#*COUGH COUGH* OCTAVIAN

[tildeathiwillwrite]

The Elf Beneath the Ice

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Drowning

Fandom: Original Work

WIP: The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure (Tales from Valaria)

Next Part ->

Words: 1500

Tag List: @badthingshappenbingo @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf

CW: referenced injury, referenced death, werewolves/lycanthropes, swearing, guns, hypothermia, drowning, coughing, passing out

A/N: The long-promised Gunblade Duo first meeting, before they were even the Gunblade Duo! It is as intense as one would expect from these two.

Happy Independence Day to those who celebrate.

----------

Celestials, how Draven hated hunting in the Fells.

The forest was a thicket of densely packed trees, only traversable through paths long ago overgrown. They’d once been well-kempt or at the very least worn down by travelers. Now only one path was used: a road cut between the elven borderlands and the nearest large human settlement, Zariya.

Draven was nowhere near there. He was too far west, following the haphazard steps of a moon-crazed lycanthrope who’d attacked the tiny village of Belldeme. Three men were killed and eight more injured before they’d driven it away. The message to the Hunter’s Guild in Zariya arrived two days later, in the hands of an exhausted teen boy and accompanied by the down payment for one skilled lycanthrope hunter.

None of the other seasoned hunters wanted to travel the miles to Belldeme, get a proper description, and then travel several miles into the Fells where it was last seen, tracking it for many days before finally finding and killing it. Especially with only so much given upfront.

Draven finally volunteered. He’d claimed it was because he was bored. The way the messenger had seemed so crestfallen when it started to look like he might be turned away had nothing to do with it. Neither did the information Draven’d gleaned on the journey to Belldeme that the boy’s father and older brother were two of the injured.

So no, he wasn’t having second thoughts. Not really.

He just hated freezing his ass off trying to start a fire.

Even with a flint, the tiny twigs were surprisingly stubborn about being set alight. Draven had found his shelter an hour or so before sundown, but it took him so long to coax the wood to catch it was almost fully dark by the time he had a proper fire. He sat back on his heels, tucking the flint into his coat pocket and the small knife into his sleeve.

He’d discovered the cave by a stroke of luck, hidden in a rocky hillside behind a boulder and a particularly thorny bush not far from a small lake, completely frozen over from the weeks of cold. At first, he’d been wary of something living inside, whether it be a wolf pack, a bear, some other creature, or the lycanthrope he sought. But after carefully poking around inside, he found it completely empty. No evidence that anything, not even a tiny snake, had made its home here in recent weeks.

Surprising for a cave in the Fells in the middle of winter.

But Draven wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He settled back against the cave wall, parallel to the cave mouth, and stared outside, watching the breeze send the snow flying in thin drifts, listening as the winds whistled through the bare branches.

Winter in the silence of the Fells was very different from winter in the noise of Zariya, the chaos of Caenum, or even the quiet of Valdove. Something about being the only human around… perhaps even the only living thing around… it was strange. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. Thankfully he wouldn’t have to stay for much longer, he suspected he was catching up to the lycanthrope. Its tracks indicated it was in its humanoid form now, but continued moving west. Out of fear or guilt, perhaps?

Humanoid or not, he still had to find them before they hurt someone else.

Crack!

Draven jerked forward, hand on one of the pistols at his side, and peered into the darkness. The sudden, unmistakable noise of breaking ice had come from the direction of the lake. Has someone fallen in? Who would be so unbelievably stupid—?!

…shit.

Draven rose to his feet, drawing his pistol. He debated grabbing a branch from the fire for a light. No, the clouds weren't terrible tonight, his night vision and the waxing crescent above would suffice. Snow crunching underfoot, he stepped out into the darkness, moving swiftly and quietly towards the lake, listening intently as he approached the frozen water.

Snow-covered earth became snow-covered sand. Draven stared over the lake's surface, frowning at the cracks snaking across the ice underneath the thin layer of snow blown by the wind. The ice was at least a foot thick, he’d checked it earlier that day, wondering how easy it would be to break and get water.

It couldn’t crack on its own, either. Much too cold still to melt.

So someone—or something—had to have disturbed it. Something strong.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Whatever had cracked the ice, it was certainly no longer on the lake. That much was obvious. And it hadn’t left in the direction Draven had come from. He pursed his lips together, considering the sheer number of directions it could have gone.

The lycanthrope should still be in humanoid form, according to their tracks. But if Draven had learned anything from his line of work, it was the idea that no matter how much he thought he knew, he would never have all the facts. Perhaps it possessed the ability to transform itself whenever it desired. Perhaps it transformed under the light of any moon, not just a full moon.

Whatever the situation was, he needed to find that lycanthrope. And he had a better lead than his tracks.

Draven released a long, slow breath and stepped out onto the ice. It creaked slightly under his weight, the damage done by the lycanthrope—if that was truly what it was—having visibly weakened it. His eyes swept over the thin layer of snow, searching for tracks. And all the while listening, paying heed to sounds beside his breathing and the ice below.

He reached the center, where the fractures converged in a vaguely circular pattern. Kneeling, he brushed away some of the snow with a gloved hand. No tracks. How—?

Thud.

Draven froze, head snapping up, and turned in a quick circle. Where had—?

Thud.

On a whim, Draven glanced down. Right as a hand slammed into the underside of the ice.

Thud.

He stumbled back with a cry. “What the fuck?!”

Thud.

Crack!

The ice suddenly shattered, weakened at the center of the cracks, breaking into a thousand long, jagged shards in a roughly circular hole. Draven stepped back, fearing the rest of the lake would come away beneath his feet. The ice creaked and groaned as the damaged portion fell away, splashing into the unfrozen water but remaining mostly whole.

Draven leveled his gun at the hole as the same hand appeared at the edge of the newly formed opening, grasping the surface with the desperation of a drowning man. A second hand appeared, this one clutching something tightly in closed fingers. Its owner pulled himself through, dragging his dripping-wet body out of the water, gasping and coughing violently.

He was an elf. That much was clear, from the delicate features of his face to the slight points of his ears and how he was built for speed rather than strength. His hair, shaved on the left side and long on the right, gleamed strangely in the moonlight, and a simple earring of dark metal pierced his left ear. He wore leather armor—breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses and graves—over what appeared to be a cotton tunic and trousers, with worn leather boots completing the ensemble.

A pair of sheathes and a water-damaged pack hung from his belt. All appeared to be empty.

The elf glanced up and seemed to notice Draven for the first time, making brief eye contact. He moved as if to scramble away, but a strange look crossed his face. Before Draven could say a word, the elf’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped, even as his body began to shake uncontrollably from the cold.

Draven swore and holstered his gun, kneeling beside the elf and shaking him. “Wake up!” 

The elf did not respond. 

“How the depths did you get out this far without a coat?”

The elf’s head lolled limply, eyes closed. Draven noticed thin scars, almost like claw marks, on his left cheek, and substantial bruising on his forehead and under his right eye. But they were the least of his concerns. Shit. He’s out out. How long has he been… how’d he even get under the ice?!

He glanced around the lake again. The only opening in the surface of the ice was the one the elf had, presumably, made himself. So how…? …why? …huh?

All questions only one person held the answers to. Draven hissed through his teeth and scooped up the unconscious elf in a bridal carry. Rising to his feet, he turned and started walking back to the den where he’d made his camp.

[f0xgl0v3]

Matthew Napoleon

He’ll get a big full character thing once I actually.. have all the characters down lol. But I have Matthew down!

When I was listening to the podcast, I heard about Michael and immediately he was an eldritch entity in my mind, he was the true form of the Gods, he was just pure condensed energy giving off light. Was he a person once? Maybe, but he’s also just like that and no one really questions it.

However clearly when I see the actual description for what he looks like (a guy with scribbles for a head) I completely disregarded that! Well- nicely I did but that gave me the idea for the 15 colors shoved into his light. But, ,:3 he’s not as good as one Matthew I saw that was a bear. That was beautiful lol

But my Matthew! He is just. Energy, light, he is very bright and he does have a human shape to him but the clothes help him keep the human shape because he tends to not always look like that. Also common decency. We at least know he has to have some bit of solids in there to do Matthew stuff but no one really knows. Okay, thank you, goodbye.

[thatpeculiargremlin]

I love how I get into a series, and IMMEDIATELY fall in love with the character that I know damn well is gonna die.

[takeustothelakes]

hate when authors do the bare minimum for a character/characters (give them no backstory, no personality, no motive, etc) but i love when they do that cause then i get to make my own canon and just say, “yeah, this is what happened.”

[gengar-pixel-2]

YOU

YOU THINK?? DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MESSED UP AND SCARRED MOST OF POPTROPICAS VILLAINS ARE??

DO YOU

UNDERSTAND??

HAVE YOU NOT TALKED TO. ANY OF THEM.

I HAVE SEEN THINGS.

IT’S GONNA TAKE MORE THAN “TOTEMS” TO “REMOVE” THE EVIL.

..Also thats not me this image was taken from the wiki.

[cassburrr]

the camp jupiter boys before one of them went missing (cough cough, jason), one of them went crazy (cough cough, octavian), and one of them died!!! (cough cough, dakota)

[fnaflover2024]

Well we can agreed that Octavian could have it way worse...*coughTrophoonius*cough...

[kitkats-and-kittens]

Spoilers for Pjo.

You know I feel like people should acknowledge how fucked up camp halfblood is more often.

Like everyone always makes fun of New Rome for being uptight and sticklers for the rules, but low-key living at camp halfblood sucks.

The barrier wasn’t even up for a decade before it was broken and before that literal children were sent out to fight monsters despite being promised safety (Ik Talias protection made it slightly better, but still) and during sea of monsters they are once again required to fight as literal kids!

Unlike New Rome there’s no university for the Demigods to go to. Year rounders get tutored by Chiron (presumably) and then what? They have no actual credentials or any records of them graduating from school. Since no one knows about Camp they technically don’t have an address either which sucks if your parents are dead or don’t want you.

We see hardly any adult demigods around camp and I don’t know if they choose to leave or not, but either way they are set up for failure. Chiron tells Percy about the success stories, the people who go on to be Olympic athletes or celebrities due to their half godly nature, but it’s more than likely those are far outweighed by the failures.

Those who died hungry on the streets with no way to get a job and no home to return to. Those who were torn down by monsters without the protection of the camp. Even those who made it constant live with the terror that one day they’ll be found and killed. And what if those people have family’s? Will the monsters hunt them too? And what happens when they get too old to fight?

That’s not even mentioning the trauma they’ll be stuck with their entire lives.

No wonder so many end up joining the Emperors in ToA.

And you know what. Chiron need to take some damn accountability for being a shit mentor. He fucked off for most of the books but even when he talks to Percy about how much he cares he does quite literally nothing about Luke. How did a child manage to manipulate an immortal centaur for years without anyone catching on?

And he doesn’t improve after the war either. Will is made Head of Apollo Cabin at 13. He has two younger siblings and is essentially expected to act as their parent despite still being a child himself. Not to mention he’s the camps head doctor. He’s performed surgery! Which is exhausting and long and something no child should be dealing with. Especially since we know Chiron must have some healing abilities since he literally raised Asclepius.

Will is not paid either. None of them are. He doesn’t get a salary, so free child labour (cough cough exploitation) and after he leaves camp he’ll have no way to prove his medical training to anyone and no way to pay for medical school or even to get in without the appropriate documents.

I don’t like to rant about books but Rick Riordan did not go dark enough with this series and I will say this about his books until the day I die. The light comedic writing style means fucked up shit like this simply slips through the cracks.

There’s still so much I haven’t touched on.

What about the Hephaestus cabin and their curse. How did Chiron just stand by and watch as these kids continually blew themselves up?

Fighting in two wars?

The Romans are a little more fucked up there because we know there are adults who can fight and are simply choosing to send children in their place.

Octavian being quite literally brainwashed into dying for his land.

Jason’s entire backstory.

The fact that most demigod children probably die before ever reaching camp is very much not touched on and it should be.

The fact that camp halfblood is hidden with the mist means that no one knows where the year rounders are. Which is weird when you think a lot of the reason people become year rounders is too many monster attacks or horrible home lives which further implies out in the real world there are genuine missing posters for these kids. Some might even be considered legally dead so what happens when they rock up in their early 20’s attempting to rejoin society?

In conclusion Camp Halfblood is fucked and Chiron is not some innocent fun loving centaur dude. His lack of action had a very big and very real impact on these kids.

[thedemigodsguide]

Hey theoretically if I was a child of chaos would I still be allowed in Camp Half Blood?

- Call me 🌌 /Space anon :)

Hi, Space Anon😉!

I’ve never heard of a child of Chaos! While technically possible, it’s unprecedented!

To answer your question, however, yes. You would be allowed at camp. The only beings that are unwelcome are those who truly intend to harm its occupants. That means monsters, mostly. And some demigods/legacies that are Octavian a danger to our people (*cough*the anemic loser*cough*).

Same goes for New Rome. There rules are a little different, though, so you’d probably need to spend a little more time talking with them if you want to stay there instead.

Anyways, hope to see you soon!

–Kally

[groversimp]

Making The Bed

synopsis: you got your victory, you’ve got everything you wanted- but it’s not what you imagined

OCTAVIAN CONTENT 😈😈😈 I LAVA HIM

warnings: angst, traitor!reader, octavian HATES the greeks frfr, major character death.

reader is greek but lives in Camp Jupiter because I said so.

🙏🙏 the word “man” used, but in a sense that it’s about mankind not you being a man

You feel him before you see him, behind you in the dark, labyrinth-like tunnel. Turning your head, you meet the eyes of your ex-lover. Octavian’s gaze narrows.

A pause. A breath. It reminds you of the countless hours you two had spent in domestic solitude. Back then, you didn’t mind the quiet- you welcomed it with open arms, just like you did to him. But now it’s a shell of what once was. What you had lost.

You spoke first. “Octavian,” you greet him, voice echoing in the dewy, dirt-lined tunnel; the home-base of your traitorous rebellion.

You hadn’t wanted to help the old, primordial gods in their revolution. You wanted to stay far away from war, far away from Greek drama, and far away from Gaia. But, when the Earth Titan spoke to you in a hushed voice- first in your dreams, then in your daily life- it was hard to ignore. And when she showed you visions of your dear Octavian with a knife to his throat, a gun to his head, you couldn’t deny your need to protect him. Even if it met betraying all you loved.

“Don’t.” Octavian says, voice so sharp and so harsh it didn’t feel right. You wanted to reach out, sooth the bitter expression that graced his face, like you once would’ve. But that’s not your place anymore, and someday he will find someone else to bring sun to his storms.

“You killed them, Y/N.” He speaks again, like you’re not human. “You killed so many Romans. You watched them die.” He scoffs, shaking his head. You swallow, you can’t deny your sins. Not when you stand in front of an angel.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this, love.” You tell him, a hollow voice. “Please just—“ You try to reach out to him, “no!” He cries back, pulling his dagger out.

He looks at you, so close but universes away. You catch your reflection in his eyes, and you seem more lion than man in this moment.

Silenced, you shake your head. You try to speak, you really do try. But what words would convey the culpability that hangs over your head? A noose tied by the strings of fate. “Octavian, I—“ your voice breaks. The whispers of right and wrong, duty and loyalty, murmur out to you.

Right now, pure instinct sets in. Your fate was written long ago by the gods and Titans that had forsaken you. Fight, flight, and freeze; responses to danger, and you wanted to do all three in this moment.

So you do the one thing you were made to do.

You pull the dagger out so quickly he couldn’t stop you, and it burrowed into Octavian’s gut just as quickly. The noise of horror he lets out would haunt anyone— god or man— but you were neither, something in the middle yet so far from the scale. A demigod gone dark, fed by shadows and angered by light.

His blood spills on you, and the sensation of him being so close is a ghost of what once was. What could’ve been you and him, if time had allowed you such a mercy. But there was no mercy with monsters. Just as you couldn’t give Octavian mercy, or grace, allowing him to live without you. He was all you breathed, all you lived for, and he has been made unclean and ruined because of it.

“Come on.” You ease him as he stumbles, you catch him as he falls. His head rests on your shoulder and he coughs out blood. It stains your shirt and you almost grin.

“I’ll protect you,” he can’t respond, but he sighs and shakes in your arms- body relaxing as his breath becomes more labored. Your hand comes to cup the back of his head, shielding him from the world that ruined you both so bad.

You let him rest, pretending you are back in Camp Jupiter and unscathed- before you had been burned alive, and burned all around you.

Now, in the dark tunnel, you can’t feel him.

[chironshorseass]

“As we have discussed, I’ll let Perseus tell his version of the previous events—” Furtive murmurs resounded across the Senate, growing louder and louder by the second. This time, Octavian took over. He held both hands up. “Senators,” he said. “I ask you to remain quiet.” To Percy’s surprise, the murmurs receded. Reyna smiled tightly, but Percy could tell, even if she was good at hiding it: she didn’t appreciate Octavian taking command. Her mouth opened, but Octavian beat her to it. “Thank you, everyone. Now, Perseus—if you may answer these questions, and answer them truthfully: did you kill Mars?” Percy glared in return, letting the silence speak. Octavian blinked. Someone coughed.  He sighed. Fine. If they wanted him to say it, he’d say it. What more did he have to lose?  Whispers and ghosts of memories flashed in his mind. He stood over Mars’ body, panting. Glass shards pressed against his gut; something inside him had broken, yet he still stood his ground, he was still alive. Something started boiling. Golden ichor. Had Percy done that? Had he boiled Mars’ blood? It didn’t matter. In seconds, the God of War was gone. All that was left was a wasteland, and a scattering of golden dust, swept by the winds. Mars Ultor was dead for good. He’d been sure of it. Back in the Senate, Percy looked directly into Octavian’s eyes and said, “I did.” Again, more murmurs. Again, Octavian signaled for everyone to quiet down.  “And did you, by any chance, kill First Cohort Centurion Jack Adams?” Jack Adams. They’d carried his body. Percy hadn’t seen it since. The sound Jack had made as he took his last breaths would stay with Percy forever, though. Like a reminder.  “Yes,” Percy said.  The voices grew so loud that Octavian didn’t even try to ask for silence, opting to raise his voice instead; “Thank you, Perseus. That is all the information we need. Don’t you think so, Praetor?”

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Tag Game: Writing Pattern

Thank you to @writer-of-worlds for the tag!

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Gently tagging @fourwingedwriter @stargazer-luna @blackrosesandwhump @annakayy @elizaellwrites and open tag! :D

Here goes nothing!

June of Doom Day 1

Whumpee sprinted blindly through the thicket, hands uselessly trying to protect their face from the branches that whipped and stung at their skin.

Victoria Rescues Sam

“I wish to speak with Blizzard."

Killian Poison Ficlet

In hindsight, Killian should’ve expected something to go wrong.

Gunblade Duo Used as Bait Oneshot

The trek back through Zariya was even more tense than the initial trip.

Moonlight

The moonshadow elf had been following Jin for some time now.

First Meeting

First contact happened the night Diana decided against going out to play for the nearby inn.

Getting Stabbed Hurts, Who'd have thought? (Magician's Bait, Part 6)

Reese’s head pounded like her skull was being used as a child’s drum set.

Cinderheart

Jin was surrounded by darkness, no longer the angry, invincible, uncontrollable monster but herself before the painful transformation.

Please Don't Kill the Messenger

Octavian moved quickly through the forest, following an old deer path south.

Whumpril Day 8, Day 16

Whumpee could feel the cough rising in their chest, the unbearable tickling, burning sensation in their throat as they held it back.

[f0xgl0v3]

Guys I started watching X-men like every other person on the planet/j and I.

I’m Scott’s #1 apologist I’m sorry dude but I just relate to him. Dude the amount of times I’ve had to pull the weight of my team and deal with people being annoying as fuck Scott is doing his best (I’m on the Bobby episode and he’s so real. Not really but I get where he’s coming from and I’d be pissed and petty about it too)

[ask-princessandromeda]

Al, of course I’m gonna keep y’all updated. You can be one of my ✨best friends✨, too! I got put on a quest w him 🤭

Make sure y’all are taking care of yourselves (cough Ethan cough), I’m not gonna adopt you guys but just know that this Venus kid is looking out for all of you. Except one person whose name I won’t say.

(I like you too admin 🤭🎀🫶🏼 I gotta stay loyal 💪) (I’m an Octavian simp bc he’s literally just a boy like he did nothing wrong)

Alabaster: Oh, cool. Good for you. We’re friends now, I guess.

Ethan: Thanks God, I clearly DIDN’T NEED any more parents! Friends are good, though.

Silena: Wait, Venus kid? Like, Venus, Roman Aphrodite? I know you hate me, but… wait!

[jaggededges123]

Eighthcest apology kiss PLEASE 🗣️🗣️🗣️ - octakiseronliker

(i put most of this under a cut because it got uhhhhhh really quite long)

You are a cheap sacrifice. You have always known this; it is in your name. Serve and sacrifice and hope that you do not die, this time.

Hot, stabbing pain sears through your soul, as you wait, as your soul being halfway to death fuels your necromancer. There is nothing for you to cling to, here--no faith, no anchor. Every platitude you were given by the clergy as you trained and pumped your body full of things to make it more palatable to a child that hadn't even arrived then--it is all useless here. There is nothing but cold so profound that it wraps back around to boiling as far as your pain receptors are concerned, and the slowly encroaching madness that you must fend off alone, lest you remain adrift from yourself and be rendered permanently insensate.

This is part of the bargain you made in being born; this is the weight of being selected for the blood that pumps through the veins you are not presently attached to. You die, and are resurrected, and die, and are resurrected, all without ever being buried or being mourned.

Just when you fear that you cannot hold on any longer, that voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, sonorous and ecclesiastic: Brother Asht, I bid you return.

It is relief, but a paltry one; your trial is nowhere near over yet. Navigating from where you are back to where you should be is like walking through a maze with ever-shifting walls and a blindfold over your eyes. For some reason, here, it also feels as though there are hands clawing at your feet, threatening to trip you up or drag you permanently out of life. Your only beacons are the smell of ritual herbs drifting into your nose, and your necromancer's familiar refrain consistently floating around you.

You are Colum the Eighth, and this is what that means: you find your way back from hell to the one who put you there, every single time he calls you back.

You breach through the base of your spine, as you were taught; your disk is somewhat slipped there, and it is easiest to wiggle in through the flaws in yourself. Once you are back inside yourself, you reconnect to your organs. It is like flipping the generator that powers the entire Octavian cathedral--everything lights up all at once, and it's overwhelming and painful to see everything thrum to life again.

When your lungs reconnect, when your jaw forces open again, you splutter and cough like your soft alveoli are filled with water from the River. Your eyes come online, but the sensory input is agonizing, and your pupils take refuge by rolling back into your skull. You breathe in smoke that reeks horribly, now that you have a nose and not only a soul. The way your breath comes in short and punchy, combined with the conversational hum of the room, beats against your skull like so many hammers, and the coughing itself is cacophonous.

There are two warm, small hands holding one of yours, and your entire arm seems to arc with electricity from it. The pressure from your leathers is unbearable. If you weren't so busy trying to simply breathe, then you would tear it off of yourself.

To your side, you hear: "Fifteen minutes. You're getting tardy."

...You have a headache, and cannot say anything in return to Silas Octakiseron, Master Templar of the White Glass.

Those two warm, small hands leave yours only when you are moderately well situated in your own body, and when the idea of opening your eyes again doesn't make you want to pluck them out. Your necromancer leads you up to your unsteady feet, and the familiar sharp ache-pain in your lower back centers you like nothing else.

"I am glad," Teacher murmurs from your other side, "that you were able to make the journey back, Colum the Eighth."

It sounds ominous coming from his lips, and you don't want to respond. Silas does, in your stead.

"Thank you for your wisdom, Teacher," Silas says, though his voice suggests that he will be disregarding whatever their enigmatic host told him. "We will be leaving now."

Finally, when you cannot put it off anymore--Silas is not holding you and walking sightless is not a skill you have mastered--you open your eyes properly.

The first thing you see is the face of your necromancer. The first thing you notice is the plum-bright mess of bruises around one of his eyes, and you worry. You do not open your mouth because it still feels as though it is filled with bees, but you do worry. Your eyebrows crease together.

The rest of Silas's face is blessedly unchanged; whatever occurred while you were gone appears to have been minor. His face is sharp like a knife, but you can still see what little baby fat he had ever had, as gaunt as necromancers always are. He is made softer by virtue of wearing his hear down, with his headband already in for the night. You can see the innocence in his calf-brown eyes, though you would be a fool to mistake the edges there for something entirely ingenuous and artless.

Silas inclines his head and turns around, and you follow him in silence. You do not know where he will take you next. You're only just now remembering that Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn are dead, the reason why you had been asked to vacate your body in the first place.

When Silas Octakiseron stops walking and you stop half a step behind him, it is to your surprise that you have arrived at your quarters. It seems strange, to your mind which is only just now falling back into place enough to think, that there is not more to do. There are bodies, somewhere. Your numbers have been reduced by two.

It is not the first time you've seen death, and you very much doubt it will be the last, but it is bizarre that everything is so still in the wake of two souls departing permanently for the River.

You follow Silas into your quarters, and--this too is uncommon, only reserved for when you have not come back from the River entirely "correctly"--Silas helps you remove your armor. What a world, in which the necromancer helps the cavalier dress himself for bed instead of the other way around. It's shameful.

"Your eye," you at least manage to mumble, as that purple shining thing returns to your field of vision, the eye small in its nest trained on one of the straps of your leathers. "Silas, your eye."

"You will duel Protesilaus the Seventh for it." Silas's gaze flickers to yours, and he looks somewhat ashamed of himself for a moment. "It would not have been fitting to resolve the manner any other way."

"I understand."

He does not care to talk about it. You understand that much.

Silas helps to dress you for bed, though he does not help you into the sonic cleaner for once. You are glad of it; if you were to be subjected to the vibration right now you think you might shake entirely apart. You, in turn, help him dress for bed as much as you can in your current state. Your fingers do not obey well, and the phantom one on your left hand aches something awful.

He does not scold you for your failings, this time, at least not out loud. You catch him glimpsing at you when you pull his hair a bit taking it out from inside his nightgown, but you do not know what it means.

You sit down on your cot when you are done, your bulk crashing down heedless of the way the ancient springs scream underneath you. Your heartbeat has, finally, begun to steady itself. That process too is tardy this time, just as Silas said you were. You stare blankly at the wall, waiting inertly for Silas to say the evening prayers; he had been interrupted, you think, by the news of the Fifth's untimely demise. He will start over, you are sure.

Silas Octakiseron kneels in front of you, and it shakes you from your stasis. You blink.

"Brother Asht, are you well?" he asks.

You do not lie. You, Colum Asht, never lie--the most you do is avoid inconvenient truths by omission. You have no escape route here.

You sigh, and you feel it all the way from the bottom of your lungs to the numb tip of your tongue. "Not tonight, Silas."

"Do I need to relight the incense?"

"I don't know if it would help," you confess. It feels like a confession, and it makes Silas's face pinch in a way you do not like.

Suddenly, for some reason you cannot fathom, perhaps for a reason that only the most well versed in the Tome and well steeped in the Kindly Prince's goals can understand, Silas Octakiseron crowds you in. He crawls in between your thick, heavy legs--you have not seen him debase himself by crawling in nearly fourteen years--and he reaches up to your face, as though in supplication. His uncallused fingers press over the shorn part of your hair, cradling your still dimly aching skull.

You realize, in a flash of clarity, that he looks like he is seeking penance. You realize that in the moment before he does what he does.

And what he does... is kiss you.

His lips are soft against yours, especially in comparison to yours. Silas, as he is in all things, does not hesitate a moment; he presses his lips against yours, and even you, in your necromantic ineptitude, can feel the way some of his residual thalergy slips into you.

You take a breath, through your nose, while he kisses you. The oxygen does not burn all the way down. That is how you know. The phantom ache in your hand fades somewhat, as Silas tilts his face and presses again, more aggressively.

You are sure that the purpose of this kiss must have something to do with necromancy, and yet, your head tilts in the opposite direction, so that you can kiss him in return. Your heart flutters, though it shouldn't. You almost wish it wouldn't. It would be easier.

But your life has never been easy.

Silas breaks away from you after a few more moments, though he stays so close that when he speaks, his breath still enters your mouth, where you drag it yourself into your lungs, a fading echo of your master.

"I am sorry, Brother Asht. I will call you more fervently, next time."

He is killing you, slowly and agonizingly. You do not know if what he does is right, any longer, or if he drags you both through the mud for his own purposes misaligned with those of the Lord’s. You fear that your own heart is not right, for what you've done with and for him. You fear for nearly everything you have worked to uphold your entire life.

And yet, you love him still. You love him more desperately than you have loved anything else in your life. From the moment he was born and placed into your embarrassingly unprepared arms, until the moment you are released from his service in death, you have loved and will love him.

What a horrific paradox.

[itsjustoctavianhere]

Does Octavian's do anything special for 15th March (you know what I mean!)

PFFFFT-

I BET HE TRIED TO MAKE IT A SORT OF DAY OF MOURNING IN CJ-

And his proposal was obviously “set aside” cough thrown out the window cough

The only thing he was granted was 30 minutes of fame so he created and entire speech + presentation on the event for “educational” purposes.

Most definitely ironed his toga that day.

AND- He does everything by himself. Despite others offering to help. He thinks he can do everything cuz he’s got ego for days. (He ends up asking for help anyways)

He does this every year. Some people find it too over the top, others find it fun.

Another bet, he’s gonna put on a serious face and demeanour and on the inside he’s just super giddy. He knows he’s not supposed to be excited about his ancestor’s death but being the centre of attention and presenting all his hard work for a half an hour is fun.