i will become a deer in 3 days
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CLOSED STARTER .ᐟ @ CABIN 12 PORCH, dusk, the day everyone returns to camp ( JUNE 22 1977 ) — a funeral cancelled, mourning interrupted.
her reward for returning alive is a satyr shaped lollipop, cherry flavored but ambrosia colored. it sits in the pocket of bunny's cheek, jostled around by the tongue every so often — like, when she reaches a particularly funny comment left by rob or when an excellent line ( when they see you, they will only see themselves ) is burned away by the singe of an angry flame. the paper feels crisp, sharper than they were when she first gave it to him ( which, how long ago was this? she can hardly remember handing it off to rob — read this, rob, if you can even do it — i think you'll really like it ).
she spares @aresrisen an upward glance, hollowing her cheeks around the ill - flavored lollipop before flipping another page. bunny looks back down without a word, thumbing a colorful phrase and committing it to memory. she says, “ it's kind of sad, you know. i really thought you had died on the quest, ” but it doesn't sound like someone who thought he was dead. she removes the lollipop ( now headless, what a sight ) and chews on the hard candy, closing her manuscript and tilting her head to the side in thought.
“ rob, do you really think you're not a bad guy? ” she inquires, setting the ( annotated, angrily and passionately — the mark of a good villain ) book on the small table beside her. “ i mean, actually — nobody's named, technically, in here. maybe you just ... relate to the bad guy. ”
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bunny still remembers what it's like, being new to camp, tempted with the offer of a quest. bunny is different. ga - eun is brave enough to not worm her way out of what has been assigned to her. she is given a quest and dutifully ( courageously ) accepts, facing the music, ready to do what is expected of her. bunny had been asked, and asked, and asked. dionysus wanted to know if she would ever use he training for something other than lounging about, twirling her hair and flipping through books that don't matter; tony wanted to know if she would consider coming home for the holidays, or slipping into the city for an event or two. bunny, unlike ga - eun, is the perfect definition of the word coward. she glances over at her friend and matches the smile ( which isn't all there, but it paints a beautiful picture, the kind that philosophers gaze at while pondering godhood ).
“ don't miss me, ” she says, nudging her with her elbow. “ we'll only be gone a couple of days, nothing worthy missing anyone over. ” bunny sighs, dramatically ( as she is so wont to do ), and steels her features, turning her head over her shoulder to glance at camp half - blood. when she thinks of home, now, she will always think of this. she turns back to ga - eun and feigns disinterest. “ however, if i go missing — my team, or just me, lost forever in fucking miami, always remember and mourn me. a good lamentation at my shroud burning would be much appreciated — don't let the apollo kids do it. ”
ga eun has her arm looped around bunny's and she holds on like this action alone won't separate the two of them. she remains in denial for the next few seconds that the two won't have to say goodbye and the tears burning her eyes is from yawning, not because she'll have to let bunny go. she's not sure if she's being dramatic, hadn't realized the weight�� of what was happening until she became face to face with her best friend and the expression on the other's face was unusual. the two whispered secrets in the dark ⸺ about feelings, the past that made them who they are. it was sometimes ugly, sometimes it had them giggling until they were read in the face, however, this look on bunny had been new.
"of course we'll be fine," her words don't match her own features, the unknown waiting before them and ga eun isn't sure she would be cut out for this. she wants to blame her mother, but deep down ga eun knows she tunes her out sometimes. "it's a little insane, right? but we can do it. i wouldn't say easy peasy, lemon squeezy, but that doesn't mean we won't be able to do it, right? it's our fate to find the fates," she knocks her shoulder gently with bunny's. "i don't have any trouble having faith in you. i know you'll be amazing. just know i'll miss you."
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CLOSED STARTER .ᐟ @ HALF - BLOOD HILL, half an hour before leaving time — late morning, closer to noon than eleven, a send - off where nobody is waiting to see them off ( because everyone has already said goodbye and it's easier this way ), a moment stolen between friends - turned - sisters.
an uneasy stirring in her belly, something awkward, like tough meat that wasn't chewed correctly now sitting in her gut. bunny hasn't left camp since she arrived, not even to visit the city or get some prohibited snacks from the gas station up the road. anything she needs someone else can get for her, someone more adventurous, with more courage, a clear mind left untouched by the plague of wracking paranoia. she begged her father to let her stay — xander would do just fine defending his honor in the wild, he would be a great son to show ot zeus, all to fall on deaf ears. dionysus is as agitated as the rest of them and even chiron, whose eyes look more tired with each passing day, couldn't do anything but give her a sad look and an empty statement that he had seen many heroes return. they both know that she's read enough to understand that most heroes don't return at all.
standing next to @omorfias, bunny's eyes hide behind a pair of sunglasses, golden aviator glasses also stolen from her dad ( thank you, tony ! ). she heaves a sigh, which is followed shortly by a groan and she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “ we'll be fine, right? ” she asks ga - eun. it is obvious she's trying to soothe herself rather than the newcomer. “ they're relatively easy, nothing should go wrong. we're just finding the — fates, easy peasy, right? ”
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it is decidedly true that bunny does not enjoy the company of hermes' son, but that is a fact that could also be decidedly untrue. she doesn't scoot away from ezra as he sits next to her, but from bunny's lips comes a tired sounding sigh as she tosses a strawberry stem over their shoulders. “ i am my father's darling daughter, ” she muses. with her sticky fingers, she turns the page of her book and points to a line to read to him. “ ah, yes, what's good is always loved, ” she says — almost in a stage voice but, not quite, it doesn't sound right, even to bunny's ear.
she looks at ezra and ignores the blur at the edges of her vision ( migraine symptoms, which always seem to appear when he's around ). “ and he thinks i'm the best thing around, don't waste your blame on me. ” bunny turns her attention toward a nearby camper, clad in an orange t-shirt and dirty shorts, slacking off by rolling around in the dirt. “ blame him. he's annoying, mr. d will believe that. ”
THERE'S A PUSH AND PULL WITH BUNNY, less a delicate dance and more a deliberate testing of ire's boundaries — in a way his own kind of madness. it's why ezra's quick to ignore her first sentence and latch onto the second, a faint smile cresting the corners of his lips, ❛ oh, really ? ❜
the ground suddenly seems mighty appealing, shoes scraping dirt as he sits abruptly next to bunny, peering across at the words both written and typed and quickly giving up ascribing meaning to the few things he'd managed to decipher. ezra huffs out a breath, weight coming to rest on arms extended backwards, head tilting upwards towards the sun, ❛ i'll take your word for it. and if i get in trouble with your dad, i'm blaming you. ❜
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they sing like an oracle, possessed by the voice of a god — a reminder that makes bunny's lips spread into something of a smile. too wry to really be one, too happy to be a frown. the gods will always have a need for demigods, a use; it often feels like they are no better than mortals, maybe worse off. those with no relation to the gods at least are left alone, they are killed without thought or pain, one fell swoop, a single blink and their lives are over. demigods, though, are unique in the way that they are needed and bothered from the moment they are born, thrust into fates that they don't get choose, shown a life in which very few of them are ever awarded for their feats. fight these battles and die a hero, slay our enemies and die a hero, be a hero and die a hero. she gives alicia a small shake of the head. “ they'll definitely find a way for us to keep ourselves alive. ” she groans and rolls onto her back, the ends of her hair breaking the surface of the water. “ maybe we shouldn't worry too much, then. everything's already planned out for us, isn't it? ”
— IF THEY'RE SURPRISED BUNNY'S TAKEN HER seriously, she doesn't show it. her eyes drift back to the dark water, the moon's reflection distorted by the wavelets that extended from her foot's methodic disruptions to the surface. the girl's reflection joins her own in the water, their arms folded over her knees and creating a distinctly unrecognizable figure, but even bunny's is virtually a stranger in the dim light, a reflection, perhaps, of life. the burden of vulnerability was not one she lays lightly on anyone and perhaps that's why a laugh bubbles out of them, a harsh, unexpected sound in the quiet. "jesus," they snort, chin resting on one knee. "that's cheerful." there's a thought prickling at the back of her mind, sharper than most, digging its way through and out. extinction was natural, but somehow, there is more optimism in her for their future, at least as a whole. "i think as long as the gods have use for demigods," there is a carefully placed indifference in her voice, aware of who their audience is, and who her father is, despite the thought making them feel a little like a house pet. "they will find a way to keep us alive. don't you think?"
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* and isn’t that godhood ? a form so divine it burns to look at @ptolomeas
" i'll be your mirror ", the velvet underground and nico ( 1966 ) / double exposure image , origin unknown / " the trouble with wilderness " , william cronon ( 1995 ) / self recognition through the other , origin unknown / " on the passion caused by the sublime " , edmund burke ( 1757 ) / you are not me and i am not you, but you and i are the same thing , unknown orgin / " the trouble with wilderness " , william cronon ( 1995 ) / mosaic showing theatrical masks of tragedy and comedy; roman artwork , hadrian's villa mosaic ( 2nd century ce ) / the secret history , donna tartt ( 1992 ) / writing excerpt , sera @ptolomeas ( 2024 ) .
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the summer is a strange and sultry time — usually always, but especially so these days. with more hours in the sun, the crowd at camp half - blood, as she has observed for the past two summers, tends to go mad with their own insanity; tearing each other apart as the cabins become more crowded and pushing the boundaries as far as they can with what limited supervision they receive. this summer, while as fervid as ever, has been the strangest and even bunny, a girl of strange demeanor, is starting to grow weary of the oddity surrounding camp half - blood.
or, lack of oddity surrounding camp half - blood, her metaphorical magical blanket no longer wrapped protectively around her skeleton. the lack of mist is to blame for the increase of strangeness.
but, her ankles are crossed and her knees are to her chest and this strange, sultry summer is not one she has to suffer alone. of course, at camp half - blood, bunny hopewell - ward is never actually ever alone, but she is not surrounded by friends or like - minded souls, companions that can warm her ugly, beating heart even in the heat of the summer. none of the other campers are quite like jo, in that way; none of them matter quite as much. the gaze bunny sends jo is so unlike her character that if anyone else were to witness it, they would accuse her of possession ( as if any kind of demon could ever enter her) — but the simple truth is bunny's raw, unfiltered adoration is only ever reserved for a select few people. jo, as sweet as the spring and as strange and sultry as the summer, has earned it by nothing but her presence alone. sprightly and scintillating and someone that burns so bright it would be impossible to not be caught in her orbit.
with her chin on the tops of her knees, eyes focused on the droplet of water - turned - wine tucked in the corner of jo's mouth. bunny is unable to stop the smile from sprouting on her lips. she is, to her loved, loved, ones ( her dearest ones, her most dear ones), a woman of few words at all. actions speak louder than words, and someone can say everything by saying nothing, and if someone knows her, they know how to interpret her silence (oh, you're right, said with the smile, it is a white — i was thinking of my favorite, red, of course, so red it burns ).
she takes the flask with a laugh — half a laugh, as genuine as it can get — and tilts it back with the weight of this summer hanging over her. it burns and hurts, precisely the way it's meant to, and she didn't make the wine so potent on purpose but her chest aches at the thought of what lies ahead. begging her father to let her stay bore no fruit. he asked whether she was a hero or not and didn't like the answer she gave him, so he told her she might not be a daughter worth saving — you are my biggest waste of time — and she withered away before him. he didn't even have to try to beat her at pinochle, he just did. he beat her completely.
bunny says, “ nobody, ” and she means it. “ my brother, maybe, because i don't think he would leave me alone, ” she continues with a shrug. she has friends, of course — of course she has friends, but she only has one jo. “ you? if this quest ends abysmally, which it always does for demigods, who would you invite to your hideaways? ”
closed ft. @ptolomeas
location one of jo's hideyholes, somewhere by the strawberry fields
Dull, clipped fingernails drag along the clay walls of the trench, scalloping each ray of sunlight pouring through the thatched roof. It's a well-disguised location, despite being pretty close to camp. She did a good job choosing this one, and a better one constructing it. All by her lonesome, no special gifts involved (save for a few safeguards around the entrance — she wouldn't necessarily require her mother's help with this if she had access to a hardware store, but that's the tradeoff for this life).
If she was smart, she'd have kept it to herself. But she's never been half as smart as she likes to think she is, so she's sitting knee-to-knee with Bunny, the army surplus canteen she traded O.C. a pair of fishhook earrings and a friendship bracelet for handed back and forth between them. They're playing one of her favourite games. She names a wine for Bunny to try and make. Jo tastes the wine to see if she actually knows what it is, enough to see if Bunny managed it. "This can't be a Zinfandel. I'm so certain I'd die on it. Aren't they white wines? I swear I've had a real one before."
She takes another long swig — doesn't matter what kind of wine it is, she can taste the alcoholic content, and by the Gods, she will have her nerves soothed before they're sent out. Even if they're cutting it a little close to the deadline. Whatever. It's not like she knows how to drive, anyways. Nerves, yes — she's a little nervous, so what? This is so far beyond her capabilities. There's a reason she's so paranoid. There's a reason that, despite her hatred for camp, she hasn't left since she arrived, hasn't even tried, has begged not to be made to.
She's scared. Thank the Gods for Bunny. Thank Big D in particular.
She reaches across the space between them, to hand the canteen back, but also to let her hand linger against Bunny's, to reach up and brush her cheek. It's a little more affection than she'd usually allow, but she's a little tipsy (more than a little tipsy), and she just — Gods, Bunny's sweet face. Her eyes, those big tired eyes, the eyes of her friend — Gods, her friend! What a thing for someone to be, Jo's friend. And for Jo to be Bunny's friend — almost unbelievable. Someone so special.
It's not what she really wants to ask. It's not the right question – the right question is too embarrassing – and she won't get the right answer – if Bunny said what she wanted to hear Jo wouldn't believe her – but it's the best she's got, with half a second before Bunny stops drinking and starts talking again.
"Who would you hang out with? If I die out there. Like. Like this."
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in the way that he unfolds in the sun she can see herself planted in his very bones. there is nothing but suspicion, no proof that he can get drunk on desire, but bunny can almost taste it — or, is she tasting herself? her own blood, part ichor, rich with the dirt from which man was made and the sliced pieces of a godly grandfather usurped by his own children. she is told that nectar is supposed to taste like what's most comforting to her, think cookie dough or rich honey, but bunny only ever tastes ... nothing. madness. desire. a drunkenness that settles so deep in her bones that she can never be rid of it. in watching beckett's stark normalcy, his charimsa, the line of jaw, the slope of his nose, the very way he holds himself, she tastes herself on her tongue ( nothingness, madness, drunkenness ). her neck is stiff and her arms ache. she can't stand to stare at him. he disgusts her ( no, he DELIGHTS her, he is the erinyes stripping her apart until she is nothing but herself — the more appropriate word would be terrifies, horrifies, sickens ). she says, “ that's the only way some people know how to love, ” and purses her lips.
it goes without saying that that's the only way she knows how to love.
with the ever present prickle of uneasiness at the base of her skull, she steals his words as her own, rolls them around her mouth like a ripped chunk of strawberry flesh. incite a little ecstacy, be invaluable. a craving of her own that she almost can't deny ( see the scenario in which bunny agrees immediately, begs to be allowed to slip a little madness into the eyes of every waiting demigod — see the scenario in which a little bleeds into a lot, a camp of cultists tearing the mortals apart limb from limb for trespassing on sacred ground ). she forces a smile onto her lips, finds herself trying to mimic beckett before her and failing. bunny chews on the inside of her cheek when her smile falls, compelled back into her resting state. she admits, “ if you let me, it wouldn't be a little. ” a pause. brief, but pregnant. “ no, you know me. it would be madness. ”
* 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 that he should be becoming more himself, that’s how it always goes for him — the light on his skin making him solid as if cast in gold. but instead, in bunny’s company, it seems to cast its shadows at a slant — unease lingering where the radiance meets the swaths of grey hidden away from the sun. it lights bunny’s face in a way that is ghastly and divinely beautiful. her features carved out harshly by the maddening contrasts, unsettling in a way that evokes the sublime. ( and isn’t that godhood ? a form so divine it burns to look at, the truest embodiment of the sublime ? ) it’s terrible and intoxicating and he thinks he can feel his senses slip away, he delights, ever so slightly, in the feeling of it, though he’d never show it. “ try distant and cold, ” he corrects, though he doesn’t really care — his grandparents held nothing for him but a trust and a life he would not lead. instead his eye’s watch as an ant moves across a leaf, quick and determined but almost certainly doomed.
he considers her counter, him at the helm of a cause, organizing and rallying and pulling together the camp. it’s exhausting, as a thought, yet a lure lies hidden at the edges of it; eyes on him, at the center of everything, they’ll fall at your feet. he isn’t one for self reflection, yet the presence of bunny seemed to twist it from him. who could know but her, doesn’t she already. he doesn’t speak it, his conceit or his desire, instead he continues along the conversation that they have carved, “ they always say people are more generous at those events if they’re inebriated, ” something he had learned at fourteen, sneaking flutes of champagne and half drunk whiskeys when no one was watching, “ i can only imagine how altruistic they might become in a bacchic state, incite a little ecstasy you’d be nothing but invaluable to the cause. ”
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the lighter feels warmer when placed back in her palm. bunny wraps her fingers around it and holds it in her lap, letting her cigarette remain untouched while xander talks. she breathes in the air thick with smoke and sweat and heat, uncrossing her ankles to cross them again. dionysus being in an especially bad mood doesn't worry bunny, necessarily, but as a demigod at the same ( maybe rapidly declining ) summer camp as him, she allows herself to feel some minor distress at his demeanor. she sniffs and lifts her chin, pressing her shoulder blades flat against the chair. “ that's not really a good thing. ” bunny's eyes thin for a moment, and failing to elaborate, she takes a silent, deep drag of her cigarette.
logically, it makes the most sense that dionysus is in a bad mood because of the police; mortals stomping on untouched ground with their filthy boots and uncouth demeanors, walking around a sanctuary he was meant to — protect isn't the right word, supervise, maybe. she can only imagine how his father is reacting. how is zeus responding to the troubles? is he looking? likely not, she supposes. that is not the job of a god, it is the job of a hero ( heroes, often demigods, often die, go mad, or lose the thing that matters most — it's why they're meant to do these jobs ).
shuffling to get comfortable ( her butt ( bunny's buns, so to speak ) is unfortunately, of the bony behavior ), the corners of her lips tick upward and bunny shakes her head at xander. “ dionysus could smite you for that, you know. he brought you into this world, he can send you out. ” she pockets the cigarette and gives her brother a genuine look, brows pulled together, cheeks flushed from the heat — from the antics. she says, “ we should go back and eavesdrop together. or, you offer dad a joint and i go dig around for some stuff. wouldn't that be fun? ”
he’s not sure what, exactly, he’d been expecting from their father, but from bunny’s words, laced heavily with sarcasm, it’s abundantly clear that he should have known. ask any one of these nameless fools whose heads he vaguely registers bobbing up and down whilst they clear up, they’d probably bet that mr d. is in a bad mood at any given moment. but that isn't necessarily xander’s experience of him. he lights his own cigarette before returning the lighter, and takes a long drag. “i mean, like, more than usual. i think he’s stressing about this whole mortal thing.”
who isn’t ? the question begs itself. camp half-blood, a home for so many, under threat. xander’s level of concern starts and ends there; this is a place people, including him, have discovered their truest selves, been able to explore the depths of who they are and what they're meant to do. beyond that, the repercussions it may have for the higher-ups, he couldn’t care less. any inconvenience to the gods is a triumph to the anarchist in him.
“no, not exactly. chiron wanted to talk to him so he made me leave. i was gonna eavesdrop, but then i realised i didn’t actually give a fuck. seemed serious though.” others would be nosier, he was sure. “oh, dionysus, what ever are we going to do!,” he mimics, pitching his voice up three octaves. “some losers came into camp and there have been zero consequences. this is a disaster! like, shut up, man. go smoke a j. be real.”
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CLOSED STARTER .ᐟ
@ BIG HOUSE with @cageslip, JUNE EIGHTEENTH.
from the porch comes a steady tapping, a foot against the old, weathered floorboards, the slow exhale of a girl with cheeks burnished pink from time spent lazing about in the strawberry fields or with her back against the docks. she presses her palms against her cheeks, already warm — half from the morning heat of the summer, half at the mere thought of traipsing around florida in the june humidity. her very group is making her left eye start to twitch. she decides not to think about it. or them. bunny stops tapping her foot in waiting and begins to pace, hoping to stain a pattern against the floor.
she sees oc before she hears her, peering at her from the top of the stairs to the porch with her arms crossed. bunny starts to rummage through the bag she has packed ( with wine and cigarettes and also some wine and some cigarettes, not to mention the wine and cigarettes — OH, and the last book oc brought for her, half read and ostentatiously marked up with her scrawled handwriting ) in search of the special wine she prepared for oc. bunny says, "i was kind of hoping you would be late — then i could miss the fucking quest," and hands her the bottle. "it's meant to be aged, there's some drachmas at the bottom — enhances taste or whatever, i don't now, someone in the hermes cabin said it would give you luck, i don't know if they're right. probably not."
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father likes to give lessons, life lessons he likes to call them, glaring at her over the shiny rim of a cola can. he's different from dad, who always gave her life lessons with a hand on her shoulder, a bandage wrapped around her wound, hair pushed out of his eyes. of course, dad's life lessons are of a different variety — imagine a young girl crying over spilled milk, a farm girl putting all of her eggs in one basket, those kinds. father's life lessons are ... different. odd. long and twisted and near maniacal, just enough to keep her attention but not fascinating enough for her to carve them into her bones. this is what to do in case of an angry chimera ( and this is what to do if they're happy ) and the list of things to say when talking to a child of [ fill in the blank, select all that apply: zeus, hades, poseidon ].
bunny knows the children of the big three more intimately than she wants to. there is a certain, distinctive air that they each carry; phia, eager for nothing at all ( save for death or invisibility and even then ), twisting the light until she is either here or not; banks, who always smells like sea salt and the east coast beaches, arriving in every lonely space she chooses to occupy; and eoin, a commanding force of charisma and ego, as stalwart as his father. she can feel them all before she ever sees them. father, dionysus, mr. d, he calls it a sixth sense. a feeling one gets when around the most annoying of demigods ( the most destructive, he often grumbles ). bunny tends not to mind them. bunny also tends not to enjoy them. she turns around, peering through dirty, scuffed glass lenses and poking her tongue into her cheek.
she says, "i don't think they're going to be paying much attention to you," and turns away from him, finding her place on the commons lawn again before taking a seat on the grass with her things. "they're certainly not going to arrest you or not based on ... unfortunate fashion choices — gods, those are the same, eoin. flip a coin, let the fates decide."
OPEN. JUNE 8, 1977. WHEREVER POOR, UNFORTUNATE (BUT MOSTLY POOR, THANKS JIMMY) SOULS COLLIDE @ CAMP HALF-BLOOD. EARLY EVENING.
eoin finnegan emerges from the tombstone chic confines of cabin one looking as rested as a live wire. exhaustion, however, is a privilege reserved for the perishable goods called people and the uniformed guns called the police. look alive, soldier. no home other than this one to fight for. no cannon fodder other than the cracking voices consonant with campfire songs from the fields of punishment to keep from wandering into the woods and turning up spouting theories about the comeback of ulster paramilitarism as ignited by a coalition of squirrels to die for. he sighs loudly enough to send a hurricane spinning towards south africa and descends to find a trustworthy source of fashion advice.
in one hand, you see: an oversized reefer jacket handcrafted by only the most arthritis-having artisans in the world. there are splotches of navy blue reminiscent of the great brine and its unknowable depths next to splotches of russet brown reminiscent of dog poop. not even daedalus could divine the structural destruction that is the conga line of mismatched buttons. wool lining houses little over ninety-nine per cent of half-blood hill’s rodent population for incredible prices.
in the other hand, you must know: the exact same fucking jacket. with the exact same fucking stains.
it takes all of five seconds for him to find someone worthy of stroking his ego. he taps them on the shoulder. tap is a generous term for the action that demonstrates his generosity with lethal force. he preemptively decides to deny indemnification, which is more thinking than what’s been put in this encounter. trust him, most honourable person in a powdered wig since orpheus or george onslow or whomstever it was in that overpriced painting on the overpriced postcard, he was just helping them out of lyre tuning duty. that’ll do it.
“help.” a demand, not a suggestion. the rollicking, maverick charisma of his monotone voice holds their attention hostage, he assumes. even now his eyes scan, as though staring hard enough will attune them to the frequency at which sirens slice through the sound barrier. the ugly kind, that is. “which should i wear when they come back?” the musty, misshapen lumps of linen nightmares are presented with a flourish. after a moment, he clarifies: “to avoid arrest.”
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on paper, there's more that she has in common with piper wei than phia wei, but whatever she once had with phia's sister has long since burned itself out and left this in its place, the ashes of something that could, possibly, birth something else. phia's presence is a larger blot of nothingness ( a concept that to anyone else is a negative absence but to bunny is an other thing ) in bunny's vision than piper's. where her sister burns and explodes like a dying star, phia consumes and devours like a black hole ( which is a phenomenon more worthy of viewing? which is more destructive? less? are they not two halves of one whole? two tragedies one cannot tear their eyes from ). she enjoys revenge in literature. she fades into nothingness and searches for tragedy, for greatness in it, for the opposite — greatness in tragedy.
( briefly thought: in another version of this story, phia is who bunny meets first. )
bunny watches phia take a seat next and muses, “ you never fail to surprise me, phia. ” in a rare gesture of communion, she offers her cigarette to the other, lips tilting into a sardonic smile. “ say antigone knew nothing of sisterhood, ” she pivots, shutting the book in her lap and placing it on the table between them, bringing the bacchae into light. “ didn't she do the right thing? ” a brief pause, and she rolls her next inquisition on her tongue like a cool stone. “ are you ismene or antigone? when faced with it, are you burying your brother or leaving him to be eaten? ”
phia knew mortality. she had been frightened into the present time and time again, pavloved into resisting the urge to dream of a future. the first time she’d brought barb back — the dog covered in earth and drooling at the foot of her bed 10 hours after the wei sisters had bid her a tearful goodbye — phia had known intimately the preciousness and privilege of living. each time she brought the dog back, her attachment to her presence as necessary to phia’s life as her half - ichor blood, she was reminded. each time she brought back spartans and soldiers, their tragic valiance scared her so that she physically recoiled upon their simple recollection. if tragedy did not beget greatness, then sophia wei stood no chance of achieving anything remotely great with the little time she’d been shown to have left. her expression remains flat and indecipherable though she holds in a melodramatic cough, one that her mother would have loosed if bunny had exhaled such a milky white cloud less than fifty feet away from her. at this proximity, rebecca wei would have been begging to be given her last rites. she lowers herself into the offered chair anyhow, a tiny rebellion. “ i enjoy revenge in literature. ” and how true that was, her penchant for vengeance as it remained in theory. “ and antigone was horrible to ismene, ” she recounts, “ she knew jack shit about sisterhood. ” cussing was frowned upon — but phia didn’t have many vices.
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it's often that bunny shirks her responsibilities, weaseling her way out of duties by claiming madness — hysteria, like a woman sent to the seaside for the fresh air. while chiron is always at risk for getting his eyes stuck in the back of his head, her father tends to let her go with a first - hand kind of understanding. today is different. people are putting the camp back together, which, arguably, is a bigger responsibility — which means, bunny finds solace in the strawberry fields ( she still isn't picking them, but they make for good company ).
tilting her eyes toward ezra, bunny raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and responds, “ just pretend i'm not here, ” and peers down to scribble a note onto the page of her book. she chews on the piece of strawberry between her teeth. there's juice wetting the pages. “ you know, ” she continues without lifting her eyes. “ picking the strawberries is optional today — confronted by mortals, and whatnot. ”
WHEN : JUNE 8TH, 1977, MIDDAY.
WHERE : STRAWBERRY FIELDS.
WHO : OPEN !
BOREDOM EATS AT HIS COMPOSURE WITH EACH PASSING SECOND ( he arrived five minutes ago and already longs to be anywhere else ). an unjust command from chiron : leave your powers at field's boundary, today is a day for community and regaining a sense of normality — which means no speed-picking the strawberries and leaving the other campers with nothing to do.
the midday sun already pricks sweat on the back of his neck as ezra weaves between uniform rows that extend to the horizon ; finding a gap in the plants between one demigod and the next has him pause, fingers trailing across a leaf as airy words break a silence he's desperate to fill ( if only to pass the time ), ❛ looks like this strawberry patch ain't big enough for the both of us. ❜
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