#greek myth is very 'the farther you go to keep something from happening the more you ensure it' so

[raayllum]

Also one of the reasons it makes narrative / thematic sense if the main motivator that has Callum going to Aaravos / doing shady shit is because of Rayla is like, somewhat basic storytelling and also very Greek tragedy? She threw out their relationship and broke his trust and risked her life for two years all in the name of keeping him safe. I’m sure that’ll still be one of her main goals in S4, thinking of herself as his and Ezran’s protector (better her than them / him) while they travel together again. Only for her to fail in protecting him, because he’s either going to do something Very Dangerous in order to make up for something she can’t do (circa 2x07 all over again) if she’s injured or just incapable (re: 1x03 in a dark turn), or he’s going to do something Deeply Dangerous explicitly to protect her / on her ‘behalf.’ And I’m just - I’m so freaking ready

[phykios]

the marble king, part 7 [read on ao3]

A rare show of contrition, Annabeth conceded that she had been wrong. There were not, in fact, seven rapids to traverse; in total, there had been nine. Unfortunately, Percy could not enjoy this little victory nearly as much as he wished.

Annabeth had been clearly rattled by their encounter several days prior. Once more she retreated into muteness, passing the time by fingering the edges of her shorn hair, a permanent frown delicately carved into her face. He did not like to take pleasure at others’ pain, but he knew that, short of either producing a sign from her mother or tripping and falling into the river, there was not much he could do to make her smile. Hopefully, a real bed on which to sleep in a real inn with an actual roof over their heads would lift her spirits somewhat.

They sailed into a thriving river port city which Annabeth had called Kiova. He rolled the word over and over again in his mouth, wrapping his tongue around the odd sounds. It was a slippery sort of word, he thought, softly repeating it to himself under his breath as though it would fall from his lips entirely if he did not keep it close.

To his great dismay, it seemed as though the people of this city did not speak Italian. Nor did they appear to speak Greek, nor Latin, nor any other language with which Percy was familiar. Though she would not show it, it was plain to anyone who knew her to see that Annabeth was struggling as well. Her conversation with the innkeeper was slow and awkward, stilted, involving a great deal many strange gestures and repeated phrases in both Greek and another several languages he did not comprehend, which clearly made sense neither to Annabeth nor her conversation partner, and Percy was afraid the whole thing would collapse until a bystander, apparently moved to pity, was able to cobble together their shared knowledge of languages in order to rent Percy and Annabeth a room for the night.

She thanked the stranger profusely for his assistance, and he smiled at them, his blue eyes sparkling, something familiar in the curve of his lip.

“It was no trouble,” he said to her, the words colored by his thick, dark voice. “You and your husband--take care.”

He wanted to correct the man. But if he and Annabeth were to share a room, then it would be better for her reputation for her to be a married woman.

When they entered their room, a small, cramped thing with a single lit candle, fairly decent for the amount of money they still possessed, which was not much, she collapsed on their one bed, quite exhausted. “How mortifying,” she groaned, her voice muffled by the thin pillow. “It was like I had forgotten every bit of language I had ever learned. And when he called you my husband!” She huffed, turning over. “It appears as though you were correct; even without my hair, I will never pass for a man. Then what, I ask, was the point of its removal?”

Percy did not say much, distracted by the single bed. He stared at it, equal parts anxious and excited, which was rather silly of him--he had slept close to her several times before, had shared sleeping quarters with her plenty of times, and all of them strictly platonic. Why should this time be any different?

And yet, it was, for reasons he could not name. Perhaps the bed was smaller, and they were so much older. Perhaps it was those terrible, wonderful dreams which plagued him every night, dreams of soft fabrics and softer skin. Perhaps it was just his foolish heart, awakened once more by love.

At his silence, she continued. “Well, it is no matter. It is gone, and I am glad to be rid of it, truly.”

Still, he said nothing.

Perturbed, she looked at him, sitting up on the bed. “What is it? Is something wrong? Is there a monster nearby?”

“No,” he said, quickly, to dissuade her from any fears. “No, nothing of the sort.”

She gazed at him, a queer look in her eye. “What do you think?”

“Of what?” He asked, cautious.

“Of your handiwork.” With a shake of her head, she disturbed her golden crown, some curls falling down her forehead, framing her large, large eyes. “You are not usually one to hide your thoughts, therefore--please, share.”

“Oh.” He was quite certain she would not want to hear his thoughts, yet he sensed that continued silence would be the wrong choice. “You look… well, you look very… comely.” he offered, eyes tracing the line of her neck, and the curves of her ears, so sweet, that had previously been hidden from his gaze. Had he been a more poetic man, he would have the compulsion to dedicate several sonnets to those ears.

Whatever answer she was seeking, it was clear that Percy did not provide.

She scowled, her lips pursed.

“I--”

“Well, I happen to find it very freeing,” she said. She reached up and felt at the ends, for the hundredth time in the last few days, her lips tightening, as though she were unhappy with what she found. “Without all of my hair, I feel as though I could outrace even Atalanta herself.”

Then, she did something he did not expect; she shivered.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Of course,” she sniffed. “I just--I had forgotten--it has been so long since I cut my hair, that I did not realize.”

“Realize what?”

Her fingers once again reached up to play with her short curls--then, midway through her gesture, she caught herself, and brought her hand down again, faintly embarrassed. “Well,” she said, almost shyly, “it can be… quite cold, without so much hair.”

“Indeed?” That was never something he had considered before. Of course, he had spent the vast majority of his life in the warm embrace of the Aegean Sea, where the cold was largely something of a far off myth.

She nodded, drawing her thin shawl tighter around herself. “I will grow used to it with time, I had merely… I had forgotten.”

Though she had not asked him for anything, he made to take the blanket on the bed and hand it to her first, before he remembered. “One moment,” he said, crossing to the corner where he had placed their dwindling amount of supplies, crouching down to rummage through them.

He could not believe he had forgotten this.

Well, on the one hand, he could. It had to have been several months since that day in Athens, since they had ended their little feud. He had seen so much more of the world since then, had traversed farther than anyone he had ever known, save for her.

The color was still as lovely as he remembered, the cool, deep blue of a starless sky. He held the parcel out for her to see, felt the smooth threads between his fingers, spun in a tight, graceful weave. “Here,” he said, pulling out his prize. “This is for you.”

In his search, he had not noticed how she came to stand behind him, peeking over his shoulder, so he was quite surprised when he turned to see her looming over him.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, grey eyes turning silver. Her brows rose up to a point, almost joining together at the wrinkle of her forehead, lips parted in a prolonged, silent gasp. He might have thought she had been turned to stone, were it not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. “This…” she faltered, licking her lips. “For me?”

He nodded.

“How…? When?” she asked, shocked beyond all language.

It appeared he had accomplished yet another feat worthy of the greatest epics; he had rendered Annabeth Fredriksdotter speechless.

Flushing further, he stood. “In Athens,” he admitted. “I--well, I was walking round the old agora, and I saw it, and I thought to myself, well, I imagined that this color would look rather fetching on you, and I had some money to myself, so I… purchased it. For you,” he finished, lamely.

He had nearly forgotten how enthralling it was to be so close to her, to see her stormcloud eyes as they reflected the candlelight, to see every strand of the soft gold of her hair as it ringed her face. He wondered if she should hear how quickly his heart was beating, as it strained to free itself from the confines of his chest and place itself in her hands.

It was like they existed in a glass bubble, a whole world unto themselves, so beautiful. So fragile.

“May I?” she asked, no louder than a puff of wind, and he nodded.

Taking it from his hands, she rubbed her fingers against the thread grain, her eyes taking on that familiar calculating expression. “It is very well-made,” she murmured, rolling it out to its fullest extent.

“I’m told it was for a noble lady,” said Percy, possessed of a sudden coyness he did not know he had. “I received it for a good price, but I had thought it should go to the kind of client for whom it was intended.”

The look she cast him nearly made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Still, she drew it around herself, layering it round her neck and her head, and Percy barely had the time to imagine his hands in its place, before he was struck by the full, glorious image which presented itself to him.

He had been correct in his assumptions; the dark blue fabric looked lovely against her tan skin, but her short curls ringed her face in a halo, like the mosaics of the lords and ladies of St. Sophia, like the depictions of the holiest men and women on the walls of every church.

Percy had never considered himself to be a religious man. He performed the sacred rites and made his offerings to his father and his extended family, but not out of any true sense of theological devotion, and certainly not with the same passion as the Christians or the Ottomans whom he had seen. He did not throw himself to his knees at the thunder and lightning, nor the many miracles he had witnessed in his time, for he had come face to face with the king of the heavens, and had, sadly, found him wanting. He had met and known the gods and goddesses of earth, sea, and sky, and had discovered that they, too, were plagued by the million petty disagreements of mortal living. In some ways, it was a comfort, to know that even those who were all-powerful could be laid low by the simplest of deceptions, that they required great heroes as much as the heroes required them--and perhaps even more. Yet, of course, in other ways, it was quite the disappointment. After the war, after Lukas, after all that he had suffered, it had been difficult not to look at his fellow soldiers, at their prayer ropes and golden images and holy words, without mild distaste.

Looking at Annabeth, though, at the halo of her hair and the dark blue of her shawl, her large eyes, her lips so close, the heat of her body against him… well. Looking at her now, he thought he could teach them a thing or two about devotion.

She felt even closer than before, somehow. Perhaps he had moved towards her. Or perhaps she had. Between them, Thalia’s lightning.

She had kissed him once before, many many years ago, caught in the grip of a volcano, and he would be lying if he claimed he had not thought of it often since then.

Then, she leaned back.

“It seems my siblings were wrong about you,” she teased, her voice half-strained.

“How… how do you mean?” he asked. His head felt as though it were full of air, soft and hazy.

“They all swore up and down that you could never be so thoughtful.” Then she smiled at him, so sweetly, gazing up at him from beneath her honey-colored lashes. “Thank you, Percy.”

His mouth curved upwards in a smile, though he did not think to do so himself. “It was no trouble,” he said, wobbly and weak.

The glass had broken. The moment had passed.

Without further discussion, they prepared themselves for bed. Extinguishing the solitary candle, he laid himself down beside her. The bed was too small for them to be at a respectable distance, unfortunately, and he hoped she would forgive him.

Their room had one small window, shuttered close. Not even a hint of moonlight penetrated the slatted wood. Through the door, he could faintly hear the sounds of the tavern under them, a cascade of footsteps here, a sudden bark of laughter there, the whole of this strange, strange world beneath their feet. Eyes opened, eyes closed, it made no difference. Were it not for the noises of the people below, he would have thought they could be under the very earth itself, once again descending into the darkness of the underworld.

All of twelve years old and sent on a fool’s errand to retrieve Zeus’ weapon, contending with the notion that he might not return, that he might fail and bring war upon the world, that his mother would be lost to him forever, he had braved the halls of Hades with this woman at his side, just as afraid as he.

In the darkness now, as he drifted off to sleep, he nearly jumped back to wakefulness at the brush of her hand against his. He turned his head to her, but he could not make out her features, could not see her eyes to determine if it was conscious or not, if she had reached for him for comfort or if her hand had simply moved of its own accord.

On their first quest together, in the land of the dead, she had slipped her hand into his, desperate for a friendly touch, for assurance that there was someone else alive with her. Swallowing, closing his eyes against the blackness, he laced his fingers with hers, squeezing. I am here, he thought, sending it to her through the pulse of his hand. I am here.

After a moment, she squeezed back.

***

Percy was tired.

No, that did not entirely sum up precisely how tired he felt. Percy was exhausted. He was so exhausted, it was as if he had participated in a week’s worth of war games without any rest. His body ached as though Thalia or Iason had struck him with lightning, a constant, thrumming pulse of pain throughout his whole body. He felt as though he had been emptied of his vital insides, hollowed out and replaced with naught but a deep, deep fatigue.

It was, he knew, due to the endless days of sailing they had undertaken.

He did draw his power from the water, this was true. However, they must have been sailing for at least several months by now, day after day after day, Percy commanding the Empress through the tides, headed against the current, traveling ever North on the windiest road known to mankind. So far from the ocean, not even the Danapris could sustain him for as long as they had been traveling, and he could tell that his strength was wearing thin.

And it was not just him. The Empress wobbled beneath his feet, her hastily made bark splitting along the seams. If they did not stop for a rest, and soon, it was very likely that their canoe would capsize, taking both Percy and Annabeth with her.

Thankfully, Annabeth seemed to understand his exhaustion without him having to explain. “Just a little further,” she assured him. “Miliniska is close--not more than a mile or so.”

Percy could not even reply, so depleted he was.

It certainly did not help that a storm was about to roll in.

The clouds above were black, heavy with rain, the wind buffeting their poor little canoe, tossing it this way and that. The sail was nearly useless at this juncture, Annabeth’s stitches slowly unraveling, the fabric whipping in the growing gale.

Though the river flowed wide and steady, Percy felt as if they were sailing through a lake of mud, a thick, sticky marsh which impeded their progress to the point of death. His eyes burned, the harsh wind stinging; his spine could no longer hold his weight; he panted, open-mouthed, like a dog in the height of summer.

Perhaps he would break alongside his boat. He would not mind so much. Even a week spent unconscious at the bottom of this foreign body of water would most likely do him some good.

But he could not do that to Annabeth. She had trusted him with her safe return, and by all the gods he no longer knew, he would see her home.

“Che cazzo, how much further?” he asked through gritted teeth, letting slip a sailor's curse.

“Not long,” she assured him. “Just a little more.”

“Is it possible,” he gasped, “you could be a little more specific?”

The Empress rocked from side to side.

“Percy!” called Annabeth, grasping the sides of the boat.

“I know!” he shouted back. He squeezed his eyes, poured all of his thought into keeping them afloat.

The waves themselves seemed to fight him, the water striking the sides with such force as to send Annabeth careening from one edge to another.

He could not hold it for much longer.

“Percy!” Annabeth shouted over the roar of waves. “Port bank!”

The ship turned sharply. With a yell, he shot his hands out, splitting the water before them, steering the Empress towards the shore like a shot out of a cannon.

It wasn’t enough.

The canoe tore wildly beneath them, the seam of the tree coming apart with an almighty crack. As he had done in Constantinople, he summoned a great wave from the depths of the river, wrapping it around Annabeth, and hurling her the rest of the way to the river’s edge, onto the sandy shore.

Then the Empress split apart under his feet, dropping Percy into the water.

So drained he was, he could not even enjoy it.

He was in no danger of drowning, of course, but he was in danger of losing all consciousness, a terrible idea even when one was not in the middle of an unfamiliar territory. Who knew what sort of spirits lurked in this river, so far from the ancient sea? The water nymphs of the rapids had recognized him for what he was and had made no attempt to hide their distaste; he did not wish to try himself against further unknowns.

If he did not make it to shore, he would not die, no, but only the Fates knew where he might wash up, and he would be lost. He would be lost, and Annabeth would be alone.

Summoning the last of his strength, the blackness of exhaustion flickering at the corners of his vision like smoke, he reached deep within the core of himself, to that place that pulsed with the pull of the tides, that place which shook apart the very stones. With the last of his muster, the son of the sea god, the former Praetor of the Twelfth Legion, the lost little Hellenos issued but one command to the northern river: Take me to shore.

Then nothing.

***

When he woke, there was solid ground beneath his back.

The sky had cleared, the stormcloud grey giving way to a fiery sunset, a smooth, slow gradient of orange and purple and blue. No longer was the air thick with the scent of rain, but now cleaner, and bright.

And, he realized with a jolt, he was starving.

He groaned, a purposeless noise, yet it would prove to be a useful one all the same.

“Percy!” cried a voice to his right.

A form scuttled over to him, crowding his vision, and he had to blink through the fog of his eyes to realize that it was Annabeth. Her hands patted him up and down, from forehead to neck to chest, and she was babbling a mile a minute, far too quickly for Percy to comprehend. “Oh, thank goodness, you’re awake, I knew that you were not capable of drowning, but you have been asleep for so long, and I was so worried--”

“Ungh,” he said, most intelligently.  

Annabeth hauled him up from the ground, her strong hands clutching at his shoulders, crushing him to her chest. He felt her hitched sob against him, then, just as he was thinking to bring his arms around her, she pulled back, and did something very, very strange.

She kissed him. Chastely, just a press of her lips to his, but desperate, her fingers still digging into the meat of his shoulders.

Had he been more awake, he would have opened his mouth to her in turn. As he was now, he could not even pull forth the strength to deepen the kiss, or even to react to it in a positive manner.

Then, her eyes widening, she dropped him back onto the ground.

“Oh, forgive me!” she cried at his sudden grunt of pain.

“Guh,” was his eloquent response.

“I--I am sorry, I did not--I would never--”

“Urgh,” he said, his lips tingling, the phantom feeling of her mouth on his potent enough to draw him the rest of the way from his unwilling slumber.

There must have been water lodged in his ears. Or he was still sleeping. Or perhaps his brains really had turned to seaweed. Because there was no way, no possible way, that that had just happened. She did not just kiss him. No.

He tried to sit up, only for his head to spin in a sudden vertigo. Curling onto his side, he shut his eyes until the sky above him stopped swirling in such nauseating patterns. “Easy,” said Annabeth, calmly, with the air of someone who has done this many times before. “Do not strain yourself.”

Hissing in effort, for his muscles still felt stretched and thin, far too overworked and overused not to ache, he sat up, raising himself on unsteady arms. “Are you alright?” he asked, casting a quick look up and down her person for any injury.

A respectful distance away, she blinked at him. “You have been asleep for near on a day, and you are concerned for me?”

He--he must have imagined it, the kiss. She did not look on him any differently than she had before. She did not linger at his side, forlorn and desperate. She did not shed any tears for his safe return. So he had to come to the conclusion that he had almost certainly fashioned the whole incident in his memory from thin air.

Then, of course, Percy replied to her question without considering the ramifications of his words. “Yes.”

She was silent for a moment, then shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she said. “Truly ridiculous. Come, phykios. I’ve got a fire going.”

With all her considerable strength, she was able to half-carry, half-drag him closer to her campsite. “You say,” he grunted, doing his best not to wince with each step, “that I have been asleep for a day?”

“Nearly two.”

She deposited him near the small fire, and he shivered as the warmth washed over him, enveloping him in its comforting embrace. It was a meager display, her rumpled bag of supplies propped up against a rock, a few thin, little fish, blackened by smoke and ash resting on a flat stone by the fire. “I apologize,” he said, bringing his arms around himself, rubbing the feeling back into them. “I did not mean to tire myself out so.”

“You apologi--” Cutting herself off, she stalked to the other side of the fire, angrily stoking it with a stray branch. “You apologize, when I am the one who forced you to sail every day, nonstop for over two months, dragging you all over the world on a handful of hazy memories of a road long which has since fallen out of use--”

“Annabeth--”

“You have no reason to apologize, Percy. None at all.” She stood behind the flames, the blue shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “It is I who must seek forgiveness from you.”

“I do not require--”

“I know that you cannot drown,” she said, watching the smoke rise, “but I--I knew that the road would be long and hard, and still I pushed you, day after day, watching you wear yourself thin on the river, and when you would not awaken, I was afraid that… that I had forced you to give too much.” Taking a shuddering breath, she threw in a bit of fish to the fire. He thought he saw the flames leap a little higher--though his vision was still a little fuzzy, and he may very well have imagined it. “I apologize, Percy. My pride had taken precedence over your health, and in return, you nearly died for my sake. If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me,” her eyes squeezed shut and she turned her face away, “of course I will understand.”

“Of course I forgive you,” said Percy, without hesitation. “There is naught to forgive, Annabeth.”

“You could have died.”

“A little exhaustion is not enough to rid you of me.”

“Percy--”

“Enough,” he said. “You have done nothing which requires any absolution. I promise.”

When she finally turned back, there were tear tracks, clear as day, streaking down the grime of her beautiful face, and he just barely held himself back from confessing that to die for her sake would be the easiest thing in the world for him to do.

“I swore that I would see you safely home, and I shall. Though perhaps I should be insulted,” he teased, “that you think so lowly of me. A mere river, overcome the son of Poseidon? Come now, skjaldmær. You of all people should know better.” This line of banter, how familiar it was to them. His head still spun from earlier, and he longed for the solid ground of their partnership to steady him.

But she would not rise to such taunts, not this time. “I would rather that you stay by my side and we never make it home,” she said, so serious, “than return to my father without you.”

Oh, how her curls moved in the evening breeze, the golden-copper shine of her hair stark against the encroaching night sky, her mouth set in a stern line, the delightful little divot on her forehead when she frowned a whorl of shadow against her skin. He loved all Annabeths equally, but this one, who so casually and easily spoke truth from her heart, he liked this one very much.

“Where are we?” he asked, rather than pursue that line of thought any further. “You said we were approaching Mil--Milani--”

“Miliniska,” she said. “And we are not far; a few hours’ walk at most, by my calculation.” Though she did not seem pleased at this assessment.

“What is it?”

Lips pursed, she sat down heavily upon the stone. He could not see through the smoke, but he imagined her playing with the edges of her blue shawl, the way she did when she was anxious. “I… I am unsure of our next steps.”

“We continue along the river, do we not?”

“I had thought so, yes.”

“Then once we have reached the city of--of--” he cursed as his tongue tripped over the strange sounds, his mouth not at all fit for this slippery, slick language of the North, “Holmgarðr , then we turn West to Svealand. Is this not the way?”

“Well, yes,” she said, “but I do not--I mean, I am uncertain--oh!” She raked her hands over her head, mussing up her wild hair even further. “I do not know where to go from here.”

He frowned. Her words made no sense to him. “But you know everything.” This was no mere romantic declaration; it was a truth that he had carried ever since he was twelve years old. No matter what questions he had about this strange, strange world, Annabeth would have the answer, or she would be able to seek out the answer, precisely because she was Annabeth, and because she did, indeed, know everything there was to be known.

She turned red beneath the dirt on her face. “Would that were true, then perhaps I would not have led us here.”

“How do you mean?” he asked, a cold, sinking pit in his stomach, despite the warmth of the fire.

Sighing, she slumped even further, the point of her chin nearly level with the flames. “There are many river-roads here,” she said, haltingly, though the flood of words could not be stopped, “and--and they get all jumbled up, in my head, you see. When I--when I ran away, my plan was to trace the Dúna to--to--” she screwed up her face, stamping her foot in frustration. “Oh, even now I cannot remember the name in Greek! There are so many names, Percy, in Greek and Norse and this strange, strange language that I cannot speak, and Lukas was the one who spoke them all when I was little, and I fear that I will have brought us to ruin, for I cannot make sense of it all.” She gazed at him, her large eyes glistening once more with tears. “I know not where I am, and all my faculties have deserted me, and I have dragged you here with me, into the unknown, and now our ship is gone, and--and--”

Then she performed the action which Percy had come to fear most: she began to weep again.

“Annabeth,” he said, as gently as he could, “you cannot blame yourself for what happened to the Empress. She would have given out eventually; it was merely our misfortune that it happened to be now.”

Still, her shoulders shook, her head dropped into her hands.

“We can find our way North again,” he promised. “We still have the stars, do we not? And surely we can craft another vessel.” Though it would take them much, much longer, as they no longer had any of the tools which they had left behind at Sigeion.

She did not respond.

“Annabeth, please.” He was not above begging or pleading, if only she would cease her weeping, if only she would smile again. “Please, it will be all right. Annabeth, my lo--”

Percy very nearly slapped a hand over his mouth, for he had almost let slip a sweet little endearment from his lips. However upset she was now, she would certainly not appreciate a declaration of romantic affection at this moment. She was in no position to accept it, and he would not wish to take advantage of her emotional upheaval.

“Oh, Annabeth,” he said, keeping a close watch on his words. “I do not blame you. I do not blame you one iota. Everything will be all right, I swear it.”

He could not reason with her to draw her out of her despair. All he could do now is wait for this to pass, and pass it would.

And pass it did.

Her sobs weakened, eventually, short, painful little things giving way to long stretches of quiet sniffles. Through the flames, he observed her shoulders still, the tension in her hands fading away, her whole form collapsing in on herself as all her sorrow deserted her. For some time, there was no sound but the crackle of flame, the gentle rush of the river, the whispering noises of nature which surrounded them, birds and insects and the breath of the land itself. What a boon, for Percy and Annabeth so exhausted, for there was nothing left but peace. Tranquility. Time for rest, healing, and safety, things the absence of which they had long since felt.

“I apologize,” she said, after a while. Her voice was rough, as though she had swallowed a mouthful of earth. “That was… I did not expect that.”

“Think nothing of it.” All warriors had limits, and all warriors had a point at which they could take no more. There was no shame to be felt in such a release.

Though as she continued to avoid his gaze, he wondered if perhaps she was not ashamed of the act of grief, but at the simple fact that he had been present to bear witness to it, that even though they had traveled together for so long, had endured so much together, there were still parts of her she did not feel comfortable baring to to him. The thought made him profoundly sad. He trusted her with his life--and he always had. At the close of the second Titanomachy, she had leapt in front of a poisoned blade which had been aiming straight for his unprotected flank; after such a debt owed to her, did she think he would still find any part of her shameful?

Then, she surprised him yet again. It was starting to become a pattern, it seemed.

“I know you must be angry with me,” she said, her eyes hidden from view.

It was only with the greatest strength of will that he kept himself from bursting out laughing at the sheer absurdity of such a statement. Percy, angry with her? For showing emotion? “What ever for?”

“For getting us lost.”

“We are not lost,” he chided. “This nearby town, Mal--Miliano--”

“Miliniska,” she said, a weak grin gracing her features.

He shook his head. “Yes, that one, surely someone there will be able to point us in the right direction.”

“And if there is not?”

“Then we put our teachings to use,” he said. “We have been trained for this, have we not?”

“For battle, yes. For wandering around the northern wilderness, less so.”

He waved a hand, carelessly. “I am certain some skills will overlap.”

But she would not stray from her course. “I had thought you would be displeased with me,” she said. “I know you were concerned about the agoge, about your mother, but I convinced you to accompany me instead. Would you not rather be searching for her, instead?”

Annabeth knew firsthand how he adored his mother. Though clearly it had been the right decision, sending her away from Constantinople had been one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. Hardly a day went by when he did not think of his mortal family. To be parted from them in this manner, so precarious, was a kind of agony he had not known existed. And yet, he could not very well admit to Annabeth that he would rather be here, now could he? “Wherever she is, I know that my mother is safe.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I have faith.” His mother was a resourceful woman, always had been. She had survived for years under the thumb of her hateful first husband; to pack up, flee the city, and then begin anew with a man who truly loved her would be no large undertaking.

“I wish I could believe as you do,” said Annabeth, softly.

Percy would never quite describe himself as a man of faith, but he had his moments. “It is not so difficult if you choose the right people to believe in.” A simple truth, yet Percy had been blessed with such wonderful people in his life, such ample resources. People like his mother and Paul, Chiron and their friends. People like Iason and the Legion.

People like Annabeth.

“I suppose, then, I have a bad habit of choosing the wrong person.” Through the fire, her eyes turned dark, bitter, sad. “Everyone I have ever believed in--my father, Lukas, my mother--they have all of them left me behind.”

He wished he could refute her claim, but he found he could not. He had seen the temple of Athena, cannibalized for Christian men, and the court of Poseidon, a cold, dark ruin.

Still. “Surely not everyone?” he asked.

She lifted her gaze to him, locking eyes from across the blaze. “No,” she said, thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not. Not everyone.” Then she frowned, as though something had suddenly occurred to her. “You said… you named our ship the Empress?”

Oh. He had hoped she had not heard that part. Flushing lightly, he nodded. “I did.”

“I see.” And she blushed in return.

The moment felt big, somehow. Large, like a fork in the road, or the moment before sunrise, where the world held its breath and anything could happen. Endless possibility.

Perhaps now was the proper time. At such a declaration, had he the strength, he would have gone to her at once, taken her in his arms and demonstrated just how deeply his affections ran.

Alas, he did not.

He yawned, hugely.

She huffed a laugh. “You are still tired?” she asked.

Nodding, he rubbed at an eye. “Though I do not see how. I feel as though I could sleep for yet another day.”

“Perhaps you should rest a while longer,” she said.

Roughly scrubbing his hands over his face, he said, “No, no, we should not waste much more time, if we are now relegated to walking.”

“Tomorrow,” she insisted. “The hour is late.”

“I would like to sleep in a real bed for a change.”

“We do not have enough money to rent a room for the night.”

“Then I can pay in manual labor, or--”

So faint, he nearly missed it, the slight tickling in the corner of his mind.

Noting his pause, Annabeth stood up, her hand automatically going for her weapon. “What is it?”

Slowly, he turned towards the woods which bordered the river. “I am not sure,” he said, slowly. “It… it sounds like…”

It was not sound, not as men typically understood it. The voice did not travel through the air, into the ear. Rather, it seemed to emerge from within his mind, a thought that was not his own. The tone, the timbre, sincerity behind the words, it was all so familiar, so comforting. This voice belonged to a simple kind of creature, hardy and tough, and what was more, it belonged to a creature Percy knew.

“It can’t be,” he said.

And yet, it was.

From the forest emerged a horse, a beautiful, brown thing, who trotted over to them without hesitation. Bypassing Annabeth entirely, the horse came to a stop next to Percy, dipping her head--for she was a mare--and with a start, Percy realized that this was the very same horse which had carried them to the safety of Prosphorion Harbor, in the thick of smoke and battle.

“How are you here?” he breathed, one hand coming up to stroke her nose.

“What?” asked Annabeth. “What is she saying?”

In astonishment and wonder, he could not help but smile. “She says she heard your call.”

“What call?”

“And,” said Percy, turning to her, “she says she will take us wherever it is we need to go.”

Her eyes widened, mouth open in shock and delight. “Truly?”

As if to answer Annabeth’s question, the horse nodded in assent.

“Can she take us to the Dúna?”

He relayed the question to the horse, and then translated for Annabeth: “She does not know the name, but if you can direct her to the place, she would be more than happy to carry us there.”

“Oh, oh, magnificent!” Annabeth rushed over, throwing her arms around the horse’s neck. “Oh, you blessed animal!”

The horse--whose previous rider, several months and hundreds of miles past had named her Theophanu, as she had told him--gave a short huff, pressing her head against Annabeth’s.

“We haven’t a moment to lose,” said Annabeth, releasing Theophanu with a pat on her nose. “Let me grab the supplies; you can sleep on the way.”

He had thought to assist her in dismantling the camp, but, truth be told, he was simply too exhausted still, and the thought of sleep was a welcome one. Seated as he was, he felt himself swaying gently, a leaf caught in the wind, succumbing to large, painful yawns as often as his body could produce them.

Theophanu swiveled her gaze to him, large and piercing, and asked him a question.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She asked again.

His cheeks flushed. “Of course not.”

The horse looked at him, unconvinced.

“We are only traveling together for the time being,” he said, weakly. “She is not my w--”

“Did you say something?” asked Annabeth, turning towards him.

If possible, Percy flushed even further. “Ah, no! Nothing to report.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged.

Before he knew it, they were all packed up and ready to go, Theophanu loaded down with their meager supplies. “Here, Percy.” Annabeth came round to his side, taking his arm and slinging it over her shoulder, using his own body as leverage to lift him up from the rock where he had nearly made his bed again. “Allow me.”

Together, they clambered onto Theophanu’s back. Annabeth sat before him, clutching the makeshift reins she had cobbled together out of what remaining rope they had left. Overcome with fatigue, his head bent forward until it rested against her shoulder, his nose pressed into the joint of her neck, her short curls brushing against his skin.

So tired was he, he could do barely more than mumble an apology into her shirt.

“It is fine,” she assured him. “Here, put your hands round my waist so you do not fall off.”

Her skin was hot. Or perhaps he was merely cold. He could no longer tell.

Drawing himself closer to her, he draped himself against her back, following her instruction. “Sleep, Percy,” he felt her murmur to him. “I’ve got you.”

Rocked by Theophanu’s gentle movements, the scent and feel of Annabeth all around him, there he fell asleep, a stray lock of her hair inching its way towards his mouth.

When he awoke the next morning, he would swear it was the greatest night’s sleep he had had in quite some time.

***

The nearer to the city they were, the stronger Percy felt.

Certainly, they were much too far from the port, but still Percy swore up and down that he could smell the sea. “I promise you, I can smell it!” Cresting the little mound, he thrust his arms out to the sides, taking in a large, large sniff. “The smell of salt, of fish, wet wood and smoke--” he sighed, full of ardent passion. “Thálatta, thálatta !”

“We still have quite a ways to go, phykios,” Annabeth grumbled, though he could see her fighting down a smile. “Are you certain what you smell is not your own most tender perfume?”

But her taunts could not bring down his mood on this day. After months of travel by river, from one end of the world to another, at last, at long last, they had returned to the sea.

Annabeth had called this city Riga, another strange word, but at least one that he could say without much trouble. They had let Theophanu free a few miles back, choosing to make their way into the city on foot, as Annabeth did not think they could bring her with them to Svealand, and she did not wish to sell their friend to some heartless man who might treat her poorly, despite the fact that Theophanu could, most likely, fetch them quite a handsome price. For services rendered, two weeks of her time and who knew how many miles, she deserved to be set free once more, to roam in peace and contentment, and thus, Percy had sent her off with the blessing of the little Horselord, as she had so fondly called him.

But now, now--the sea was within his grasp once more. The city of Riga rose up in the distance, the castle towers dark against the late afternoon sky, like trees rising above the red slanted roofs.

Even to his untrained eye, the difference in architecture was stark. The towers, thin and spindly and sharp, seemed to be reaching towards the heavens. The tallest had a cross placed on the very top of the spire, and Percy wondered how a man could even reach such heights so as to take care of it. Clearly this tower rested on top of a church, though it was the oddest church Percy had ever seen before. He supposed he had grown too used to the domes of St. Sophia and its ilk, yet to him it was still stranger than the church in Athens which had once been the mighty Parthenon.

By the time they entered the city proper, the sun hung low in the sky, a slight chill in the air. Percy shivered beneath his cloak, marveling at everyone around him who seemed unaffected by the cold. “Nothing like an unseasonable bit of chill, no?” he asked, hoping to spark some conversation after such a long silence.

She raised a brow. “This is not cold.”

“Of course it is,” he scoffed. “It is barely mid-September. Surely the seasons have not yet changed.”

“Oh, Percy,” she said, almost pityingly. “We are in the North, now. To those that live here, the coldest nights of Sigeion would seem the height of the summer heat.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “It can be colder than this?”

With a sad, mockingly sorrowful shake of her head, she pressed on, leading them through the crowded docks.

“Annabeth,” he near-pleaded, jogging lightly to keep apace. “Please. Tell me it does not grow colder than this, I beg of you.”

She put her hand out, stopping him in his tracks. “A moment.”

They had come before a little cargo ship, her captain speaking at length with another man. Annabeth narrowed her eyes, her lips moving slightly as she whispered to herself in that expression Percy had come to recognize as the one she wore when she was concentrating very intensely on any given task, usually a war game strategy of some manner or other, before grabbing a hold of his hand, and dragging him with her as she stepped up to the captain, before engaging in a lively conversation with him.

A conversation that Percy could not follow, naturally. He could pick out a few words here and there, just by virtue of having known Annabeth for so long, things like “farbror” and “pengar” and “Grikkir,” but they flew by so quickly, he could not be sure if he had truly heard them.

A far, far cry from the stilted, unsure exchange she had shared with the gentleman in Kiova, Annabeth was well and truly in her element as she spoke with the captain. The words flew back and forth between them, faster than he thought would be possible with such a liquid, languid tongue. Occasionally, she would refer back towards Percy, and he would straighten his spine, lifting his chin in an attempt to look more dignified. There was not much he could do about the unfortunate length of his hair, nor the travel-worn state of his clothing, but he did his best to take on an air of importance, following Annabeth’s lead as she spoke, most haughtily.

Yet the conversation dragged on. It was several minutes of increasingly heated exchange before Annabeth turned away from the captain, bristling with anger. “Percy,” she said, imperious, “do you think you can sail this vessel?”

He flicked his eyes to the ship. It was small-ish, double-masted, well taken care of. “Most likely.”

“Very good.” She turned back to the captain, sneering, and said, “I trust you’ll help me steal it, then?”

Percy started. “Perhaps it would be best not to discuss this with him present?” It wasn’t that he was not agreeable to a little theft--quite the contrary, he would be happy to assist--but, well, the man was right in front of them.

But Annabeth just scoffed. “He does not speak our language; he cannot understand us.”

True to her word, the captain merely blinked at them, uncomprehending.

Very well. “Your orders?”

“On my mark,” she said. Then, she turned back to the poor man whose livelihood they were about to overturn, and, quite theatrically, burst into tears--great, heavy, cacophonous wails, which drew the attention of every man who surrounded them. So pitiful were her sobs, the good men of the port stepped up to comfort her, to see if there was some boon they could give or act they could perform to ease her sorrow, and so taken were they with her, a feeling with which Percy could certainly empathize, that none noticed as Percy quietly backed away, slipping onto the docked ship.

***

It was very early in the morning, but Percy had not felt so awake in months. Even in such a foreign place as this, the sea filled him full of power, sharpening his senses and lifting his spirits. They were making excellent time, the breath of Notus firmly at their backs, propelling them ever northward, and Percy felt so fine, he could not help but sing. Now, if only it had not been so damned cold. “Hýdōr thélō genésthai, ópōs se chrō̂ta loúsō,” he hummed, a song for a young girl he had heard once upon a time, “ópōs, ópōs, ópōs se chrō̂ta loúsō.”

“I do not know this one,” Annabeth commented, her hands curled around the lip of the wood as she kept a lookout--for what, she would not say--but her face was not turned out to the sea, rather, she looked at him so curiously, her head tilted. “From the Anacreontea?”

Percy shrugged. “I know it not, but heard it from the docks in Constantinople.” A lesser known talent of his, he seemed to have a nearly limitless memory for sea songs. If it were able to be sung on the water, then Percy would remember it perfectly. He could sometimes forget the shade of his mother’s hair, but he could remember these silly little sea songs. “If it is not to your liking, I am certain I could find another. Or, I could cease entirely.”

“No, no, it is very sweet,” she said. “You can sing to your heart’s content.” Then she sighed, wistful. “My father tried to teach me sea songs, once.”

“Oh?” he asked, delicately. The subject of her family was a sensitive one, he knew, but he confessed a deep curiosity for the man who helped make her into who she was. “Songs for when you went a-pillaging the coasts of Gallia and Anglia?”

Her pretty face twisted, the familiar frown she wore whenever she felt he was being particularly stupid. “You are aware that the age of the Vikings has long since passed, yes? Svealand is now as Christian as Constantinople. As it was,” she corrected.

Sensing that they were about to embark on a very sad road, he sought to change the subject before they did. “You mean to tell me,” he said, injecting as much of a teasing lilt as he dared, “you were not once the littlest of the shieldmaidens? You did not sleep on the longboats, with the dogs of war, ready and eager to fight?” He’d seen visions of Annabeth as a little girl, traveling the world with Thalia and Lukas, already such a fierce fighter, and though he knew what kind of pain she had borne, the picture in his head still made him smile, a pretty little girl with golden curls and a fierce gaze, brandishing a knife entirely too big for her. “

“How I wished I could,” she sighed again, near-dreamily, seeming as if she had been struck by Cupid’s arrow. “I used to dream of the great shieldmaidens of yore, of Freydís Eiríksdóttir and Brynhildr Buðladóttir, of fighting alongside them, but alas, it was not meant to be.” The smile slipped from her face, and she grew pensive once more. “My step-mother put a stop to those dreams once she deemed me to be too old to have them.”

“She did not appreciate the honor of shieldmaidens, then?”

Annabeth snorted, entirely unladylike. “Certainly not. She sought to bleed that part of me fully, as leeches to a festering wound, until I was sufficiently empty to be made full of the Christian god. When I was little,” she said, staring out to sea, “she brought me with my brothers on a business trip of sorts. She told my father that she was taking us on a pilgrimage to the great churches of the continent, but when we sailed into Riga, she…” Trailing off, she tightened her hands on the wood of the ship, her gaze hardening. Percy adjusted his grip on the rope, easing them more into the direction of the wind. “She attempted to leave me there,” Annabeth said, each word as heavy as a stone, dropped into the great, black deep. “She thought to consign me to a convent.”

A convent? “Rachel studied at a convent for a time,” Percy said. From what she had told him, it had not seemed so terrible. “I, however, cannot possibly imagine you in such a place.”

“Neither can I--I never actually set foot in it.” A small smile graced her features, then, barely visible in the dim light. If he had not been so attuned to her every move and muscle, he would not have seen it for himself. “As soon as I realized what she had tried to do, I ran. I took off, following the length of the Dúna for a fortnight, until I crashed right into Thalia and Lukas. And, well… you know the rest.” She looked at him, so fondly it made his heart skip a beat.

“You--” he swallowed, his tongue numb, his mind somewhat in pieces. “I remember, after our quest for the Master Bolt, you mentioned you were going to write to your father?”

She looked away. “I did.”

“And?” He prompted. “Did you ever receive a reply?”

“I did not.”

“Oh.”

“Not, I think, for a lack of trying,” she conceded. “You know as well as I how difficult it can be to send a letter. You were very fortunate to have your mother so close by.”

“I was,” he said, for there was no reason to deny it.

“But I suppose if you did not like your mother, that could have been a burden.”

Such a concept was unthinkable, truly. Percy paused for half a second, weighing his words, and then asked, “Would it have been a burden for you to be closer to your father?”

Pursing her lips, she blew out a hearty breath. “To tell you truthfully, I do not know. After… after our little adventure with Atlas, I should very much like to have gone home even for a short while, even just to tell him that I forgave him, and Mary, for all the perceived wrongs of my childhood. But, as you can see,” and she gestured South, “it would have taken far too long.”

She was not incorrect. War had been brewing, and they simply could not have spared their chief strategist for months on end. There had only been a handful of weeks in between that adventure and their journey into the depths of the Labyrinth; without Annabeth, he was certain that particular quest would have gone up in Greek fire.

“Tell me about him,” he said. “Your father. You know so much of mine, and yet I know so little of yours.”

Another small smile lifted her features. “You have forgotten already what I have told you of him?”

“I know he is a scholar of some renown,” said Percy, “and that he must be a singularly clever man in order to attract your mother’s eye.”

“He is,” she nodded. “He is… was… very dedicated to his studies, something which I always admired about him. Unfortunately, it left him little time to tend to his family.”

“Hence how you found yourself in your stepmother’s care.”

“Yes.” She faltered, tapping her fingers on the wood. “I… I do not know if he knew of her plan to send me to the convent. If he approved of her plan.” Her shoulders hunched. “If it was his idea in the first place.”

Percy shook his head, letting go of his ropes, commanding them to stay their current course. He stepped up to her, boldly knocking his shoulder against hers, pleased when she did not stumble or crumble before him. “Now, that cannot be,” he said, “for no man, no matter how wedded to his letters he may be, could consider you to be anything but the finest of warriors. If your father is as clever as you claim, surely he could not have authorized such a mistake.”

She stretched her lips in an attempt to smile, but that was all she could muster at this time, it seemed.

The dawn had yet to break, yet Percy could make out every line and angle of her face, indelibly marked, as they were, in his mind and heart, bathed in some otherworldly light that turned her more radiant than any goddess he had ever romanced.

He swallowed.

“I must confess,” he said, “something that has been weighing on me heavily.”

She turned to him, eyes wide and expectant. Her hair had grown out some since her unfortunate haircut, coming down to dust at the tops of her shoulders, nearly obscuring her gaze, and he had to grip the wood of the ship in order to keep himself from brushing it from her face.

“Why…” he trailed off, distracted by the flecks of silver in her eyes. By the gods, man, pull yourself together. “If you and your father did indeed have such a contentious relationship, why did you want to see him now?”

For a brief moment, he felt she looked… disappointed, almost. But it passed, more quickly than a thought, and he put it aside for the moment. “Despite it all, he is my father. My mother, the agoge, Constantinople--they are all gone, yet still he remains. He may be the only thing I have left in this world,” she said, glumly.

Something in his heart tugged at her words. “Not the only thing, surely,” he jested lamely. “Have I not been sufficient company on this odyssey of ours?”

“You have been,” she said, looking him square in the face, “the greatest companion I could ever have asked for. As long as I live, I shall never forget the thousand kindnesses you have paid me over these last few months.”

She was so close. He could feel her breath, hot against the freezing air, see the upturned tip of her nose. “It was my pleasure,” he mumbled.

There was no sound, save for the wind, the creak of the wood, the beating of his heart, so loudly he was certain she could hear it--or perhaps it was hers, throbbing in return. One, two, three heartbeats in succession, she twitched, he jolted, they moved imperceptibly closer, then--

Annabeth gasped. “Percy, look!” she cried, pulling back.

“Huh?” he blinked, lagging a few seconds behind.

Her outstretched finger pointed upwards towards the heavens, but all he could see was the open, naked wonder on her face, her dropped jaw, her eyes as large as the extravagant pendants of rich nobles, the way her curls seemed to bounce of their volition, charged up in awe and in wonder. Only after he had taken his fill of her visage, a seemingly impossible feat, yet one he accomplished nonetheless, did he follow her finger to the object of her fascination.

And he gasped in turn.

High in the sky, ribbons of light and color swam about, mixing and mingling with the clouds and stars, as if Eos and Iris had joined forces, the rosy-fingered dawn and the golden-winged messenger entwined in a magical dance. “Oh,” he breathed, “oh, how beautiful!”

“I can’t believe it!” she laughed, delighted. “The bridge! Percy, look! The--” Then she said a word which Percy must not have heard correctly.

“The what?”

And then she said that word again.

He frowned. “Bee-vroast?”

“No, the Bifröst.”

“Is that not what I am saying?”

“Most certainly not,” she said. “It is the road between Heaven and Earth, connecting Asgard to Midgard.”

“Asgard?” he asked. “Midgard? What do these things mean?"

She gestured around them. “This. This is Midgard, everything you see before you, the land in the middle. Asgard sits up above us, at the top of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It is a long, long way, passing through Alfheim , and… well, regardless, it is quite the journey.

“I see,” said Percy. “Similar to how Olympus was perched on top of St. Sophia, yes?”

Annabeth tilted her head, considering. “A little. Though, rather than a staircase or a mountaintop, there is a bridge.”

He looked back at the display--unfortunately, all he could see were hazy, formless colors, stunning, but about as solid as the mist itself, nothing nearly so weighty as a bridge, yet so sublime and unfathomable still. “A bridge?”

She pointed again, leaning in close, so as he could better see the angle of her finger. “There, do you not see the three colors?”

He could, indeed, see three colors: hot reds, cool blues, otherworldly greens, like streams of pure light floating down from on high. “I do.”

“And there,” her face was nearly pressed to his, the heat of her body welcomed only in that it helped to ward off the cold somewhat, “see you not the point where it vanishes?”

He squinted. The lights seemed to disappear beyond the horizon line, trailing off above what surely must have been Ultima Thule. “I… I believe I do, yes.”

“There,” said Annabeth, her face all lit up, “there is the home of the gods of my father’s family: the Aesir.”

“Aesir,” he repeated. Aesir, Asgard, Midgard, so many strange sounds. “Well, then,” he said, taking a step back. “Shall I follow this Bifröst of yours?”

How strange to think that, merely a few months earlier, they had set out from Piraeus, nearly antipodal to where they were now, surely. It seemed near a lifetime ago. Even now, he found that the streets of Constantinople had faded from his memory, somewhat, the towering churches and ancient squares no longer quite so towering in his mind. How he longed to return to that place, that time, before his gods had abandoned him, before his family had vanished into the air, before he realized that he was in love with a woman who despised him, and before he realized that, sooner than he would have liked, he was about to lose her forever.

“Not quite so far,” said Annabeth, taking a step back in turn. “We go to seek my uncle, Randulf.”

“Not your father?” he asked, once more picking up the ropes which had not gone slack.

She shook her head. “My father is but a scholar; on the contrary, my uncle is… well…” Flushing lightly, she bit her lip, looking away. “He is something of a local lord.”

“Really.”

She flushed further. “He does possess certain titles and lands.”

“You really are a princess,” Percy concluded, a smile growing on his face. “And all this time, I thought that you simply detested to be compared to the fairest of the fairer sex.”

Harrumphing, she crossed her arms. “I am not a princess,” she pouted.

Holy Aphrodite, surely she must not have known the effect that she had on him. “Oh, of course,” said Percy, “I had forgotten. Your majesty.”

“Enough.” But, as the lights of the Bifröst gave way to the breaking dawn, he could see a smile on her face, as plain as day. “Be ready, captain, for there are many islands between here and Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Percy!”

***

When she related to him the news, she seemed oddly calm regarding the situation. “It appears,” she had said, “that my uncle has since passed away.”

“My deepest sympathies.” Percy did not have much in the way of an extended mortal family--his mother had been a single child, and his step-father had not spoken much of his own family--but he could imagine the kind of loss she must have felt.

“It seems that his title and holdings were transferred to my cousin, Magnus.” She had had a sort of faraway look on her face, as though she were lost in some kind of waking dream. “He and my father have gone to Birka, to see to his properties.”

Goodness; they had docked the boat from the poor man whom they had thieved in Riga not just this morning, had barely been in Stadsholmen a day, and once again they were setting off. “How far?”

Blinking, she had seemed to physically pull herself together before his very eyes. “Not very,” she had said. “I can find us passage.”

Now they floated serenely on the waters of Lake Mälaren, as she had called it, inching ever closer as the nice captain brought them to the island in the middle of the water. It felt odd not to be in control of the vessel for once, and Percy could not stop himself from fidgeting, his leg bouncing up and down incessantly.

The captain shot him a dirty glare, and Percy looked away. “So,” he said to Annabeth, desperate for something to fill the weighty silence which had descended upon them. “Your cousin, Magnus--what is his character?”

“I wish I could say.” Staring straight ahead, Annabeth focused all her considerable attention on the island which was slowly coming into view, emerging from the mist. “I have not spoken with him since before I ran away.”

“I see.”

“I remember,” she said, softly, “that he loved nature. That when I told him of my plans, he did not go and report them to my father. In that way, I know that he was a stalwart friend, and I cannot imagine that much could have changed him.” Tossing him a glance, he thought he saw her lips turn imperceptibly downwards. “If he has not changed much, I daresay that you will quite enjoy his company.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked, awaiting further explanation, yet she did not provide any.

Before very long, they had arrived at the shores of Birka, and Annabeth had given the kind boatman the very last of their coin. They stood at the bottom of a little hill, the dirt path before them winding its way through the tall grass, like a snake, yet Annabeth made no move to go forward.

“I cannot believe I am here,” she breathed. “It has been so long, I… I never thought I would see it again.” What ‘it’ could have been, she did not specify, though he could guess.

Though the house on the hill was now within their grasp, he found that his feet seemed to be as heavy as hers. “Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” he said, “and find somewhere to rest for the night.”

But then he observed as Annabeth summoned all her courage, drawing herself up to her full height, squaring her shoulders and narrowing her eyes, a little goddess of war here on Earth, and began the long march up the hill. Percy was powerless to do naught but follow her.

The house was built with dark wood, a deep, nutty brown, an inkblot against the soft blues and greens of the land which surrounded it. As they grew closer and closer, it seemed to multiply in size, as though stories and wings were added to the existing structure before his very eyes, an ever expanding sculpture of rough-hewn wood and grey, slanting roofs.

As Annabeth stepped up to the great, wooden door, and knocked, Percy stepped back a ways. It would not do, he thought, for him to hover over her, not during such a precious moment of reunion.

A handful of heartbeats, then the door opened, with a great, creaking groan. “Ja?” asked the man who popped his head out, a mop of drab, grey hair on his head. “Vem är det?”

“Jag heter Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter,” Annabeth said, “och jag är här för att träffa min far, Fredrik Randulfsson.”

The man looked her up and down, before retreating into the darkness of the house.

There, on the grass outside of the door, they waited.

Not a minute later, the door opened again, nearly coming off its hinges as another man barreled forth, his wild, grey hair shooting off in all directions, glasses perched delicately on his nose. “Anja!” he gasped, as though he were in pain. “Anja, är det verkligen du?”

Annabeth gave a single sob, then threw herself at the man, who wrapped her up in his arms, squeezing tightly. “Jag är hemma nu, papa,” she wept, muffled by his shirt. “Jag är hemma.”

As one, they crashed to the earth, their knees striking the packed dirt, and despite the chill of the afternoon air, Percy could not help but feel warm at the sight of Annabeth--Anja--as she embraced her father for the first time in fifteen years.

[dat-town]

when the stars are gone

Characters: Myungjun & You

Genre: angst 

Setting: greek myth in modern era au [moodboard]

Summary: The constellations disappear and one falls right into you.

Warning: mentions of death and violence

Words: 3.1k

for @kmhoodys from your asa ♥

Everything changed overnight.

One of the very few things humanity universally accepted to be true proved all of them wrong and made each belief crumble. People even started doubting things they used to believe in and that was scientifically proven like the Sun rising on the East. Nobody could believe anything they saw anymore.

Why? Easy.

Because from one day to another, all the constellations disappeared from the sky.

Without any forecasting sign, any worrisome news, the next day the night sky was empty save from the Moon and the bright spark of the planet Venus. Any star smaller than the Sun just weren't there anymore and nobody, no astrophysicist or the NASA could explain the phenomena. So people did what they did best when they didn't understood something: they made up stories. They claimed that the apocalypse started just like this: with the lack of stars.

And unbeknownst to you, one of them fell right into you. Literally. With such grace and strength, that you were strangled to the ground of the back garden of your parents’ place. You would have called it misfortune blaming Fortuna but he would have called it the right alignment of the (not even existing) stars that you were right there, right then.

“Hello.”

A soft voice startled and pulled you out of the state of shock you were in due to the fall and the possible concussion you suffered. It was soothing, the way his tone seemed to soothe over the vowels creating the kind of melody you never wanted to forget. You faintly wondered if you were dreaming when opening your eyes you saw an unfamiliar pair of bright, coal dark eyes staring down at you in worry. Honey brown hair fell into the stranger’s forehead, over the smooth skin and your hands itched to touch, to brush the fringe away. His lean body hovered over yours which was a huge disrespect of your personal place and yet, his mere presence took your breath away. Not to mention his unexpected entrance.

“Hi...” you mumbled still a bit dazed and accepted the offered hand that pulled you up from the ground. Standing on unsteady legs you found yourself face-to-face with a young man looking as ethereal as one could get in his simple, elegant, white clothes and with that handsome face of his. He was like nobody you had ever met and you couldn't even pinpoint what it was about him that made you feel like this. Was it the vibe he radiated off or the knowing, piercing look of his eyes?

“Who are you?” was the first question you blurted out because you didn't want to draw false conclusions from the fact that he wondered in your parents’ garden. Maybe he was allowed to. He could have been a new neighbour you didn't know about since you had been away for the last four months because of university.

“Oh forgive me for being so rude. I forgot as I was just as startled as yourself. Everything happened so fast,” the guy apologized seemingly sincere and you found his choice of words pretty interesting. “People used to call me Perseus but it's been awhile since I used that name. You may call me Myungjun, or Jun for short if you prefer.”

As he introduced himself, you furrowed your eyebrows at the mention of the ancient name.

“Perseus as in the constellation?” you looked up only to be welcomed by the empty, black sky and then back at the boy shining brightly just by standing there.

“Yeah exactly.”

It seemed like the stranger… Myungjun, you reminded yourself, didn't feel the need to explain it any further and silence stretched far between you two. You were about to ask what he was doing here or what brought him here so fast he couldn't stop the collision but the question died on your lips as you heard your name being called from the house.

“That was my little brother. I have to go,” you excused yourself and turned around to go in, so Sanha didn't have to come out to get you and drag you inside. But before you walked away you just had to tell him about your concern of him being there because something was up with this whole situation.

“You should leave if my parents didn't allow you to cross our garden,” you told him and with that and one last, curious gaze thrown his way, you left, shutting the door behind you just to be sure.

It wasn't long after when you first heard the news about other unexplainable events. For example the enormous (six feet tall!) scorpion that attacked New York or the huge lion wandering on the streets in the East. Yet, it wasn't until the appearance of two identical brothers acting like heroes who spoke a strange dialect that people connected the dots: the constellations that disappeared from the sky was now actually down on Earth.

Like Perseus.

The realization made your throat close-up and for once you listened to your parents who insisted that you shouldn't go back to university until things get a bit safer. But it didn't look very promising for now.

Even Hercules who liked to be called Rocky now declared on national television that the whole fiasco was the revenge of gods for not believing in them. Though rumours had it that Selene, the goddess of night sky and stars, was kidnapped and the emptiness of her position caused the havoc. Whatever it was, chaos emerged. People had to face attacks of animals multiple of their normal size or even mythological creatures wandering on the streets. Orion, or as he preferred to be named now: Jinjin, being the talented hunter he was, teamed up with Hercules and together they tried to make sure no innocent human life was taken. However, it wasn't that easy, they couldn't be anywhere.

For example, right here.

You were just back from grocery shopping when you saw your brother hiding behind the corner of one of your neighbours' house. You were just about to call his name when he noticed you and one look with wild hand gestures was enough to silence you. A low animalistic grunt made you freeze in your place before you spotted the huge long-neck dinosaur-like monster with a really ugly and scary head. You quickly crouched down and hid behind a rubbish container before it could notice you and eat you because based on the mess on the street, it was looking for food in the bins. Taking a few shallow breaths you glanced out on your left to check Sanha's position and come up with ways how to get there but the boy looked utterly panicked and kept pointing to something behind you. You didn't know what to make of it until the loud sound of a huff on your right. You quickly turned around and faced the head of the monster. Geez, it was almost as big in itself as you crouched down. Not to mention the dark eyes and the huge flashed teeth of it.

Over the loud, fearful drumming thumps of your heart you barely heard the Run! order before you saw a familiar figure in the line of your vision with a makeshift armour made of the cap of a garbage bin and a long, sharp kitchen knife. It all happened so fast, you barely registered what you were in the middle of and then you heard the frizzing sound and smell of flesh burning and the head of the monster rolled away once Myungjun cut it off its slim neck.

“Are you okay?” he crouched down in front of you and offered a helping hand. You had a slight déjavu as you took it.

“Yeah, I am. Just surprised,” you admitted and damn how could you not notice last time how soft his skin was? And how warm was the care in his chocolate brown orbs? “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Anytime,” he smiled a bit cheekily still not letting go of your hand and it was so absurd. You didn't know how long you would have just stood there if your brother didn't step in.

“Guys, it's a hydra,” he yelled and it was only his warning that saved you from the jet of flame the now two-headed monster sent your way. Where one head was cut off two new grew into its place and you desperately started searching for some information about how to kill it for good.

“Come on,” Myungjun tugged you farther away and you followed him because in your shocked state you didn't know what else to do. When you reached Sanha's side you couldn't help but notice that your little brother towered over both of you. (Why did he have to grow so tall for real?)

“Should we call I don't know… the military?” you suggested running out of ideas already and Sanha sorted at your idea murmuring something probably savage under his breath.

“There's no need. I can handle it,” Myungjun claimed with a confident smile.

“Dude, you didn't even know it was a hydra,” your brother rolled his eyes and he was right. Cutting off the head wasn't the best idea because now it had two and one of them could emit fire.

“But now I know and I know what to do with it. Just keep her away,” he pointed at you and you knew it was the wrong time to complain that you weren't a damsel in distress since he really did kind of saved you earlier.

“Who is this guy?” Sanha asked once Myungjun was off to fight with the hydra.

“Perseus,” you blurted out without thinking, long-forgotten childhood stories of Greek mythology coming back.

“The ancient hero?”

“It looks like it,” you said dreamily, watching the scene unfold before you in awe. Myungjun moved out of the way of fire and sliced the heads so elegantly like a dancer but it seemed like an endless one as he slayed one head after the other but more and more kept growing into the old ones place. Was he crazy? Which part of hydra didn't he understand? You were fuming as you watched as his chances got slimmer minute by minute and wanted to scream out of frustration when he climbed up to the monster.

“Wait! I think I know what he's trying to do,” your brother stopped you when you tried to end this nonsense and then you realized it too. How the dozen of heads all turned around in a circle surrounding Myungjun, preparing for an attack. But just in that moment when they did lunge forward he jumped off and the heads bit onto their own necks, spit fire onto their body itself.

After a minute of struggling the hydra dropped dead onto the ground. You didn't even notice that you were holding your breath until you finally let it out relieved when the monster turned into nothing but ashes. If you weren't so focused on Myungjun, you would have noticed the Hydra constellation back on the sky in that moment. But seeing how uncertain he stood there on wobbly legs you ran to him without hesitation. He must have been exhausted from the fight because otherwise he looked okay, wearing his battle scars proudly.

“Are you alright?” you asked just to be sure and boldly touched his cheek, stroking the skin there below a bloody scar.

“Yeah, it's just… it's been a while,” he let out a tired sigh and it didn't take a lot to convince him to follow you inside the house, so you could treat his wounds and give him something to eat and drink. It was adorable how disgusted face he pulled when he tried coffee but he couldn't stop eating the chocolate cupcakes you just made.

“Okay, now try to stay still. I need to clean your wounds before they get infected,” you told him firmly and sat him down on a kitchen chair. Luckily your parents weren't at home yet or otherwise it would have been a bit difficult to explain what the demigod was doing in your house eating dessert.

Myungjun hissed when the antiseptic made contact with the wound on his cheek and you suppressed a smile. He was rather cute when he wasn't out there fighting mythical creatures.

“Must be nice to be a demigod but you aren't invincible. Be more careful next time,” you warned him as you applied some cooling cream over the scar. After you finished, you were a bit taken aback when you found his bright eyes on you from such a short distance. It took your breath away once again.

“Were you… worried about me?” he asked slowly and softly and your heart palpitations had never been worse.

“Of course I was,” you admitted and quickly turned away to pack the first-aid box.

It was his turn to suppress a smile.

Soon your parents arrived and after Sanha's shortened version of your earlier adventure, they made Myungjun to stay for dinner, too. Poor guy was interrogated so much but at least after your parents learned about his skills they finally agreed to let you go back to the capital for university if he went with you. Your argument that you couldn't live in fear just because of some mythical creatures running on the streets didn't seem to be good enough but when Myungjun mentioned he actually wanted to get to the capital to meet up some other heroes, they immediately suggested that you should accompany him. They thought you were safer with him which was a rather selfish reason to stay with him but Myungjun didn’t seem to mind neither your company, nor the long train ride.

You helped him adjust to the big city life and you became popular among your peers for being friends with one of the Greek mythology version of Avengers or so people called these heroes who came to life and made sure to get rid of the monsters. It took quite some time but the constellations got back to their originals places one by one except the heroes themselves who tried to integrate into the society.

University life was boring as always but when you got home Myungjun was there to make your day better. He still marvelled at a few new inventions and damn, he loved to eat a lot! He told you a lot of stories but your favourites were when he told you about himself. You loved listening to his voice no matter what he talked about. It was so lovely and peculiar, made you feel safe and made you smile. Just like his silly antics you adored so much.

Yet, you couldn't help but wonder about the what ifs.

“Will you stay here for good?” you asked out loud in one particularly weak moment while casually snuggling up on the couch and watching some comedy you didn't even really pay attention to.

“I don't know,” Myungjun sighed; he seemed worried too. “The gods are moody, unpredictable creatures always making hasty decisions.”

“I don't want you to leave,” you blurted out and it turned out a very clumsy confession as your cheeks got pink. But the demigod might have been just as enamoured as he took your hand in his intertwining your fingers.

“I don't want to leave either,” he said and it was enough to ease your heart.

 Yet so very naive of you, so mundane, you forgot about a crucial detail. Or maybe you just didn't want to care, not until you had to…

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon when someone rang the bell of your apartment, so you stopped in the middle of baking to open the door. On the other side of the threshold stood the most beautiful girl you have ever seen. Her shiny black hair was the canvas of night and her eyes were like the prettiest ink splashes on the sugary colour of her skin. She smiled like royalty did and you didn't know what could have brought her onto your doorstep.

“Hello. I'm looking for Perseus. Is he here?” she asked in a very melodic voice.

“Excuse me but who are you?” you asked politely but the answer didn't came from the girl in front of you but from Myungjun himself from behind you.

“Andromeda,” he whispered and your heart clenched.

Oh. Andromeda… as in his wife from the mythology. How could you forget that?

“Oh I will leave you alone to talk then. I will be in the kitchen,” you cleared your throat and got away as quickly as you could without looking at Myungjun. You didn't want to witness the pity in his eyes or hear them being all lovey-dovey.

You went back to your loyal cupcakes and started decorating them with frosting one by one hoping their sweetness will make you forget that ugly bitterness and hopelessness in you. You were actually so focused on getting the design right, you didn't even hear Myungjun's approaching footsteps until he gently, ever-so-lovingly hugged you from behind.

You tensed under his touch, heart thumping loudly as you asked: “Where's Andromeda?”

“I sent her away,” he answered simply and even if you secretly wished for this, you were utterly confused.

“Why?”

“It had been millenniums. Enough time for love to change, to grow cold,” he explained seriously and then, a lot softer, almost timidly, he whispered into the juncture between your neck and shoulder: “To fell in love with someone new.”

Your breath hitched and you didn't know what to say. It seemed like you didn't need to because Myungjun didn't expect you to. He just kept you in his embrace and you let him.

Life with a demigod wasn't easy, not always, but Myungjun made it feel like it was. Loving him almost came naturally. Thus, losing him hurt almost unbearably so.

The gods were indeed cruel because marking the one year anniversary of the day of your first meeting, the day when all the stars were suddenly gone, the night sky demanded back what it lost.

At first you refused to believe he disappeared when he wasn't there when you came home. He didn't answer your calls, nor your texts. You started to worry, then panicking, and by the time you looked up at the sky from your balcony, you barely saw anything through the tears in your eyes. Because you knew what you would find there even before you saw it, the bright Perseus constellation back in its place where he belonged: among the stars, light years away from you.

Still, you were sure that he looked after you even from up there.

[forksofwisdom]

What do you think witches and mermaids would have been like in the Twiverse? Do you think SM should have included other species?

Despite being a very pragmatic person, I am obsessed with mythologies of any kind, and I loved this idea so much that I took the time to do some research! And BOY did it get out of hands!

Note that I’m not a professional and most of my knowledge comes from scouring the internet, which is fraught with misinformation and I barely scratch the surface for the sake of brevity. I do mention things from my own culture - Icelandic folklore to be exact - but I encourage you to tag onto this post if you have something to add or want to make a correction! :D

I think SM kept a very narrow scope because she never intended Twilight to be anything more than a teenage romance between Bella and Edward. I for one am happy that she didn’t branch out beyond vampires, wolf-shifters, and the Children of the Moon because she was already on thin ice with her appropriation of the Quileute Tribe’s creation story. 

I also think that including more too many species and characters would have overwhelmed SM. Her side characters have spotty backstories, and I have a feeling that she wrote most of their history as an afterthought. Why else would SM have only mentioned Esme’s past in the Official Guide and not included the crucial information that Esme met Carlisle while she was STILL human in the story? 

If I’m honest, I would have loved to see different ending for New Moon and have SM do more character development in Eclipse. Bella’s quick recovery from her crippling depression was unrealistic in my opinion and her desperation to spend the rest of eternity with the Cullens seemed so shallow considering the fact she knew next to nothing about them and their past.

That being said, I still have some headcanons now that you got me thinking about this. I’m fascinated with the idea that some myths and legends around the world were born from encounters with real supernatural beings. 

Shapeshifters

Based on SM’s idea about the Quileute spirit warriors, there should be more types of shifters in the Twiverse since the Quileutes weren’t the only ones who founded their belief on having descended from wolves. 

Therianthropy is the mythological ability of human beings changing into animals via shapeshifting. This concept has been around for centuries, dating back so far that there are cave paintings that depict the transformation of men into animals. (x)

One of the most popular types of shapeshifting seems to be changing into wolves, and subsequently, there are a LOT of werewolf myths or The Children of the Moon as SM refers to them. (I’ve already written an entire post dedicated to them so I won’t talk about them here.) 

I won’t go much farther into Origin Stories than I have above since it’ll take over the entire post. There are so fricking many different tales, especially about randy gods - seriously, it’s wild - that it’s difficult to decide what would lead to becoming a Shifter and what would be considered fables in the Twiverse.

For the sake of clarity, I have made a short list below which includes a few types of shapeshifters from different cultures that people may be familiar with:

· In Chinese Mythology, it is believed that all things are capable of acquiring human forms through shapeshifting. There are the Huli Jing, which is a nine-tailed fox spirit, from which the Japanese derived their Kitsune (any fellow Naruto fan here???) and the Korean Kumiho.

· Selkies are a favorite of mine (Please watch Song of the Sea - I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried during that movie) since they sometimes feature in Icelandic myths. Selkies are primarily thought to be women who live in the sea as seals but shed their coats and turn into humans on land. They aren’t able to shapeshift without their coats. Most of the tales aren’t happy and are about men who steal the selkie’s coats and hide them to coerce the woman into marriage.

· Nāga from Indian religions are thought to sometimes shapeshift from snakes, most often King Cobras, into humans.

Witchcraft

Witchcraft is tied to many religions, but as an atheist, I only have a layman’s knowledge of the practices that are still in use today. I’m highly skeptical when it comes to spiritual healing in real life, and I’m not at all a fan of the cult cultures that frequently surround religion.

Here’s a brief history lesson: 

Witches were the women who served the goddesses in the earliest centuries of human civilization and were revered throughout their communities. In the ancient civilizations of the Middle East, priestesses trained in the sacred arts and partook in the holiest of rituals. They were seen as benevolent, and wise women who helped deliver babies, and saw to people’s health.

What’s interesting about them is that they are so clearly understood to be positive figures in their society. No king could be without their counsel, no army could recover from a defeat without their ritual activity, no baby could be born without their presence. (x)

The fear of witches stems from the deep-seated misogyny born from male-centric and monotheistic religions such as Christianity and Judaism. The panic spread to Europe and spiked to a level of hysteria with the outbreaks of plagues. (x) Witch-hunts, especially in Central Europe, resulted in the trial, torture, and execution of tens of thousands of victims. About three-quarters of whom were women. (x)

Witch-hunts still claim thousands of lives every year, especially in developing countries that have an inadequate education system. (x) I recommend watching this documentary if you’re interested in learning about a Tanzanian witch-hunt that happened in 2017.

Keeping this gruesom history in mind, I think there would be hidden communities of witches and warlocks in the Twiverse. I’m not here to dictate what sort of magic they would use - I’ll leave the world building up to the writers!

Here are just a couple of examples of witchcraft:

· Shamanism is a practice that involves a practitioner reaching altered states of consciousness to perceive and interact with a spirit world and channel these transcendental energies into this world. (x)(x)

· Druidism is a spiritual or religious movement that generally promotes harmony, connection, and reverence for the natural world. (x) You can learn more about modern Druidry here: (x)

· Wicca is contemporary witchcraft and is one of the fastest-growing religions in the Western world today. (x) Wicca spirituality is earth-based enlightenment. Note that not all Witches are Wiccans. (x) I’m not a practitioner myself, but I quite like the idea of being more in tune with yourself and nature. You can take a test here if you’re curious to see whether Wicca would work for you.

In Iceland, we had what we called Völva (seiðkonur or seiðkarl, depending on the gender) who were seers. Most of their practices were based on herbalism and the use of runes. 

For those of you who are curious about Norse Mythology which hasn’t been altered by the likes of Marvel and Hollywood, I recommend reading Völuspá, which literally translates to Prophecy of Völva. It’s the fundamental source for the study of Norse Mythology because it tells the story of the creation of the world to Ragnarök (end of the world). You’ll also have the chance to learn some freaky shit about Loki - like that time he gave birth to a eight-legged horse - and see that he wasn’t really that much of a dick compared to the other gods *cough* Óðinn *cough* - also Þór once gatecrashed a wedding by dressing up as the bride. 

Mermaids

· Mermaids are sometimes associated with perilous events such as floods, storms, shipwrecks, and drownings. In other folk traditions, they can be benevolent or beneficent, bestowing boons or falling in love with humans.

The Little Mermaid (the H.C Andersen version) happened in the Twiverse and that is a fact!

· Sirens! (You thought I could go through an entire post without mentioning Greek Mythology??? Think again!) They were beautiful but dangerous creatures that lured the sailors with their beautiful voices to their doom, causing the ships to crash on the reefs near their island.(x) This connection to the sea is why many confuse them with mermaids when instead they were believed to be a combination of women and birds.(x)

I can totally see them chilling on Greek islands singing their songs and luring horny sailors to their demise.

Miscellaneous

· Huldufólk (hidden people) played a crucial part in Icelandic folklore. They were the spirits of the land and shouldn’t be confused with fairies. Huldufólk wore normal Icelandic clothing and used the power of words to cast spells on people - either blessing or a curse, depending on how they judge the person’s behavior. They lived inside the stones. To prevent any naughty behavior, it’s said that Huldufólk would kidnap infants and replace them with wizened old elves that pretended to be normal children. They would behave like wild brats, kicking and screaming, and nothing but a good beating could bring back the human child.

These oral tales were used to prevent many children from wandering away from human habitations and instilled fear and respect for the harsh powers of nature. (x)(x)

Contrary to popular belief, Icelanders don’t actually believe in the existence of elves, or anything tbh, we just like to mess with foreigners. So if you’re a tourist then “YES, I am a believer in elves. HoW DarE yOU qUeSTioN my FAith! You dare sit on our precious boulders? Tainting the sacred houses of our elves by touching them with your filthy behind!”

· Tröllskessur (mountain trolls) are usually female, hence skessur. Trolls turn into stone if the sunlight hits them and their tales were used to explain the natural phenomena in Icelandic nature, f.ex. a stone caught between two pillars or the outlines of a face on the side of mountains. (x)

Tröllskessur are extinct in my headcanon but I just think it’s nifty if these stories were true in the Twiverse. 

· DRAGONS! 

Don’t fight me on this!! I have no idea how they would be kept hidden in the Twiverse but they’re out there!

· Spirits (as in the soul) and Yōkai

I’ve watched Spirited Away too many times to leave them out of the Twiverse. They’re probably out there chilling somewhere in a Supernatural Spa Resort…

This was a fun question to answer, anon! Thank you for sticking with me to the end of this post! The sleep deprivation got to me in the end… ಥ∀ಥ

[harpers-mirror]

Merry Wolfmas, Days 2 & 3!

So the spirit of the season rather took over my weekend, between driving south to deck the halls with my parents, a large amount of baking, and a party yesterday afternoon/evening, leaving me no time to get shit written. As such, I’m doing a slightly longer piece than planned (these were supposed to be short things, damn it!) that will be posted in several parts to cover the missed days and today.

Here’s part one of another brand-new adventure in the Blow Us All Away AU, this time from the POV of Minkowski’s eldest daughter Margot, and set further along in the timeline than @wendy-comet and I had ever ventured.

title:  and did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts, pt. 1

rating: PG for swearing

summary: The ghosts of the past refuse to stay buried forever. Especially when you go around digging them up. After an overheard conversation piques her curiosity, Margot Minkowski-Koudelka embarks on a search to learn the truth about her family’s past.

 Story under the jump.

Dropping my backpack on the bench by the back door, I kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat. Choir practice had been canceled and so I was home way earlier than normal after school. A whole extra hour and a half of glorious free time!

I snagged an apple on my way through the kitchen as I headed farther into the house to announce my arrival home.

“So what does this mean? For us, that is?”

The sound of hushed voices from Dad’s office slowed my steps and I hovered quietly outside the door. I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping on the adults in my house, but this sounded both important and potentially interesting.

So I didn’t have entirely pure motives. Sue me.

“I don’t know, Nik,” responded my mom. She sounded tired. “I really don’t. We never figured Goddard would agree to release the records, so I never really thought too much about this particular circumstance.”

“God,” Uncle Doug chimed in. “There was a time when I’d have thrown a parade at this kind of news. All that shit coming to light? The bastards at the top having to answer for the shit they did to us? But now...” He paused.

Whoa. Normally Mom would have yelled at Uncle Doug for swearing that much - although, now that I thought about it, she probably didn’t do that when my siblings and I weren’t around. That said, what on earth was going on here? This sounded super-serious and very dramatic.

“Now you’d give anything just to make it go away, rather than coming back to haunt your every waking step?” finished Mom.

“Exactly, boss.” Uncle Doug made a muffled sort of sighing noise. “I never wanted the kids to know about this. About... y’know. All of it.”

Um, okay. What exactly were they talking about? ‘Haunt their every step?’ What information? Jesus, had they all killed someone or been in a cult? This was way too Desperate Housewives to be everyday life.

Creeping backwards down the hall, I slipped back into the kitchen and opened the back door, before shutting it loudly. Picking up my bag and dropping it with an audible thump, I pretended I’d just gotten home.

“Mom? Dad?” I called. Did my voice sound as tremulous to them as it did to me? I hoped not.

Mom came hurrying down the hall towards me. She looked awful - her face was unhealthily pale and she looked shaky.

“Honey, you’re home early! Is everything okay?” Her voice sounded as forced-calm as my own. I played dumb.

“Everything’s fine, Mom. Mr. Eberhart was out sick today and I guess they didn’t want to make the sub stay after and deal with us any longer. Practice was cancelled. We have a makeup session next Thursday, so we don’t lose out on rehearsal time before the Christmas concert.”

Mom looked visibly relieved and I pretended not to notice. “Okay,” she sighed. “That’s fine, sweetie. Do me a favor and remind me later so I can update the calendar?”

“Yeah!” piped up Uncle Doug, joining us in the hall “Wouldn’t want you off at practice thinking we know what’s going on, and have us sitting around here not knowing where you are and worrying you’ve been kidnapped by shadowy government agents!”

Mom shot him a look that could have melted the Arctic Circle and he visibly wilted. I saw him mouth the word “sorry” to her and she sighed again.

“Anyway,” I said, wondering if all the adults in my house had been replaced by alien doppelgangers with only the barest idea of how to act like normal people, “if you need me, I’ll be upstairs. Might as well get started on some of the stuff I have due right before break since I’ve got some extra time.”

Uncle Doug chuckled. “She really is your kid, Minkowski,” I heard him say as I headed up the stairs. If she answered him back, I did hear it.

In my room, I leaned against the closed door for a moment, eyes shut, processing everything I’d heard. I didn’t know how much I’d missed, and they hadn’t exactly been speaking in super elaborate detail or anything, but my memory was usually pretty decent. I thought I had retained most of it.

I pushed off from the door and grabbed a notebook from my nightstand. Uncapping the pen that had been stuck in the spiral, I started to scribble down as much as I could remember.

Everything I Overheard Just Now:

Someone called Goddard. Goddard Futuristics? (Didn’t they go out of business?) Or the spaceport in Florida? Or something else, maybe a person?

“Release the records,” implication of great secrecy and great harm from the release of them, to both Goddard and my family.

Uncle Doug: “Stuff that was done to us.”

Implication that this stuff has been hidden for a long time.

Okay, great. ‘Clear as mud,’ as my grandmother would say. Well, when in doubt, make more lists.

Questions I Now Have & Maybe Some Answers:

What happened?

Wow, this is vague and not very helpful.

When did it happen? Sounded like a long time ago, probably before I was born.

If it involves all of them... let’s see. Mom & Dad got married in 2009. Mom met Uncle Doug sometime after that, but before I was adopted in 2018. 9 year window, assuming it didn’t happen before or since then.

Who did it happen to? Uncle Doug said stuff was done to “us” - him and mom? Or dad too?

Mom and Uncle Doug met at work, when they were in the military. Connection? I don’t know what they did in the military, just that it was “top secret” and Uncle Doug has joked before about Mom saving his life a bunch of times.

Guessing just Mom and Uncle Doug, because Dad really wasn’t talking much during that conversation.

Why didn’t they want us to know?

Are there actually shadowy government agents involved? Or was that just Uncle Doug being weird? Can’t be sure.

He might be a source of information if I decide to ask - he’s a terrible liar!

I sat back in my chair and sighed. I basically knew nothing except that the grown-ups in my house were hiding something from me. Something about the past, something they didn’t ever want me or my siblings to know, about the military or the government or something else complicated and dark and that scared them.

That last thought made me shiver. Mom was the bravest person I knew. Uncle Doug was always happy. And Dad was like, the chillest person in existence. And all of them were regular boring middle-aged people! Uncle Doug got excited about toys in cereal boxes, and Mom’s idea of a big night out was, like, bowling. Dad traveled a lot for the paper, which was neat, but he was also a huge nerd who liked to bring back bits of obscure trivia from the places he visited.

None of them seemed the kind of people to get sucked into the plots of vague-yet-menacing government agencies. Heck, Uncle Doug couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it, and Mom was way too straight-and-narrow to be involved in anything untoward.

This was getting me nowhere. Opening my laptop, I asked Google what it could tell me about “Goddard.” Might as well start small, with the one concrete, searchable thing I had.

Pages of results scrolled by. AI research, old space shuttle launches and newer probes. Social media results for a handful of people with the same name. A family genealogy page.

And then, a result that I almost scrolled past in my skimming. It was a post on a conspiracy theories forum. Clicking through, I found a site that didn’t look as though it had been updated since the early days of the internet.

“GODDARD FUTURISTICS TO RELEASE LONG-SEALED HEPHAESTUS, HERMES RECORDS” said the post’s headline. The body of the post went on for paragraphs but I lingered over that title for a moment.

I knew the names Hephaestus and Hermes from school, from the unit we’d done in English class two years ago on the myths of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Hephaestus, the smith-god, and Hermes, the winged messenger. What they or their stories had to do with my parents, I didn’t have a clue. But the reference to records being released... that matched with what I’d overheard.

Settling myself more comfortably in my desk chair, I started scrolling through the text of the post.

To be continued...

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 14 - Meditations

With one fashion show already under his belt, Jack approaches his second with much more equanimity. Ok, he's maybe still a frazzled mess, and both Anne and Charles have both kidnapped him on several occasions just to get him to take a break. But he's really handling this show much better than the last. He is.

He's gotten most of his designs mocked up in muslin, knowing now that his strong suit is doing and not planning, even if it's only in this one thing. Charles and Anne have both made fun of him for getting too wrapped up in his head, for coming up with grand plans and schemes and tricky plots when a boot to the face would be nearly as effective and vastly quicker. But that's the thing. Jack doesn't want nearly good enough. He wants perfection. He wants to be the best – and that requires careful planning.

But there's a saying that perfection is the enemy of good enough. And Jack certainly values the balance Anne as his partner and Charles as his second in command (and isn't that a change of circumstances that Jack is still getting used to) bring to their little team. Because Max too is a planner and if it were just the two of them, they might get bogged down in the minute details and miss valuable windows of opportunity. Or literal windows, like the one Anne climbed through into the posh bedroom of one of the city planning commission bigwigs to gather conclusive proof of his tawdry extramarital affair. And if Anne helped herself to some of his top shelf booze and cigars, well Jack likes a drink and a smoke of an evening as well as the next man. Except for Charles, who'd complained that the whiskey went down too smooth, but Charles would drink paint thinner if left to his own devices, so Jack is firmly NOT taking his opinion into account.

Although he thinks at least half of Charles's stubborn refusal to be domesticated is a front. Because honestly, who would rather live life at the ragged edge of survival when they could be safe and comfortable and happy? Who goes out to beat the shit out of other people nearly every day – and have the shit beaten out of them in turn – when there are a million other much more pleasurable ways to spend one's time? Idiots, that's who.

It all just smacks of the kind of hypermasculine male alpha bullshit that Jack has never had particular interest in. Obviously.

But despite their differences, the three of them – well, five if you count Mary and Max, the latter of which Jack has learnt never to disregard – they all make a pretty great team. Jack might think rather highly of himself – too highly, if Anne's to be believed – but he would never be able to pull off the con they're attempting without Max. Without her connections, yes, but it's more than that. She has a clarity of vision he hasn't known since Flint ran a crew, and it's a vision far less likely to cause them to wind up dead or incarcerated.

And Mary has been invaluable helping out with the social media angle of their little venture. So much of what they are doing rests on public perception – and a positive public perception at that. Both Flint and Vane had run crews on the power that fear gave them. But that has never been Jack's angle. Sure, he's ruthless – violent - when he needs to be, but it isn't his go-to method of garnering respect. But even for him, this is a great deal farther along the path of respectability than he's ever trod before. And Mary has helped guide them all down it with a keen eye to social mores and outside perceptions that Jack can't help but admire. Even if he dislikes his work being interrupted for an hour while Mary stages the perfect “candid” photo for his Instagram.

Speaking of his work, it also helps having Christine as an assistant this go round at creating a fashion show, since Fashion Week is somewhat more important than his debut show. Jack has a lot of eyes on his design studio, and those eyes want to see sketches and drawn out designs – proof that he can hack it in the cutthroat world of high fashion. Which, Jack ran a street gang for two years, he's got this covered. But he is garnering a fair bit of interest from the British critics for this new show, as well as some international interest and it serves their agenda to keep those guardians of haute coture appeased., since Max is banking on further exposure for the next stages of her plan.

Sewing the seeds of an international criminal empire is not the only goal, however. Jack is also supposed to be using this show to help Idelle become even more entrenched with Councilor Featherstone. Max has gotten a fair bit of insider information off the esteemed councilor through Idelle's rather pointed pillow talk. Nothing actionable at this stage, but they're still laying the groundwork, both through her efforts and with Jack's own weekly tennis dates with the man. Not to mention the occasional double dates he and Charles have been dragged on, usually to the poshest and most upscale of restaurants – where Charles still doesn't deign to button his shirt more than half way. And expecting him to wear a suite jacket is a complete lost cause.

Not that Jack particularly minds. And he doesn't think Idelle does either.

Frankly, the councilor's not much to look at. Sort of quiet and mousy. Even after all these months and months of trying to draw him out of his shell, Jack doesn't feel like he's been all that successful. The man's more withdrawn than a turtle faced with whatever the fuck eats turtles.

Some kind of bird maybe? Or a lizard? Jack's not a biologist, all right? Or any kind of scientist.

What he is is a conman masquerading as a rich idiot fashion designer. Who's been tasked with making a prostitute look upper crust enough for the nouveau rich government official they're conning to start thinking marriage, not just fun fling.

Because one of the side effects of Jack “befriending” the councilor is that he starts complaining about his life problems. Which is exactly what Jack wants to happen. He can't very well give Councilor Featherstone his heart's desire – fix all the little botherations currently vexing him – if he doesn't know what those botherations are. But God is it dull. His largest problem is an overbearing mother who constantly wonders why he hasn't settled down yet.

And so Featherstone has been agonizing lately over whether or not Idelle is the capital-O one. The real deal. The love of his life. The one he wants to spend forever with – or as much of forever as middle-aged rich fuckers care to believe in.

And for the sake of the con if nothing else, it's Jack's job to make Idelle into the councilor's one true love. His soulmate. His reason de etre.

And that means taking a corner girl and turning her into an upper-middle class enough woman that she can be a wife and not just a hot trophy girlfriend, to be used and then discarded when a newer, shinier model wanders into the councilor's view.

Jack's getting flashbacks of watching My Fair Lady – terrible musical and with a completely different ending to the book. Although the sugar sweet Hollywood ending, with enough romantic nonsense to start rotting teeth, is exactly what they're after.

And Jack is nothing if not adaptable, as evidenced by his turning the whole Flint debacle into something positive. So this go round, all the clothes are rich brocades and just dripping in jewels, like the whole fucking royal treasury is out on the catwalk. And the clothes are not exactly modest, not with the amount of cleavage Jack's showing. Idelle's got great tits and it would be a shame not to feature them prominently. But there's no skin tight latex or side slits up to the waist or plunging necklines that end at the groin.

No. It's respectable.

He's respectable. Which isn't a word Jack often uses to describe himself, much less Anne or Charles. But here they are.

--

Anne is having a great fucking time. Like sure, she knew being rich had to be better than starving on the street. And the kind of money they've got is enough to let them weather storms of a magnitude she can't even fully comprehend.

But just the day to day stuff, it's ridiculous how much that shit's changed.

Anne's got people to clean her bathrooms. Hell, Anne's got a bathroom – and all to herself, she don't gotta share with anyone if she don't want. She can close and lock the door and lay in the gigantic bathtub, full of some perfumy smelling shit she swiped offa Jack and just exist for hours.

No one can get in and bother her. No one can judge her for using up all the hot water. Or for being unproductive.

Or for being girly.

Cuz Anne's not really one for frills and lace. Ain't never been one for dresses or high heels or makeup. But there's something to be said for having the freedom to do all the kinda girly shit she'd thought was stupid and weak and no way to get respect – and to find out that some of it's kinda fun.

Like the bubble baths. Or the tea parties she and Max and Mary started having, as a way for Anne to see Max at least weekly, but they've sorta turned into their own thing.

None of them are posh, and neither Anne or Mary want to put on the flowery sundresses that the event seems to call for. But Max'll put on a just fucking gorgeous dress with her hair piled up on her head with jewels in it like she's a queen or maybe a goddess like from Greek myths or some shit. And Anne'll put on a poet shirt and highwaisted pants and boots, cuz Byron might have been a syphilitic jackass but he had good fashion sense at least. And Mary'll put on a real sharp suit. And they'll sit out in their fancy garden and drink sparkling fruit juices with booze in them or tea nearly white with cream but still so much better than the dishwater they'd used to drink and eat finger sandwiches and fancy little cakes and just take the piss out of all the fucking rich pricks they've had to put up with all week. And sometimes, Charles will even join them, which is extra funny cuz he never even bothers to change out of his usual wardrobe of ripped jeans and leather and just so much testosterone you could choke. But he'll stick his pinky out when he drinks tea and gossip with the best of them, cuz he knows Anne'd give him endless shit if he didn't.

It's a whole hell of a lot of fun, is what Anne is saying, all that silliness and camaraderie and, and civility. She's glad she gets to live a life where she can do all those things. Where she don't gotta be the fiercest and the toughest and the ballsiest fucker in the room just to prove she belongs there.

Though she's also glad she gets to live a life where she can climb through a rich fuck's window to commit espionage and petty theft. Cuz life'd be pretty fucking boring if it was all just bubble baths and tea parties.