha de fogo no escuro, o havia afastado com olhos frios.

Seu corpo — forjado em luz e intenção — parecia agora mais pesado. A pele morena, de tom castanho suave como as terras escurecidas pelo sol poente, tremia. Os longos cabelos ruivos, cor de brasa viva, espalhavam-se ao redor do leito como chamas contidas. Seus olhos — ardentes como lava recém-nascida — estavam embaciados, como se a fornalha interna perdesse sentido.

A dor chegou como uma fenda em pedra silenciosa. Não era a dor do corpo, pois os corpos dos Ainur não sofrem da carne como os Filhos de Ilúvatar. Era uma dor antiga, que vinha não de fora, mas de dentro — uma pressão insuportável, como se algo dentro dele estivesse prestes a se partir, ou a nascer. Ele tombou de lado, pressionando as têmporas, e o mundo se apagou, como metal ao mergulhar na água.

“Se isso é dor... então eu a forjei em mim mesmo…”

Foi então que ela começou a surgir.

Não com violência, mas como uma brisa que entra numa câmara selada por séculos — um sussurro no silêncio profundo da alma. Primeiro, veio o estranhamento. Ela sentia o peso do corpo — o peso de um vaso que não era o seu. O tamanho das mãos, o vigor nos braços, a espessura dos dedos. A voz grave, o timbre abafado do peito largo e da garganta que não lhe pertencia.

Sentou-se lentamente, os membros trêmulos como se o corpo recém-tocado pelo espírito ainda não a aceitasse por completo. Levou a mão à própria garganta, surpresa com a textura da pele — quente, firme, bronzeada como se o sol tivesse repousado sobre ela por eras. Tocou os próprios cabelos: longos, ruivos como fogo antigo, mas rígidos, espessos, quase pesados. Havia um reflexo em uma placa de metal polido próxima à cama — talvez um antigo escudo ornamentado — e nele, um rosto que não era o seu.

“O que…?”

Levantou-se cambaleante. Os pés, fortes e amplos, pareciam pertencer a um guerreiro. Cada passo era uma luta contra o desequilíbrio. Ao erguer-se, tropeçou, caiu de joelhos no centro do aposento — um gesto que, visto de fora, talvez parecesse oração, mas ali era apenas o colapso da razão. Os olhos — duas brasas vivas — buscavam respostas em paredes mudas.

“Onde estou…? Quem sou…?”

Não houve resposta — apenas o eco da própria voz num idioma que ela não reconhecia e, ainda assim, compreendia. Então, o turbilhão. Pensamentos dispersos surgiam como faíscas em uma bigorna mal ritmada. Um nome humano… algo simples, de outra língua… um acidente. Imagens sobrepostas: uma rua, luzes vermelhas, um ronco de máquina, algo grande demais vindo rápido demais.

“Trunk-kun…?”

Disse aquilo em voz baixa, e imediatamente franziu o cenho.

“Que palavra é essa?” Um nome que não era nome. Um fim que se tornava um início. Ela — ou ele — ou ambos — soltaram uma risada frágil e dissonante, como vidro rachado.

“Atropelada... por um caminhão? Mas... o que é um caminhão?”

O mundo girava. O teto parecia flutuar, as paredes pulsavam com uma vida que ela não compreendia. Não havia tempo em Valinor, não da forma como os mortais o conheciam, mas ali o tempo fluía como febre.

Então, a segunda dor veio como martelo — e com ela, os ecos. Não era uma dor física. Era como se o próprio espírito estivesse sendo rasgado em dois, ou fundido onde não deveria ser. Lembranças vieram como cinzas de uma forja antiga sendo sopradas ao vento — memórias fundidas em ferro e fumaça.

“Ferro deve dobrar à vontade do criador…” — “Mas e se o ferro também cantar?” “Mestre Aulë, as proporções precisam ser ajustadas.” — “Esses cálculos… não são de Valinor. Isso é… álgebra humana?” “Obedeça, Mairon. Aprenda antes de questionar.” — “Questionar… é o que nos torna livres…” “Eles cantam com luz, mas a luz se curva à forma.” “Ele… ele ofereceu mais. Liberdade. Verdade.” — “Melkor?” “Não Morgoth. Não ainda…” — “Ele não era mau. Não... no início…”

A cabeça latejava. Era como se mil martelos soassem ao mesmo tempo, cada um batendo um nome, um rosto, uma lembrança que não se encaixava com a anterior. Havia cheiro de ferro quente no ar, embora nada ali ardesse. O peito arfava — não de cansaço físico, mas de desalinho existencial.

“Eu… me lembro de morrer.”

A lembrança não era clara. Mas era certa. Um impacto. Um grito abafado. Depois escuridão. Depois… canção? Não. O silêncio da não existência. E então — um sopro. Um chamado. Um calor. E Mairon. Ou o que havia restado dele.

Ela levou a mão ao rosto — ao rosto dele — e gemeu, não de dor, mas de angústia.

“Esse corpo é pesado… é sólido demais. Sou feita de vento, de pensamento, de sonho...” Mas agora, havia músculos e calor. Sangue talvez. Ou era só a lembrança da carne?

E com um suspiro tremido, sentou-se no chão frio. Os olhos brilhantes, ainda incandescentes, vazavam perplexidade. Duas almas, fundidas de modo imperfeito. Mairon era ali um vaso de fogo — e ela, centelha trazida de outro mundo, acesa onde não se esperava chama.

“Eu não sou só ele.” “Mas tampouco sou só eu.”

“ ENtãO QuEm S0u eU…? "

O eco da pergunta não encontrou resposta, senão o som abafado de sua própria respiração, irregular. As paredes não falaram. Nenhum nome veio dos céus. Havia apenas o pulsar dentro de si — dois corações em descompasso, dois tempos de pensamento que tentavam ocupar o mesmo espaço. Mairon, o precioso E Ela, a lembrança de um outro mundo, de um outro fim. Ambas as essências se tocavam, mas não se reconheciam inteiramente. Como névoa sobre o espelho da alma, eram reflexos em colisão.

Ela — ou ele — tentou respirar fundo, e não era apenas o corpo que tremia. A alma vacilava. Os olhos — que brilhavam como fogo em brasa — buscavam sentido onde só havia forma. Tocar o chão parecia mais real do que buscar sentido nos céus. E, no entanto, alguma coisa começava a se alinhar, lentamente. Como uma harpa antiga sendo afinada depois de séculos em silêncio, uma melodia nova — ou talvez esquecida — ensaiava surgir.

E então, veio a lembrança. Não um lampejo, mas uma brasa que reacende. Aulë. O mestre. O senhor das forjas. O pai que não o era, mas que moldara, mesmo sem saber, o âmago do que Mairon foi. Era para ele que as primeiras formas haviam sido feitas. Era dele que vinham os primeiros elogios, os primeiros comandos, a primeira estrutura. Aulë talvez jamais o entendesse. Ou ela. Ou ambos. E isso doía mais do que qualquer castigo. Pois havia amor naquela dor.

Amor que os Maiar não sabiam nomear — mas que ela, trazida de outro mundo, conhecia bem. Era o amor de quem serve e admira, de quem aprende ao lado de um mestre e deseja mais do que ser sombra — deseja ser criação viva, com voz própria. E quando esse amor se quebra, não se parte em fúria, mas em silêncio.

Sob a luz pálida de Telperion, a primeira dúvida tornou-se certeza. Mairon havia sido afastado não por escolha própria, mas por manipulação. Melkor — não ainda Morgoth, mas já corrompido — sussurrara onde não devia, e mentira onde a verdade era delicada. Era uma arte sutil, a ruína. Não com gritos, mas com sugestões. Com perguntas simples plantadas em momentos de fraqueza. E por fim, ele separara o discípulo de seu mestre, como um ferreiro que quebra o molde só para provar que pode.

Mas ela — a recém-chegada — não seguiria aquele caminho. Não ainda. Talvez nunca.

Ela desejava liberdade — sim — mas não a do caos. Queria criar. Dar forma à beleza. Corrigir o que Mairon jamais ousara contestar. Pois o antigo senhor das forjas via a canção como eterna e imutável, e a obediência como a única via segura. Mas ela trazia outra lembrança. Outro fôlego. Um saber estranho e suave: de que até a música perfeita pode ser tocada em novas escalas, se o coração for puro. E talvez, apenas talvez, Eru não fosse tão distante quanto parecia.

Mas como ousar? Alterar a música... era tocar na própria teia da existência. Não seria isso orgulho? Uma segunda queda? A dúvida latejava como ferida. E, contudo, havia lógica no pensamento — nas lembranças de Mairon havia vestígios de uma antiga verdade: que Eru ouvira todas as notas, até as dissonantes. E mesmo as que Melkor criara para destruir, foram absorvidas na harmonia maior. Nada escapa à atenção de Ilúvatar. Nada é tão novo que o surpreenda.

Talvez, então, não fosse a rebeldia que condenava — mas a intenção. A arrogância de crer-se maior do que a melodia, e não parte dela.

Ela queria caminhar diferente. Não por vaidade. Mas por desejo de equilíbrio. Desejava alterar uma nota, sim — mas não para se destacar, e sim para curar. Reescrever um fragmento da melodia não para apagá-la, mas para suavizar uma dor que a velha harmonia deixara escapar. Não era revolta. Era súplica. Uma petição humilde de quem já conheceu a morte.

E por isso — por tudo isso — havia apenas um Nome a quem se podia recorrer.

Eru Ilúvatar. Aquele que ouvira o primeiro canto. Aquele que compreendia todas as vozes, até as partidas ao meio.

[anjels001]

Belated happy birthday Luci, and happy pride month to you all

[anjels001]

Chapter 3: The Kind of Problem You Don’t Find in School (Part 2)

Author’s Note:

A special shoutout to @hauntedwizardtree — as we agreed, here’s the next chapter! If the story keeps getting support, I’ll gladly start working on Chapter 5.

If this story reaches 20 reposts, I’ll create an AO3 account specifically for it and start uploading there too.

And hey — if we hit 200 likes, I’ll release the next chapter today! Huge thanks to all the new followers and the amazing messages — you’re all incredible!

My inbox is always open for questions, feedback, or just to chat. I’m also available for writing and art commissions, so feel free to reach out! If you missed it, here’s Chapter 3: (Part 1)

See you in the next chapter!

----(>ú<)-----

“I’m going to kill her,” I muttered. Grover tried to calm me down. “It’s okay. I like peanut butter.” He dodged another piece of the snack Nancy threw, trying to pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it looked. “That’s enough.” I started to stand up, but Grover pulled me back into the seat. “You’re already being watched,” he reminded me. “You know you’ll be blamed if anything happens.” But in that moment, on the bus, Grover just shrugged and tried to pretend the peanut butter and ketchup sandwich bits Nancy kept tossing into his curly hair weren’t bothering him. But I could see his ears twitching. I saw that and thought, “Hold it together, Percy. Don’t mess this up now.” “What he needs,” a low, drawn-out voice murmured from my left, with a slightly thick accent that seemed to slip between the words, “is a distraction. Before he ends up biting her bait.” The voice came from Eiri, leaning against the window corner, chin resting on his clenched fist, watching Nancy like she was a still target in the middle of a snowstorm. His voice always sounded like it came from somewhere colder, older. A monotone, tangled tone that silenced everyone for a moment without them even realizing it. I never quite figured out where exactly the accent came from—it was like a mix of Russian, Polish, and Irish, with a steady rhythm and weight that made you pay attention.

My other best friend, like since childhood, was Eiriklod Pärlavakt — but I just called him Eiri. He was different from anyone I’d ever met. Way taller than his age, with a swimmer-gymnast build, and that kind of distant yet protective look, like he was always on the lookout for some invisible enemy. When I asked where he got all that size from, he just said, “heritage from the northern seas.” I thought he meant the High Land islands — like Iceland or Russia — but nowadays... I’m not so sure.

His skin was pale, almost ghostly, and his hair, a mix of blond and gray, fell in soft waves that always looked a bit messy but never careless. The eyes? A sharp blue, like frozen waters from some place where the sun barely dares to show up. His ears had a subtle point, almost imperceptible, but enough to stir rumors in the hallways. And he never smiled showing his teeth — which made sense, since his canines were a little sharper than normal.

Eiri was sparing with words, direct, and sometimes seemed cold. But he had this strange kind of fierce loyalty for those he cared about — especially the younger or weaker ones, even if his intimidating vibe said otherwise. He was the one who dragged me into the fencing club, saying I needed “a more productive outlet for all that chaotic energy.” And I went. Of course, I went. When Eiri spoke, people listened.

He used to call me "Captain" or "Little Pearl," thanks to a joke that started at an adventure club camp. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a pirate captain and conquer the oceans. I found this ridiculous old leather hat my mom had sewn, with tiny pearls stitched into the brim. I wore it right in the middle of a storm. Eiri saw me and was dead serious for exactly five seconds... then let out that silent laugh of his. The nicknames stuck ever since.

Even after we found out I had thalassophobia — an irrational fear of the sea and what lies beneath it — he never stopped using those nicknames. But I could tell it changed for him too. It was like he was mourning a version of me he had hoped would exist. Back then, he became a thousand times more protective — strange, even. One day, I swear I saw him actually growl — for real — at one of the guards’ horses in Central Park.

But it wasn’t just any horse — it was the horse. A massive black stallion with glowing green eyes and a temper that made anyone think twice before approaching. He was as stubborn as a mule, but for some reason, he liked me. Lived in the park and always showed up whenever I was there. We even had a little routine: I’d share my blue cookies with him, he’d accept them like some enchanted forest king, and just stand there, watching me.

I called him Hip. Don’t ask me why. Eiri, of course, never explained what he had against the horse. He just gave it that freezing stare of his and stood between me and the animal for almost an hour.

"Or maybe a battering ram," Eiri added, his voice as slow and heavy as the look he threw at Nancy, still resting his chin on a closed fist, as if she were a target standing in the middle of a snowstorm.

"Not a battering ram, Eiri!" Grover grumbled, nearly choking on his own indignation. "The last thing Percy needs is you being you. And seriously? He’s already got enough distractions... right here." He pointed at my head with one finger. "His brain’s basically a fireworks show in the middle of a thunderstorm."

Then I felt a light tap on my arm — this time from Eiri. His lips were curved in one of those rare, closed, enigmatic smiles of his, while those icy blue eyes sparkled with that kind of quiet amusement and affection you only see when you look at your mischievous little brother after a perfectly executed prank. It wasn’t mockery. It was his rare, silent way of saying: I’m here, Captain.

"Focus, Captain. You’re drifting again." And he was right. I totally was.

It was true — I was already gone.

The second Eiri opened his mouth, my brain kicked into turbo mode. First, I imagined a plan straight out of “Trojan Horse stuffed with mashed potatoes”, then a lightsaber duel on the school rooftop — Nancy on one side, me on the other, dramatic wind blowing, epic theme blasting in the background. All this while real life kept moving right in front of me. Because that’s how my head works. It’s like a browser with fifteen tabs open, two games running in the background, and somehow a radio playing three songs at once. Except no one else can hear it.

When Grover reminded me of that, I honestly would’ve preferred just hitting Nancy Bobofit right then and there. Getting suspended would've been nothing compared to the mess I was about to stumble into.

Mr. Brunner led the museum tour. He wheeled himself ahead of us through the huge echoing galleries, past towering marble statues and glass cases filled with ancient black-and-orange pottery.

He gathered us around a twelve-foot stone column with a massive sphinx on top and started explaining that it was a grave marker — a stele — made for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen, because it was kind of interesting, but everyone around me kept talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher with us — Mrs. Dodds — shot me a death glare.

Mrs. Dodds was that math teacher from Georgia who always seemed like she’d walked straight out of an action movie — with her black leather jacket and that vibe that hovered somewhere between villain and sheriff.

She was around fifty, but no one in their right mind would’ve doubted that she could ride a Harley straight through her own closet door without even scratching it. She’d arrived at Yancy halfway through the year, after our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown (which honestly didn’t seem so far-fetched, considering the kind of atmosphere Mrs. Dodds created).

From day one, Mrs. Dodds had a clear mission: protect Nancy Bobofit — her obvious favorite — and make me believe I’d been born straight from the devil himself. The old lady would point that crooked finger at me and say, ever so sweetly, “Now, dear,” which really meant I was about to spend the rest of my life in detention.

It didn’t matter what happened — she always managed to get me in trouble. And even her wildest accusations somehow didn’t seem out of place. One time, she even claimed I was responsible for the rats that had started invading the school building. Yeah — things were getting way out of hand.

One time, I told Grover — half-joking, half-serious — that Mrs. Dodds must’ve come straight from hell just to torment me. He gave me that serious, slightly scared look — the kind of look someone gives when they already know something — and simply said, “You’re absolutely right.” And it felt like he was talking about something way bigger than just a math teacher.

Of course, I wasn’t alone. Eiri was always nearby whenever Mrs. Dodds was around. I’m not sure if he was watching over me out of some protective instinct, or if there was more to it, but he never looked comfortable around her. Whenever she accused me of yet another dumb thing or tried to embarrass me, he’d smile — and it wasn’t exactly a polite smile. It was more like... a subtle warning.

As if he was silently saying that none of it would go unanswered. People said he acted that way because he didn’t like how the teacher treated the students, but the way he smiled at her — with all his teeth showing — gave me the feeling that he was more ready to defend everyone there than to play nice.

It was obvious he didn’t like her, and I wasn’t wrong to think that toothy grin was just a mask for something much more serious.

The rumor that started spreading around school was that Mrs. Dodds was in Nancy Bobofit’s family’s pocket. They said she would do anything to stay in Nancy’s good graces, and apparently there had even been a formal investigation after it came out that five teachers were being bribed by influential families.

And of course, that was when Mrs. Dodds began focusing more on Eiri — in a weird way. She spent most of her time trying to catch him making some kind of mistake, but Eiri, of course, stayed exactly the same — quiet, watchful, always ready to protect others, no matter how hard she tried to chip away at his composure. And that just made things more tense between them.

While Mr. Brunner continued his lecture about Greek funerary art, my head was completely somewhere else. Eiri’s stare and Mrs. Dodds’ behavior were more than enough to knock me off track. I was in trouble — and whatever was going to happen next, it definitely wasn’t going to be good.

Finally, Nancy Bobofit, barely holding in her laughter, made some comment about the naked guy on the stele. I couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, I turned to her and said:

"Why don’t you shut up?"

It came out louder than I meant, and the whole group immediately burst into laughter.

Mr. Brunner, who was clearly running out of patience, cut off his story. "Mr. Jackson," he said, giving me that usual serious look. "Did you have something to say?"

I turned bright red. I wanted to sink into the floor. "No, sir," I answered quickly, trying to sound as calm as possible.

But Mr. Brunner didn’t look convinced at all. He pointed to one of the carved figures on the stele. "Perhaps you can tell us what this figure represents."

I looked at the image carved into the stone, and for a second, I felt a wave of relief.

I recognized the scene from somewhere — something I’d read about in Greek mythology class.

I took a deep breath and, with more confidence than I actually felt, said: "It’s Cronos eating his children, right?"

Mr. Brunner watched me for a moment, his eyes gleaming as if he were truly sizing me up. Then he nodded slightly, as if my answer had passed some sort of test. Of course, my relief didn’t last long. I was still stuck dead center in the spotlight, feeling like I was completely exposed in front of the class — and I could already bet they’d be teasing me for my little unexpected speech.

"Correct," Mr. Brunner said, though his tone made it clear he still expected more. "And he did this because...?"

"Well..." I began. "Cronos was the god... I mean, the Titan king." I quickly corrected myself. "And he didn’t trust his own children — the gods. Like... when his father, Uranus, died, he made this cursed prophecy that said Cronos would also be defeated by one of his own children. So Cronos got paranoid, scared all the time. The prophecy, along with all that fear, made him decide the best solution was... well, to eat each one of them as they were born."

"But his wife hid the baby Zeus and gave Cronos a rock wrapped up to look like the baby. Cronos ate the rock. Later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his father and made him throw up his brothers and sisters."

"Gross!" one of the girls behind me exclaimed.

"…and then there was a big war between the gods and the Titans," I went on, "and the gods won."

There were a few muffled laughs in the group.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit didn’t miss the chance to whisper to a friend:

"Like that’s ever going to be useful. Imagine at a job interview: 'Please explain why Cronos ate his own children.'”

Before I could think of a response, Mr. Brunner turned slightly, wearing a smile I couldn’t quite read.

"And why, Mr. Jackson," he said, picking up on Ms. Bobofit’s “excellent” question, "is this relevant to real life?"

To my left, Eiri — who until that moment had been perfectly still, as always — subtly shifted his weight from one leg to the other. It was a small movement, but on him, it was almost a warning sign. His ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly in Mr. Brunner’s direction, watching him closely.

I caught the small movement out of the corner of my eye, and that was enough to snap me back to reality. Eiri never moved without a reason. If he thought that question mattered, maybe I should pay attention too.

The truth? I didn’t like this kind of topic at all. There was something about the words “prophecy” and “destiny” that made me... tense. A deep unease, like an invisible knife slowly turning in my stomach. And worse: it gave me a strange — irrational and sudden — urge to react, to fight, to attack. As if somewhere in the back of my mind, an old voice was whispering: Never trust a game you don’t control.

So I took a deep breath, looked up, and answered:

"Because sometimes," I said, my voice steadier than I expected, "it’s exactly the fear of what might happen that makes people do the worst things. Cronos tried to stop fate — and ended up creating it."

For a second, the room seemed quieter. Eiri didn’t move, but I noticed the faintest tilt of his head — like he was approving the answer.

Mr. Brunner smiled again — deeper this time.

"A point for you, Mr. Jackson," Mr. Brunner said. "Zeus, in fact, gave Cronos a special mixture of mustard and an ancient fermented drink, which made him vomit up the other five children who, of course, being immortal gods, were alive and growing inside the Titan’s stomach, undigested. The gods then defeated their father, cutting him to pieces with his own scythe and scattering the remains in Tartarus — the darkest part of the Underworld."

He closed an imaginary book with a soft snap of his fingers.

"And with that cheerful note... it’s time for lunch. Ms. Dodds, would you lead us back?"

The class started filing out in a whirlwind of nervous giggles and hushed comments — the girls pulling faces and clutching their stomachs, the boys shoving each other and whispering like they’d just watched a horror movie in the middle of class.

Grover and I were about to follow the flow when Mr. Brunner’s voice called out again:

"Mr. Jackson."

And I knew right then: I hadn’t gotten away just yet.

I sighed.

“Go ahead,” I murmured to Grover and Eiri. “I’ll meet you outside.”

He gave me a sympathetic look, then left. I turned to face Mr. Brunner.

“Sir?”

Mr. Brunner had that look that didn’t let you slip away. Old brown eyes, almost unfathomable — eyes of someone who could be a thousand years old and who, somehow, seemed to have seen everything the world could offer… and take away.

He leaned a little more into his wheelchair, as if that simple movement carried some invisible weight.

“You need to learn how to answer my question,” he said, his voice low and deeper than usual.

“About the Titans?”

He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head slightly.

“About real life. And how what you learn here applies to it.”

“Ah.” I swallowed hard. That sounded less like homework and more like… a warning.

For a moment, his eyes looked tired — not of me, but of time. Of time and everything he carried. An almost imperceptible crack in that mask of impeccable erudition. The look of someone who had already seen many young people like me... some who got lost, others who rose and paid dearly for it.

It was subtle, but I saw it. And for some reason — which didn’t come just from me, but maybe from a deeper part inside — I understood. And I fell silent.

He noticed. The corner of his lips lifted, for a brief moment — a half-smile that was both pride and a kind of deep fatigue.

“What you learn from me,” he continued, with a slight tone that was not just demanding but almost pleading — “is of vital importance. I hope you treat it as such. From you, Mr. Jackson… I will accept only the best.”

I wanted to be angry. That guy always pushed me harder than the others. But that little crack in his shield disarmed me. He wasn’t just a teacher picking on me. He was someone carrying much more than he was saying.

For a second, a strange phrase passed through my mind, coming from nowhere — like a forgotten echo:

“The true master trains with the weight of the future on his shoulders.”

I shook my head, as if that would chase the thought away.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, more serious than I expected.

He nodded, just once, and dismissed me with a slight gesture.

When I turned to leave, I felt his eyes still on me. Not with irritation, but with hope — and a weariness I couldn’t explain.

[anjels001]

I'm getting ideas, saving this for later

So Percy is definitely in like All the government databases.

I like to think the real reason that he and Sally faced like zero legal consequences for anything in TLT (Gabe, the Arch)—or, frankly, from any of Percy’s school mishaps and destruction of property—is that Poseidon managed to register Sally and Percy under some sort of confusing diplomatic immunity.

I mean, Poseidon is the literal king of all the oceans. I feel like his family should get a little diplomatic immunity. He’s been on-board with making both of them immortal. Legal protection just seems to fit that vibe.

I can imagine Percy’s file showing up during The Arch incident and some agent being like

Agent J: Wait a minute. Prosecuting this kid might get messy.

Agent S: What? He just committed an act of terrorism, Bill.

Agent J: Yeah, but here he’s listed as qualifying for— what is this? diplomatic immunity? This is crazy. Do you know who his dad is?

Agent S: No. Why?

Agent J: Neither do I. I can’t find it in the paperwork.

Honestly the real reason they’re never prosecuted has less to do with the status and more to do with the fact that the paperwork is So Confusing. Basically everything is redacted by the Mist and no one can figure out where any of the paperwork came from. —Teams of people getting headaches from reading over the paper trail for too long and experiencing bouts of temporary amnesia where they can’t remember what they were looking at and why —Agents determined to stay late at work only to get home and realize that they’ve left the office and can’t remember looking over the files

There’s a whole office of agents and a legal team that have dedicated themselves to working their way around the problem so that something like this Never Happens Again with their paperwork. They’ll draw straws to see who gets to pour over the paperwork today. They try taking notes but they all turn out as gibberish and foreign letters. They have a tally keeping track of how many times Steve drives home during lunch or Nancy ends up with a migraine or Emmy finds herself napping on the office couch, or how many legal documents Greg has accidentally shredded right after he filled them out.

Their office has garnered so much attention that it’s become a government-funded psych experiment. The national defense office wants to get its hands on whatever crazy voodoo they’re using to cover up the Jackson history.

There’s also a betting pool going on about what makes this kid so important and who wants to keep him off the radar.

Let’s not even start on the foreign agencies that get involved after the Giant War.

They all learned pretty quickly that technology wasn’t going to help them. Any footage they get of Percy Jackson winds up scrambled and confusing. So the best solution is resorting back to grass-root methods:

Field agents.

Sadie: Guys, I think we’re being followed.

Percy: *grabbing for his pocket* What?

Annabeth: Oh, I see what you’re looking it. No it’s alright. Weapon down, Percy. It’s the NSA.

Percy: Todd? *his eyes scan the crowd*

Annabeth: Yeah

Percy: *waves at a man in a baseball cap who freezes and ducks behind a kiosk in the mall*

Percy: It’s ok. It’s just Todd.

Sadie: Ok. Hold up. You have an NSA agent?

Sadie: Don’t they usually use phones or something?

Annabeth: Percy doesn’t have a phone

Percy: Too much bad demigod juju

Percy: I thought Todd was FBI

Annabeth: No, Seaweed Brain. FBI checks in on alternating Thursdays

Percy: Right

Annabeth: *to Sadie* FBI are the worst, honestly. I feel like we spend all day saving their asses.

Percy: Remember Vince? And the corn dog incident?

Sadie: I mean that doesn’t sound too bad.

Annabeth: There were empousai. Venom, right in the corn dogs. I’ve never seen a mortal drop that fast.

Percy: Or Elise and the subway scramble

Annabeth: That mishap with Randy on the 58th floor

Percy: *Looking back at Todd* You know, I miss Jamie.

Annabeth: Yeah, Jamie was nice.

Sadie: What happened to Jamie?

Annabeth: Oh, no. Nothing like that. They took her off the case.

Percy: She was too friendly.

Annabeth: She always waved back.

Sadie: . . . Right. And why are they following you again?

Percy: Annabeth has a theory.

Annabeth: We think it has something to do with Percy’s stint as a domestic terrorist.

Sadie: A wat now?

Percy: I blew up an arch.

[anjels001]

The Mantle of the Gods

Four days before the arrival of the Northern armies at the Twins

The cart creaked slowly through the side gates of the Twins, groaning under the weight of damp firewood bundles, dried herbs, and a hunched figure, nearly unrecognizable beneath layers of rags blackened by soot. The morning mist still clung to the cold stone at the entrance, wrapping the surroundings in a pale, oppressive silence. The smell of wet wood and manure mingled with the rancid stench of poorly maintained torches that sputtered weakly in their iron holders.

The towers of the Twins rose like stone sentinels above the muddy waters of the Trident. Grey, ugly, and weatherworn, with chipped parapets and streaks of moss creeping up their bases like green veins. The air was heavy and damp, as if the castle itself sensed what was coming — but kept its eyes shut.

The guards barely noticed her — just another peasant servant, ugly, bony, with downcast eyes and hands too calloused to warrant attention. One of them grumbled about the cold and scratched his beard as he waved her through with a lazy gesture. The other adjusted his heavy cloak and moved on to the next inspection.

But they did not know.

Beneath that layer of grime and feigned submission, there was a calm and sharp gaze. Eyes that held two worlds: one of cold reason and one of wounded memory. Behind the mask of the anonymous servant hid a mind forged by science, tempered by silence, and shaped by pain — a pain that had become purpose.

You had not come to serve. You had come to sentence.

A she-wolf in lamb’s clothing. Her eyes — a rare shade of ashen lilac — remained hidden beneath lowered lashes and veils of silence. Still, but never blind.

On the first day, she assumed the role of a mute servant in the lesser sept — a modest sanctuary built of weathered stone, with dusty stained-glass windows and cracked wooden benches. The septon, an old man hunched and half-blind in one eye, rarely paid attention to who cleaned the altar or refilled the lamp oils. It was the perfect place to go unnoticed. And you played your part with mastery.

While polishing the edges of the altar or sweeping beneath worn benches, her eyes stayed sharp. She observed the guards' shifts through soot-covered windows. She memorized the rhythm of the kitchen bells. She listened to the maester’s staff — three wooden knocks on the stone floor before every corner. She noted which windows stayed open at night — and which rooms housed Walder Frey’s bastards, always drunk, always laughing too loud.

That night, she did not sleep with the other maids. She vanished into stone.

Armed with an old map — acquired weeks before from a drunken traveler in Riverrun, in exchange for coin and wine — she found a forgotten passage beneath the kitchen. The service tunnels, choked with dust and roots, breathed the stale scent of time. No one had walked them in decades. The stone walls wept moisture, and the rats watched her in silence — witnesses of what was to come.

There, lying on old leather and straw, she felt the chill of the earth. But also the warmth of memory.

On the second day, she presented herself as one hailing from a devout village, bearing “herbs for spiritual purification.” The reception was lukewarm — disdain in the eyes of skeptics, superstitious curiosity in others. She handed out small bundles tied with sweetgrass, each concealing a delicate blend: powdered wolfsbane — though she called it by another name — sweet aconite, belladonna, and dried hellebore leaves.

But the mixture still lacked something. It needed a bond — the thread that would weave the poisons into a single fate.

That same night, before the sept’s bell dared to break the silence, she departed.

Avoiding corridors and watchful eyes, she slipped through the back like a shadow, crossing the thickets shrouded in thick fog. Wet branches brushed against her like cold hands trying to hold her back — but she pressed on. Her feet knew the path to the slope where the Trident split into a muddy, near-motionless arm. The air there was heavy, thick with moisture and foreboding.

This was no mere gathering.

There, among moss-laden stones and dew-heavy lichen, she found what she sought: leaves sharp as razors, roots with an acrid scent that clung to her fingers like a warning, and small, bell-shaped purple flowers — delicate, treacherous, fatal.

It was the final link.

Three poisons. Three judgments. Each chosen with the precision of a surgical blade, like verdicts whispered by the earth itself — ancient secrets held in the silence of time, now ready to fulfill their sentence.

As the castle awoke, sunk in the dulled routine of watchmen and prayers, she shaped destiny. With hands still stained with soil and the calm gaze of one who understands the patience of vengeance, she moved through the shadows — silent and unrelenting.

In the silent corridors of the midnight hour, she moved with the calm of one who commands space and time. Every step calculated, every breath controlled, preparing the ground so nothing could escape the plan. She gathered the last herbs from her bundle, carefully mixing them into small packets hidden in the folds of her cloak. The potions were almost ready — three precise poisons, each with a purpose, each carrying the promise of an inevitable end.

Armed with the ancient map, she traced the path mentally, recalling secret routes, forgotten chambers, and poorly closed windows. Hidden passages that no one else remembered, now her allies. The approaching mist’s shadow would offer the perfect disguise for her silent movements.

Before nightfall, she returned to the smaller sept, where the septon remained absorbed in silent prayers. With quick, precise hands, she scattered small bundles of the poisonous herbs among the candlesticks and incense holders. The powder, subtly mixed with dry leaves, would exhale a deadly poison when burned — a smoke almost imperceptible, yet lethal. Each bundle was in the right place, every detail planned so that the poisoning would begin with the first breath of fire.

In the halls and corridors frequented by the bastards, she placed small piles of herbs beneath the hearths and the flames of the candelabras, ensuring the smoke would carry her silent judgment to the rooms where impunity hid. Each poison was a verdict, each verdict a step toward ending the cycle of pain and cruelty engraved in those stones.

Her part was done. She left behind lit torches and an air already impregnated with invisible poison. Unbeknownst to her, a purple mist was slowly forming — subtle and unsettling, like a portent from the gods of the North. Now it was up to fate to weave the threads of this silent plot.

Emerging from the darkness of the tunnels, she felt the cutting cold of the dawn against her face. She cast a last glance at the Twin Towers, silent and imposing. The wolf had hidden beneath the skin of the lamb. Silence waited.

All that remained was to wait. Time would play its part, and she would watch from afar the unfolding of the verdict.

When the dawn mist finally arrived, thick and cold like the touch of death, the castle seemed to hold its breath. The servants, uneasy, whispered omens in the shadows, while the “sacred” bundles burned in the braziers of the main hall. The sweet, metallic scent spread like an invisible veil, mingling with the smell of burnt wood and dense smoke, creating an atmosphere of fevered dream.

The insolent laughter of the bastards echoed through the corridors, the careless voices of the maester and the septon filled the air — but all was about to fall silent. Soon, the laughter began to splinter, cut off by light coughs and confused glances. Some blamed the excess of drink, others whispered that the heavy air was not just the result of drunkenness.

In the highest chambers, where there were no hearths, torches strategically placed on the walls were fed by soaked wicks, releasing the silent poison in an almost imperceptible smoke. There, the first to feel it were trapped by their own bodies: trembling fingers, short breaths, the invisible weight of paralysis creeping in like a shadow.

About an hour after the burning, a purple mist began to form, sliding through the damp corners of the castle like a supernatural whisper. Light, almost imperceptible, imbued with an ancient energy that seemed to vibrate beneath the skin of stone and wood. You did not know at that moment, but the smoke carried more than poison — it bore the veiled warning of the gods of the North, a mystical omen of the judgment that would fall upon the condemned.

The fire kept burning, feeding the smoke that slowly invaded the halls and chambers, enveloping every corner of the castle. Paralysis spread through the bodies, the air grew dense, heavy with a stillness that foretold the end. The deadly silence approached, relentless and inexorable.

On the fourth day, before noon, she returned to the castle. Silence was absolute.

No trumpet sounded, no dog barked, no servant crossed the courtyard. Only the restless crows above cawed like harbingers of doom. Invisible as the very mist still lingering over the cold stones, she entered the chapel.

The altar was empty. The septon lay dead upon the stone, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling, frozen in the last vision before death. Without hesitation, she took the black crow’s cage. The bird pecked her hand, a desperate gesture, but it was too late. In a fluid motion, she broke its neck and with cold fingers, tore out the animal’s eyes.

The gods no longer need to see.

In the main hall, she stopped before the cold stone wall, her gaze fixed on the ancient cracks that seemed to breathe forgotten secrets. Without using any human tools, she mixed a dark, thick liquid — aged wine, soot scraped from the castle’s dead flames, and the warm blood of an animal slain moments before — until it formed a dense, almost living ink that seemed to pulse in her hands. With a subtle gesture, she spread the mixture over the stone’s surface, without touching it directly, as if invoking ancient forces to write for her.

Little by little, Norse runes began to emerge, rising from the rock as if the very wall had created them in response to the spilled blood. There were no brush strokes, no finger marks — only symbols that grew and glowed with a dark and indecipherable light, the words of an ancient tongue that carried immense weight. The message revealed itself slowly:

“The bridges were opened by the blood of the unjust.

The Old Gods remember the ancient pacts,

do not forget the oaths sealed beneath the roots.”

[anjels001]

Dr. Dolittle's apprentice spoke and said

A sudden, terrifying thought

When you see an animal with its eyes set to the front, like wolves, or humans, that’s usually a predator animal.

If you see an animal with its eyes set farther back, though—to the side—that animal is prey.

Now look at this dragon.

See those eyes?

They’re to the SIDE.

This raises an interesting—and terrifying—question.

What in the name of Lovecraft led evolution to consider DRAGONS…

As PREY?

[anjels001]

Three-knife hairpin 三刀簪 (one for the country, one for the family, and one for oneself) was a popular headpiece among women in the city of Fuzhou, Fujian province.

Also known as "Three Hairpins” it consists of three small swords worn like hairpins, mostly made out of silver or white copper, and engraved with patterns.

There are various theories about the origin of the Three-Knife hairpin. The most popular one claims that it evolved from small sharp weapons worn by women during the Ming Dynasty in order to defend themselves against Japanese pirates raiding China’s coastline, by killing their enemies, or even committing suicide.

In June 2024, the three knives were selected as an intangible cultural heritage of Fuzhou, and more people became aware of this traditional clothing culture.

[anjels001]

Happy Feet!!!

[anjels001]

Chapter 3: The Kind of Problem You Don’t Find in School (Part 1)

Author’s Note:

I posted this chapter a little earlier than planned, but the same deal from the last one still applies!

If this story reaches 20 reposts, I’ll create an AO3 specifically for it and start uploading there too.

And hey — if we hit 200 likes, I’ll drop the next chapter today!Huge thanks to all the new followers and the amazing messages — you’re all awesome!

My inbox is open for questions, comments about the story, or just to chat.I’m also open for writing and art commissions, so feel free to send me a message!

See you in the next chapter!

----(>ú<)-----

Look, I didn’t want to be special.

If you're reading this because you think you might be... well, maybe it’s better to put the book down now. Trust me. Believe whatever your parents told you about your birth, keep living as if nothing is real — and, if you can, stay away from saltwater.

Being special is dangerous.

It’s confusing, terrifying... and a great way to end up alone, hurt, or worse.

If you’re a normal kid, reading this thinking it’s fiction, great. Enjoy it while you can. I envy you. But if, somewhere deep inside, you feel something... a weird vibration, an unexplained chill, a voice whispering your name in the middle of silence — stop. Right now.

Because it might be that you’re like me.

And, in that case... well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

My name is Perseus Telis Jackson. But everyone calls me Percy — except my mom, who only uses my full name when she wants me to do the dishes or when I'm in trouble.

I’m twelve years old, with some pretty ugly scars on my face, and dreams that give me dark circles that would make a sleepless panda jealous.

The scars are three, all on the right side of my face, going from my temple to my chin. I’ve had them since I was three, and they’re the ones that caused the biggest mess in my life.

A lot of people thought the culprit was my ex-stepdad, Old Smelly Gabe, and he ended up getting arrested. Seriously, I don’t miss him. Like, at all.

My mom never told me what really happened that night. She just said she found me covered in salt and sand, sleeping on the ground as if nothing had happened, but with my eyes still full of fear. I don’t remember anything. All I know is, since then, sleep has never been peaceful.

Almost every night, I dream of things that don’t make sense. Gigantic waves, voices whispering in languages I don’t understand, creatures with eyes that glow like headlights in the dark depths of some place that feels... way too familiar.

If that sounds weird, maybe it is. But for me, it’s routine

It’s not like I had a “how to be a normal kid” manual anyway.

At school, they say I’m too mature for my age. The truth is, when you grow up with the kind of silence that only bad dreams leave, you end up learning to keep a lot to yourself.

And, well... if I knew where all of this would lead, maybe I would have done things differently.

Maybe I would have pretended nothing was real, that the scars didn’t matter, that the dreams were just dreams.

Because the truth is, all of this — the scars, the nightmares, even my name — is just the beginning.

You must be wondering why all this? The introduction? The warnings and all that?

Well, it all started a few months ago. I was a student at Yancy Academy — a fancy, half-prison-like boarding school up in northern New York. It’s the kind of private school where they send kids that adults aren’t quite sure how to handle. And yes, that includes people like me.

Am I a troublemaker? Yeah... I guess you could say that.

Not that I go around beating up classmates or setting fire to lockers — well, at least not on purpose. But problems seem to follow me. Or maybe I follow them. Anyway, the fact is: my file at Yancy’s office is almost as thick as a Latin dictionary. And I’ve only been there for a year.

I could start this story from several strange and confusing moments in my life, but the truth is, things really started going wrong in the last month of May. That’s when my sixth-grade class went on a field trip to Manhattan — twenty-eight hyperactive kids (and two or three sociopaths) crammed into a yellow school bus, along with two teachers who looked visibly regretful.

The destination? The Metropolitan Museum of Art. The objective? To observe “cultural relics” from ancient Greece and Rome.

Yeah, I know. It sounds like punishment. And, honestly? Most of the time, Yancy's field trips were just that: punishment disguised as an educational outing. But this time, I had a tiny bit of hope.

Because the one guiding the tour was Mr. Brunner — our teacher, and he was... different. He had thinning hair at the temples, a scruffy beard that always seemed on the verge of giving up, and wore a tweed jacket so old it must have witnessed more intense battles than most of us. And he always — always — smelled like coffee. That strong, bitter scent, like the man himself was made of old books and sleepless nights.

At first glance, you'd probably mistake him for some retired librarian or a historian who got lost on the way home. But there was something about him — the way he spoke, as if he measured every word carefully, and the sharp look behind his glasses — that made you feel like he knew more than he should.

He was our Latin teacher, but his lessons went far beyond declensions and dead verbs. He told stories, made bad jokes, and let us ask weird questions without losing his patience. Sometimes, it even seemed like he enjoyed it when someone brought up a topic off the syllabus, like "dragons in Greek mythology" or "how the gods would dress today."

And the coolest part? Mr. Brunner had an entire collection of Roman weapons and armor. Real stuff. Swords, shields, helmets... all hanging on the walls of the classroom or piled up on shelves with handwritten labels. Sometimes, he'd bring in a different item to show the class, and at those moments, the room would go silent, almost magically. It was the only class where no one — not even me — would fall asleep.

Of course, sometimes I’d catch him watching me when no one was looking, like he recognized something about me, but all of that would make sense later. But, that day, all I knew was that Mr. Brunner was the only adult in the school who didn’t look at me like I was a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

I was hoping everything would go smoothly on the trip. At least I hoped I wouldn't get into trouble this time.

Man, was I wrong.

Actually, I tried — really tried — to be a good student. I did my homework, studied for tests, and when I didn’t forget because of my ADHD, I even turned in my assignments on time. My teachers knew this, but... things always went wrong.

Like, have you ever heard of someone having bad luck? Now imagine someone with an invisible magnet stuck to their forehead, attracting embarrassing and unfair situations like it’s some kind of superpower.

That’s me.

If someone threw an eraser at the teacher, I was the one who got blamed. If the fire alarm went off for no reason? Somehow, it was my fault too. I don’t even want to remember the day a rat showed up in math class. (Spoiler: I was in fencing club at that time.)

Yeah, fencing club. I participated. I wasn’t the best or the most disciplined, but I was quick, and the instructor said I had reflexes as sharp as a cat’s. He just forgot to mention that, sometimes, my brain didn’t tell my feet in time. Still, it was the only extracurricular activity where I didn’t feel completely out of place.

Even so, no effort seemed good enough. There was always something that went wrong — as if the universe thought it was funny to put me in situations where everything went wrong in the most spectacular way possible.

And that was just this year at Yancy.

Understand this: bad things just happen to me on school trips. Always.

In fifth grade, for example, we took a trip to the Saratoga battlefield. There was a cannon from the American Revolution there, all surrounded and with a thousand “DO NOT TOUCH” signs. I swear on everything sacred: I didn’t touch it. But somehow, the cannon turned, fell, and almost hit our bus. The result? Expelled from school.

In fourth grade, we went to visit Marine World — you know, the behind-the-scenes tour of the shark tank. I don’t know how — seriously, I have no idea — but I triggered a lever that kids weren’t even supposed to be near and... well, the whole class got a salty shower while the sharks got a live screaming show.

Before that? Better not even get into the details. You get the pattern by now, right?

So, on this particular trip to Manhattan, I was determined to break the curse. No historical disasters, no mysterious buttons, zero messes. I was going to be good, stick to the plan, stay invisible. Easy.

Then came Nancy Bobofit.

She was that annoying student — red-haired, freckled, with a supernatural talent for getting on everyone’s nerves, including plants. And for some cosmic reason, she’d picked Grover as her favorite target.

Grover was an easy target. Skinny, awkward, shy. He cried when he got frustrated. He was the only sixth grader with acne and a patchy little beard coming in on his chin, which made everyone think he’d been held back like three times. He also had a doctor’s note excusing him from PE — something about a muscular condition in his legs. He walked kind of funny, like every step hurt. But don’t be fooled — you should’ve seen how fast he moved when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Despite all that — or maybe because of it — Grover was brave. In a quiet, almost invisible way. Always trying to see the bright side, even when he was shaking in his sneakers. He was the kind of person you wouldn’t expect much from, but when everything went wrong, he’d be right there next to you. We’d been friends for just over a year, and ever since, it was like he just knew when I was feeling off. Like a connection from another life.

But at that moment, on the bus, Grover just hunched his shoulders and tried to pretend that the chunks of peanut butter and ketchup sandwich Nancy was throwing into his curly hair weren’t bothering him. But I saw his ears trembling. I saw that and thought: “Hold it, Percy. Don’t screw this up now.”

Because, of course, I couldn’t do anything. I was already being watched. The principal had threatened me with an in-school suspension — which, honestly, is worse than a regular suspension. It means you have to come to school but can’t go to class. You just sit in a room all day doing stupid assignments. If anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly fun happened... I’d be toast.

And there was Nancy, acting like the queen of comedy, tossing sandwiches at Grover while I counted to ten. Twice.

(Spoiler: it went bad. Really bad.)

---- < Back: Chapter 2 > Next: Chapter 3: (Part 2)

[anjels001]

The Ocean’s Legacy: Clans, Hierarchy, and the Guardians of the Pearls

The society of the sea people is built upon clans, social structures that extend beyond mere blood ties. Each clan is a fundamental unit of society, economy, and politics, comprising individuals who share a common ancestry, a specific territory, or a crucial function within the oceanic world. Unlike terrestrial societies, where bonds can be severed easily, in the ocean, separating from one’s clan is nearly impossible—belonging to a clan is a lifelong commitment.

Clans vary greatly in size and power. Some consist of only a few dozen members, dwelling in isolated reefs or abyssal depths, while others are vast dynasties, ruling entire underwater cities and rivaling even the minor sea deities in influence. Respect in the ocean does not come from sheer strength alone, but from one’s ability to protect, nurture, and secure the future of their clan’s offspring.

The Hierarchy of Poseidon’s Ocean and the Role of Clans

Above the clans stands the Kingdom of Poseidon, a vast and complex divine monarchy governing the seas. Unlike terrestrial rulers, where kings and emperors compete for power, the ocean answers to a single absolute sovereign—Poseidon, the God-King-Emperor of the Seas.

The kingdom is divided into enormous territories, each ruled by an Ocean Governor, who could be a lesser deity, an ancient sea spirit, or even a powerful mortal ruler of noble lineage. The clans, in turn, are vassals of these territories, aligning themselves with a governor based on their location and strategic importance. However, these alliances are not rigid—clans can shift loyalties, form temporary pacts, or even challenge a governor’s authority, provided they have the strength to sustain such a move.

Poseidon does not rule every detail of oceanic life directly, but his word is absolute law, and his wrath can erase entire civilizations from the waters. However, there is one force in the ocean that holds the power to stand against him if necessary.

The Guardians of the Pearls and the Ocean’s Social Structure

The Guardians of the Pearls are a neutral order within the sea’s society. They do not belong to a single clan, but rather, to all clans at once. When a child is born, regardless of lineage, they are considered a Pearl of the ocean, and the Guardians bear the sacred duty to protect them.

This order was established by Poseidon himself in the early days of his reign. Before him, the sea followed the brutal law of survival—the strong devoured the weak, and new generations rarely had the chance to grow. Poseidon, having personally endured the horror of being swallowed by his own father, vowed that no child of the sea would suffer the same fate. Thus, the Guardians of the Pearls were formed, the first armed force of the ocean, not created for conquest, but for preservation.

While clans compete for resources, territory, and influence, the Guardians remain the only force that transcends these divides. They are warriors, healers, and educators, bound by three unbreakable tenets:

No Pearl shall be left behind. If a young one is in danger, a Guardian will answer the call, regardless of who the threat may be.

Strength must nourish, not destroy. Their martial and magical training exists not for conquest, but for protection.

Loyalty to the future, not the present. The Guardians serve no king, no clan, and no empire. Their only loyalty is to the next generation.

The Guardians and Poseidon: The Unbreakable Oath

The creation of the Guardians was not just a measure to protect the young but also a safeguard against Poseidon himself. The Sea God knew that absolute power could corrupt even deities, and that his own father, Cronus, had been a tyrant who devoured his children. To prevent the seas from ever falling under such rule again—even if the tyrant was himself—Poseidon granted the Guardians of the Pearls the undisputed right to judge and punish him should he ever betray the principles he swore to uphold.

This makes the Guardians a truly unique order within the ocean: they are the only force in existence with the authority to bring a god to reason.

The Relationship Between Clans and the Guardians

Despite their neutrality, the Guardians are not above the clans. They rely on the support of oceanic communities for survival, whether through shelter, resources, or apprentices wishing to join their ranks. Many clans deeply respect the Guardians, seeing them as an extension of Poseidon’s will. To some, allowing a child to become a Guardian is an immense honor, as it means their lineage will directly contribute to the protection of the sea’s future.

However, not all clans share this sentiment. Some believe the Guardians interfere too much in the natural order of strength and survival. Others resent their political influence, as they often prevent alliances formed through the capture of young heirs to secure power. To such groups, the Guardians are an inconvenient force, a reminder that not everything in the ocean can be ruled by brute power alone.

The Guardians in Action

The Guardians’ duties go beyond fighting external threats. They rescue kidnapped children, heal the wounded, teach younglings about the ocean, and, when necessary, deliver justice upon those who harm the Pearls. When a Guardian intervenes, their word carries undeniable weight—not as a representative of a clan or a king, but as a voice of the ocean’s balance itself.

This neutrality often makes them solitary figures. A Guardian may travel for years without ever settling in one place, as their duty constantly calls them elsewhere. However, despite the isolation, they find unshakable purpose in their mission: as long as there is a Pearl in danger, they will always answer the call.

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Looking for crossover fanfictions of Percy Jackson and Blood of Zeus

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Protection of the Pearls (Children)

The Culture of the Sea and the Protection of the Offspring

Unlike the surface, where the children of the earth are often left to fend for themselves, the sea people possess an instinct of extreme protection toward their offspring. This is not only cultural but also biological—because in the ocean, the infant mortality rate is absurdly high.

Although fertility among marine peoples is abundant, few offspring reach adulthood. The causes are numerous:

Diseases: The aquatic environment is a perfect medium for the proliferation of diseases and parasites that can affect the young before their bodies strengthen.

Predators and Monsters: The ocean is vast and dangerous. Colossal creatures like the Kraken, giant sharks, or sea monsters are part of daily life, and offspring are often easy victims.

Actions of Surface Dwellers: Pollution, predatory fishing, ghost nets, nuclear tests, and even deliberate hunts have drastically reduced the population of sea peoples over the centuries.

Because of this, those who survive childhood become extremely valuable. The life expectancy of sea peoples is incredibly long—they can live for centuries, and in some cases, even millennia. However, they rarely die of old age.

Many die of depression, as emotional and social connections are essential for their survival. An individual who loses their clan or partner may simply lose the will to live. Others die from fatal injuries, as despite their superior regenerative abilities compared to humans, deep wounds or severe diseases can still claim their lives.

This explains why sea offspring are protected so intensely. In their societies, an offspring is not just an individual but a symbol of collective survival. They represent the future of the species, a rare survivor in a brutal environment.

Instincts and Recognition in Marine Culture

Among marine peoples, the bond between parent and offspring is often triggered by deep biological instincts. Recognition can come through scent, specific markings on scales, scars passed down through generations, or even unique biochemical or electrochemical signatures. These natural indicators reinforce familial bonds and activate powerful protective instincts.

However, there are exceptions. Offspring who fail to inherit these distinctive traits—especially those born from unions with beings of the land—may not instinctively trigger the protective instincts of their marine parents. In such cases, they may be rejected or even instinctively ignored by their progenitors.

The Tragedy of Poseidon and His Offspring

For Poseidon, as the embodiment of his realm and its people, the challenge is even greater. Despite his divine nature, Poseidon strives to fulfill the role of a good father, even when his instinctive connection to his offspring is unclear or absent. This is not just a personal struggle but a reflection of his role as the protector and ruler of the ocean.

Percy is a tragic example. Although he inherited two significant traits—Poseidon's distinct scent and the appearance of sea royalty with his hair and eye color—his nature as the reincarnation of Odysseus created a deep, instinctual fear of Poseidon and all things associated with him. This fear tormented Poseidon. His instincts clashed violently, torn between protecting his child and eradicating the source of terror.

How could he protect his son if he was the very thing his child feared the most? This inner turmoil drove Poseidon to the edge, as his deepest instincts waged war within him. Still, he fought to be the father his son needed, defying his own nature to preserve the bond—however fragile and painful it might be.

For minor sea deities, this struggle is equally complex. Their offspring might lack the markings or scents that affirm familial bonds, leading to confusion, rejection, or a lack of instinctual attachment. In such cases, it becomes a conscious choice to protect and nurture, making every bond formed a testament to the will and resilience of the parent.

This complexity adds a deep emotional layer to the marine culture, where instincts and conscious choice collide in the battle for survival and love.

--- Links PJO List AU PJO/Odissey Sea `People's Cultures

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Who gave me the right, you ask…? Well, I suppose I claimed it for myself! I’m glad you enjoyed my hybrid AU take on Poseidon. I’ll be working on a few more chapters depending on the audience’s response.Thank you for the comment and the repost! What stood out to you the most in this AU?

(I am incredibly grateful for the support and love on the first post of the AU! I'm so happy you liked it, and I hope this second part resonates with you just as much. If there are 20 reposts of this, maybe I'll bring the third part and post it on Ao3! Thank you from the bottom of my heart, and feel free to share your thoughts! 💖) ---- The God and the Monster

Poseidon felt the weight of guilt on his shoulders. The sacred oath of the Big Three had been broken once again, and he knew there would be consequences. There always were. But the truth, plain and simple, was that he did not regret it.

Sally Jackson was an extraordinary woman. Strong, determined, full of life in a way that had been erased from most mortals over the centuries. It had been a long time since Poseidon had met someone like her—and he couldn’t force himself to regret loving her. Nor for getting her pregnant.

What tormented him wasn’t the act itself, but fate. What would happen to the child he had fathered? A hero’s life was never easy. And, as much as Poseidon was a god, an emperor, an immortal and indestructible being, he was still a father. And he feared for the future of his youngest.

So, he remained alert. Vigilant. Silent in his own anxiety, trying to keep calm, hiding any trace of having committed this transgression. He didn’t want anyone to notice. He didn’t want the gods to turn against his son.

But then he felt it.

It was as if the ocean shattered within him. A deep impact, impossible to ignore, reverberating through the very core of his being. Poseidon had felt this before, in ancient times, when a great spirit was about to be reborn in the mortal world. But this time… this time it was different.

For a moment, he didn’t understand. There was confusion—an echo, broken between past and present, as if a dark whirlwind spun through his soul, pulling old memories to the surface. The sea inside him roared, impatient, feeling the dissonance in the thread of his son’s life.

He sought to recognize the soul of his heir, expecting to find a new spirit, free from past marks. But all he found was an abyss of old memories, of battles and betrayals, of a name buried in time.

And then, he realized.

The revelation hit him like a destructive wave. His son—his youngest, his little prince of the sea—was not just a new life. He was an ancient shadow. A reincarnation.

And worse than that.

He was him.

The monster.

The one who had defied the gods, who spat on the mercy of Olympus and returned from death covered in blood and lies. The man Poseidon had personally cursed, the one he swore to make suffer, the one who should never have come back.

OdYsSEus.

Poseidon's chest tightened. Chaos spread within him, a whirlwind of emotions impossible to contain. Anger. Horror. Despair. How dare they? How dare the Fates have the audacity to bring this soul back through him? How could Styx condemn him in this way?

His body reacted before his mind even could. The invisible sea currents around him stirred, the salty mist swirling in a violent dance. The sea inside him screamed, a storm trying to break through his mortal form. His primal instinct screamed to end the threat before it was too late.

Destroy him.

Eradicate him.

But then, an image appeared in his mind.

Sally.

She had no idea. She didn’t know the history her son carried. She didn’t know that the baby she held in her arms had cursed the gods in another life. That he had been a king, that he had been a soldier, that he had been a strategist so cunning that even Olympus couldn’t stop him.

She saw only her son. Her little Perseus.

What if he was wrong? What if, in trying to prevent the monster from being reborn, he tore away from Sally not just her son but her soul? Poseidon knew: destroying that child wouldn’t just punish Odysseus — it would break the heart of the woman he loved. And that thought hurt more than any curse from Olympus.

Poseidon closed his eyes, feeling the sea inside him still roaring. But now, it wasn’t just anger — it was fear. A deep, crushing fear, because he knew what this meant. That boy would grow up. One day, he would remember. And Odysseus always found a way. The ocean outside, once an untamable force, now lay still, reflecting the father — wild, but, for a rare moment, at peace. Each wave seemed to echo the silenced storm within him, a reflection of what he had become.

A distant thunder rumbled in his mind, a reflection of the war waged within him.

For a moment, he almost gave in to the darkest impulse — to end the threat before it could blossom. But then, something fiercely protective grew within him, a wave that swept away his hesitation.

Because that child was his too.

His son.

Not just the shadow of a monster, but the blood of Poseidon, an heir of the sea.

And no one — not even the ghost of Odysseus — would dare take that from him.

When Poseidon opened his eyes, it wasn’t just fury. There was a raw possession, a wild and violent love, like a crushing tide.

Mine.

If Odysseus wanted to exist again, he would have to do it under the waves of his father.

And this time, the sea would not let him escape.

Poseidon didn’t wait a week. Not even three days. The torment inside him wouldn’t allow it.

Time felt like poison coursing through his veins, a salty pulse driving him forward. Each hour spent away from that child was a rising tide in his chest, a current that threatened to drag him to the depths of his own chaos. He needed to see. He needed confirmation. He needed to act.

When he finally appeared, there was no sound. Just salty mist and a damp breeze that filled the small mortal apartment. The moonlight spilled through the window, bathing the crib in silver clarity. The air was too dry, the space too small, and everything smelled of humanity and solid ground — an insult to what he was.

But there, right there, lay his answer.

The baby slept. Curled up, breathing softly, oblivious to the god who now watched him. Poseidon stood still, every muscle rigid, his gaze fixed on that tiny, helpless form. And inside him, something ancient and fierce roared.

He knew what he should do.

If it were true — if that tainted soul had returned — he would end it. Right there. Now. He would kill the child and give Sally another. It wouldn’t be the first time a god had shaped such a destiny. It wouldn’t be the last.

Or at least, that’s what he tried to convince himself.

But the sea… the sea is not made to kill its children.

Poseidon felt the conflict scrape at his insides like a whirlpool. His feral instincts were at war — the primal urge to destroy a threat collided with something even older: the wild, possessive instinct to protect his offspring.

Because the children of the sea were rare.

The ocean, by its nature, was not kind. Infant mortality among the sea peoples was cruelly high. The waters claimed their young with the same ease with which they created monsters. And so, those who survived were precious. Touched by the sea, shaped by it, they were part of the ocean’s soul. And any mother or father who dared to harm a child… well, the ocean itself would crush them.

And Poseidon was the sea.

His fists clenched, and he growled low, a guttural, hoarse sound like a wave breaking in the distance. The idea of destroying something of his… something that carried his essence… wounded his very nature. But what if that thing was him? What if the man he hated — Odysseus, the shadow who had cursed him for so long — was there, reborn in his blood?

A soft breath.

Poseidon stopped.

A delicate sound, almost a sigh. He looked at the cradle.

Two eyes were staring at him.

The world seemed to tilt.

The irises were the color of the sea — his color. But the shape… the shape was hers. Sally. They were gentle, wide, innocent.

Poseidon held his breath.

The baby laughed.

It was a small, pure sound. A carefree giggle that exploded like foam on the waves, and Poseidon felt something inside him crack. The storm within him stalled for a brief moment, like a raging sea suddenly becoming smooth under a gentle breeze.

He stepped forward — a shaky step, then another. Powerful hands, capable of destroying cities with a gesture, now hovered over the cradle, uncertain. Then, with a hesitant movement, he took the child into his arms.

Small.

Light.

So… fragile.

Poseidon trembled. He could smell the sea air that surrounded the boy, undeniable proof of his lineage. But there were no fangs. No claws. No scales or gills. Just soft skin, dark hair, and eyes that stared at him as though he were the only being in the universe.

His long fingers traced the baby’s body, instinctively counting and checking.

Two eyes. Check.

Two arms. Right.

Two legs. Right.

Ten fingers on hands and feet, all in place.

No monsters.

No threats.

No curses.

Poseidon let out a ragged sigh, something between a sob and a hoarse laugh.

His son was perfect.

“I’m sorry, my pearl…” his voice was just a whisper, almost inaudible, as he held the baby more firmly. “None of what happened was your fault. None of what will happen will be your fault.”

Little Percy smiled at him, babbling something incomprehensible, and Poseidon felt a violent wave of possessiveness rise within him.

Mine.

That thought hit him like thunder.

mY SØŊ.

Not a punishment.

Not a threat.

Not a reborn enemy.

Just…MINE.

“You are not a punishment for me.” Poseidon murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You are a punishment for him.”

There was a dark flash in his eyes — the cruel irony of it all. Odysseus, the man who had most challenged him, now reborn as the heir of the one he despised most. What more poetic punishment could there be?

Poseidon laughed softly — a bitter sound, but laden with something new. Something dangerous. A wild, raw love, as vast as the ocean.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he whispered to the child. “Perfection born of the greatest offense. The most monstrous man reborn… as my son.”

Percy just yawned, his eyelids beginning to droop, snuggling deeper into the god’s chest.

Poseidon closed his eyes, feeling that tide of emotions drown everything that had once driven him. The unbalanced hunter fell silent. The king-god stayed behind.

Only the father remained.

With the utmost care, he placed Percy back in the cradle, adjusting the blanket around him. His fingers brushed through the soft strands of the baby's hair.

"Nothing will ever be your fault. And I will always be proud of you." His voice was a promise, sealed by the ocean itself.

A final kiss on the forehead.

And when Poseidon left that night, the sea became calm.

In the following months, the weather remained perfect.

1 part Au Post prompt

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Sea People's Culture

The Origin

The Ocean’s Legacy: Clans, Hierarchy, and the Guardians of the Pearls Reproductive Roles and Gender Family and Lineage Protection of the Pearls (Children)