Masterpost of TLT metas
This is mostly for my own reference, as tagging doesn't seem to guarantee something being findable on Tumblr...but if you like wildly overthinking lesbian necromancers in space, enjoy!
Overthinking the Fifth House:
What is a "Speaker to the Dead"?
Actually, Magnus Quinn isn't terrible at sword fighting
Imperial complicity: Abigail the First
Pyschopomp: Abigail Pent and Hecate
Did Teacher conspire with Cytherea to kill the Fifth?
What does the Fifth House actually do?
The Fourth and the Fifth can never just be family
Cytherea's political observations at the anniversary dinner
Abigail Pent's affect: ghosts and autism
Were the Fourth wards of the Fifth?
Abigail probably knew most of the scions as children
Magnus Quinn's very understandable anger
Fifth House necromancy is not neat and tidy
Are Abigail and Magnus an exception to the exploitative nature of cavaliership?
"Abigail Pent literally brought her husband and look where that got her" (the Fifth in TUG)
The Fifth's relationship dynamic
The Fifth's relationship is unconventional in a number of ways
The queer-coding of Abigail and Magnus' relationship
Abigail and Palamedes, and knowing in the River
Was Isaac the ward of the Fifth?
Did Magnus manage to draw his sword before Cytherea killed him? (and why he probably had to watch his wife die)
How did Abigail know she was murdered by a Lyctor?
Fifth House necromancy is straight out of the Odyssey
The politics of the anniversary dinner
Was Magnus born outside of the Dominicus system?
Overthinking John Gaius:
The one time John was happy was playing Jesus
Is Alecto's body made from John's?
Are there atheists in the Nine Houses?
Why isn't John's daughter a necromancer?
The horrors of love go both ways: why John could have asked Alecto 'what have you done to me?'
Why M- may have really hoped John was on drugs
What is it with guys called Jo(h)n and getting disintegrated? (John and Dr Manhattan)
John's conference call with his CIA handlers
Watching your friend turn into an eldritch horror
Why does G1deon look so weird? (Jod regrew him from an arm)
When is a friendship bracelet not a friendship bracelet?
Why did John have G1deon hunt Harrow? (with bonus update)
The 'indelible' sin of Lyctorhood and John's shoddy plagiarism of Catholicism
Are John Gaius and Abigail Pent so different?
What was Jod's plan at Canaan House?
John and Ianthe tread the Eightfold path
The Mithraeum is more than a joke about cows
When was John Gaius born? (And another)
John Gaius and the tragic Orestes
John and Jesus writing sins in the sand
John and Nona's echoing chapters
John's motivations
Overthinking the Nine Houses:
'No retainers, no attendants, no domestics'
Funerary customs and the violence of John's silence
Juno Zeta and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time
The horror of the River bubble
Every instance of 'is this how it happens' in HTN
Feudalism is still shitty even if you make it queer and sex positive
How do stele work?
Thought crime in the Nine Houses
The Houses have a population the size of Canada
What must it be like to fight the Houses?
You know what can't have been fun? Merv wing's megatruck on Varun day...
Augustine's very Catholic hobby (decorating skeletons)
Necromancers are not thin in a conventionally attractive way
Matching the Houses with the planets of the solar system
Why don't the Nine Houses have (consistent) vaccination or varifocals?
How would the Houses react to the deaths at Canaan House?
How does Wake understand her own name (languages over 10,000 years)
What pre-resurrection texts are known in the Houses?
Camilla and Palamedes very Platonic relationship
The horrors the Cohort found at Canaan House
Do the Houses understand the tech keeping them alive?
Overthinking House religion:
What do the Houses believe about death?
Was M's nun a Franciscan?
Cavaliership and arbitrary socio-religious structures
Ritual scarification
Sacraments and sacramentals
What did Silas think god wanted at Canaan House?
In defense of Silas
There's no such thing as a 'good' necro/cav relationship
Veiling and shaving in Ninth House cult practice
Tongue-in-cheek thoughts on Eighth and Sixth religion
A very long deep-dive on House belief and practice
Overthinking Harrowhark Nonagesimus:
'The meat of your meat...belonged to god' and 'that is how meat loves meat'
The horror of parental touch: Harrow, John Gaius, and Abigail Pent
Why is Harrow so obsessed with Abigail's hands?
Frontline Titties of the Fifth and transgressive necro/cav relationships
Harrow, Wake, and permeability of the soul in HTN
Bible studies for weird queer necromancers:
Epiphany: revealing god's child to the wider world
The Holy Innocents and the creche massacre
The Virgin Mary and Commander Wake
John Gaius and John the Baptist
Instantiating the Trinity and the Second Resurrection
What's the significance of Paul?
St Paul's theology of gender and sexuality and the House theology of cavaliership
Maundy Thursday: consuming another for eternal life
Harrow and the Harrowing of Hell
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wishin' you were kind enough to be cruel about it -> cool about it [2]
in which: a son of Jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.
pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader
warnings: you guessed it! more angst and cursing!
word count: 6.4k
a/n: did not mean for it to be this long but, im obsessed.... no like u don't understand. so much to be said! inbox/comment to be added to the taglist!
one [two] three four
At least you had the comfort of preparing for war to distract you.
Armor polished to perfection, swords sharpened, denarii in your pocket to pay for passage to the Underworld, should you meet your end facing an endless army of monsters that couldn't die.
Really, how Roman of you to seek the blissful nothingness at the start of battle.
You knew the exact number, down to the minute, of how long it had been since you had last seen Jason. But if someone were to ask you how many days Percy, Frank, and Hazel had been off on their quest, you would have stared at them blankly.
And even as you readied for war, your eyes had a glossy look to them, pinned on a fixed point just above the horizon.
"Don't let the legionnaires see you like this," Dakota had murmured in your ear as he adjusted the straps of your armor. You knew he had a point, but hated him for saying it, anyways.
What did it matter? The legionnaires had already seen you in hysterics in the camp center, tearing through the place in search of Jason. They wouldn't be surprised to see you were still not right, even with the promise of military glory.
But it didn’t change the fact that he had a point.
You were a centurion for a reason, and not just because the great Jason Grace followed you like a shadow. You needed to be strong and brave and ruthless, because that was what a Roman leader should be.
And the reason you became a centurion was apparent the moment you stepped onto the battlefield, New Rome at your back and your brothers-in-arms at your side.
See, the giants hadn't taken into account how much anger and fear you had bottled up inside you, uncorked with the first swing of your sword and spilling out over their armies.
Violence untethered, one of the now-retired centurions from the First Cohort had once described the way you fought. Brutal. Efficient. Roman.
And if you had been untethered before, when you still had Jason at your side—
The casualties on the Roman side were few.
You had taken a couple of big hits, but you welcomed the pain. The first actual bite of something other than heartache felt almost like a relief, like a promise that you were not trapped in a body that could only grieve.
The rest of camp may have been rejuvenated by Percy's retrieval of hundreds of Imperial Gold weapons, but all you could do was grit your teeth and limp back into the city.
The cries of 'Praetor!' that echoed after you, announcing Percy as Camp Jupiter's second leader, felt like they were twisting a knife in a wound long infected and left to rot.
Jason was praetor. Jason.
You liked Percy, you really did. He was funny—or at least, you would have thought so, if you weren't constantly looking for the next excuse to leave camp and search for Jason—and kind. He had Roman bravery, if not a little rebellious, which the Mercury in your blood seemed to enjoy.
Percy might have even been your friend, in another life. One when you had met him with your hand tucked in Jason’s, the son of Jupiter the levelheaded side to your double edged sword.
And at least you trusted Percy a whole lot more than Octavian.
"These... Greeks," Octavian hissed the word, lips curling in distaste. The day after the battle, still bruised and wounds leaking blood, you found yourself in the forum, dressed in a toga wrapped over your armor. You still couldn’t put too much weight on your ankle, and the shoulder on your shield arm was swollen. "You're an even bigger fool than I thought if you trust them."
You rolled your eyes, but bit down the dramatic gag. If Jason had been there, he would have been very pointedly ignoring you—because you had been guilty on more than one occasion of making more and more ridiculous faces in an attempt to make him laugh.
And after the third time you had gotten him to break his stony facade, Jason had implemented a 'no looking at you during meetings' rule, which he more or less succeeded in executing.
Or less, being the key words.
"Talking about fools," You murmured, and from beside you, Dakota jammed his elbow into your side so harshly, you almost yelped. In his defense, you hadn’t told him about the Cyclops that had probably broken your ribs, but you wished he hadn't hit you where you were so sore.
"Look, they're my friends up there." Percy gestured widely towards the open air roof as he spoke. You found yourself studying the skies, as if the flying Greek trireme Percy claimed would be arriving might suddenly appear out of thin air. "I trust them, and you voted me praetor. Doesn't that count for something?"
"It's something, alright." Octavian scoffed. You rolled your eyes again, almost growing dizzy with the movement.
A bad habit during meetings, Centurion, Jason had chastised you, once, with a smile so warm it didn't feel like a punishment. The two of you had just left the forum, still wrapped in your togas, your hand curled around his forearm as he led you through New Rome and towards a bakery you favored.
Wouldn't happen if you let me challenge Octavian to combat, Praetor, you had fired back, and in a moment of weakness, pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw before darting off ahead of him, giddy.
Soldiers, not lovers, you had to remind yourself. No matter how much you wanted, you couldn't force Jason to be anything he wasn't ready to be—or maybe what he just wasn't.
Octavian's watery stare landed on you, snapping you back to the moment like a rubber band pulled taut.
"I can hardly imagine you support this, Centurion? With Jason Grace gone—"
"Do not," You snapped, breath coming out in short, labored spurts. Violence untethered, indeed. "Neither I nor you get to decide who is praetor, and the spot was open—"
Your voice cracked. It tasted like a lie. The spot wasn't open. It belonged to Jason, just as your heart and tears and smiles did.
"—and Percy Jackson was raised to the rank after receiving glory in battle." You recited. You hoped it didn't sound like you had practiced in the bathroom mirror that morning, trying to make it seem like you believed it, even if you had. "I seem to recall a certain Apollo legacy cowering beneath my shield during the second Cyclops onslaught, don't you, Augur?"
And maybe it was a low blow, calling a Roman's battle bravery into question, but Jason had always been your bridge to your self-control.
"I—no—it—!" Octavian stammered, flustered, and Percy laughed. Dakota and several of the other centurions Octavian hadn't managed to blackmail or brainwash to follow him pressed their palms over their mouths to suppress their own chuckles, and even Reyna was struggling to bite back a grin. "You think you'll still hold rank as centurion, come the next election?"
He was threatening you, you realized, and you would have hauled off and socked him in the mouth, consequences be damned, if a shadow hadn't crossed over Octavian's head, darkening the whole of the forum.
Twisting your gaze up, heart hammering, you found a flying Greek trireme.
Percy was right.
And maybe he had been right about something else, too. Something you hadn’t dared to consider.
While Percy was dropped at Camp Jupiter, Jason might have been carted off to Camp Half-Blood.
Mercury swiftness blessed you once more as you took off, darting out of the forum before Reyna could finish saying dismissed.
There wasn’t much that could have stopped you, not even the bitter cold of crashing through the middle of a Lar.
You didn’t even bother pausing to shout an apology to Cassius, glowing purple and claiming to curse your bloodline for such an insult.
If you have been able to breathe, you would have told him your bloodline already felt a little cursed.
There was shouting, but you barely could hear it over the buzzing in your mind. You felt like you were going to vibrate out of your skin, eyes squinted, head tilted up, and fighting against the sun for even a glimpse of your missing half.
“Helmet on, fall in line,” Dakota tugged your arm, pulling you back to his side. You felt a little, a lot, frantic—felt desperate—but Reyna was already struggling to get everyone to fall in line, and she had given you so much leeway in the past months, that you stepped beside your fellow Fifth Cohort centurion.
“I left my—“ Left my helmet behind, you would have said, but Dakota shoved the metal piece into your hands. With buzzing fingertips, you placed on your helmet, adjusted the straps of your armor that were already perfectly done up.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Seconds ticked by like hours, limbs swimming through thick air like you were in a dream. From your spot nestled between Dakota and Paulette from Fourth Cohort, tucked under the hull of the flying trireme, standing behind Percy and Reyna, you couldn't see any of the ship's occupants.
But then they dropped a rope ladder, and your heart stuttered in your chest. Nails bit into your palms, your own fingers the culprit, and you forced yourself to stretch out your hands in an attempt to keep the bleeding to a minimum.
Jason, please, Jason, I need you, oh, gods, please—
It was like a mantra, repeating on a loop in your head. Tears stung at your eyes, overwhelmed by just the sheer possibility that your golden haired love could be so, so close to returning to you.
The first body began to climb down the ladder. A girl, with yellow hair dragged into a ponytail. In front of you, somehow, you heard Percy inhale sharply and you realized it must have been Annabeth.
The only person he remembered from his past life, until he had drank the gorgon's blood and gotten his memories restored. Unease trickled through you. There wouldn't be such a quick fix for Jason.
A second girl descended the ladder after Annabeth, with choppy brown hair, baggy clothes, and a wicked dagger at her hip.
You started to doubt Percy's theory. Maybe Jason hadn't been taken by Juno or Hera or whichever deity you felt like blaming. Maybe he was stuck somewhere else, alone, and hurting, and you were—
A purple shirt appeared over the side of the ship, atop a set of broad shoulders you could have recognized blind.
Jason.
Your Jason.
Home, to you, at last.
A gasp shuddered through you as he started to climb down the rope ladder and into New Rome. You started to step forward, but Roman training froze you to your spot as Reyna pinned you with a look that screamed 'don't break rank, not in front of Octavian,' which would never be enough to keep you from reaching Jason.
But still, you stalled.
It didn't mean you stopped staring, your eyes tracing his form from head to toe, trying to see what changed about him, what was still the same.
The scar on his lip, the sky blue eyes, the golden rays of his hair. It was exactly as you remembered, except for the hair, which had grown out just slightly. You liked it better, but you would never tell him. You knew how much he liked to keep it short, in regulation.
Look at me, please, you begged him in your mind, because you were forbidden to say the words. Another boy scaled down the rope ladder, but you paid him no attention. Jason, Jason, Jason.
It was dizzying. In all the years you had loved him, never had it felt so much like a compactor was pressing in on your chest.
Their group approached, four rag-tag demigods, three Greeks and a Roman. It sounded like the set-up to one of the awful jokes you used to tell Jason when you were stationed on guard duty together, just to pass the time and see him shake his head with a smile.
Reyna stood tall before you, strong and powerful and part of you wanted to push her to the side and race into the arms of your lost soldier.
Why hadn't he looked at you yet?
This was it, the moment you had been dying for, for months. When Jason finally came back to you, his eyes locking with yours, rules and regulations tossed aside as he wrapped you in his arms so tight your toes left the ground and his mouth slotted over yours, a kiss nearly a decade in the making.
Fear and emotion clogged your throat, and you had trouble swallowing around it. Didn't he see you? He knew you always stood between Dakota and Paulette, just to the right of the second praetor—his rank, formerly, now given to Percy Jackson.
But, there—his blue eyes scanned the row of centurions lined behind Reyna and Percy, starting with the First Cohort and making his way to you. Oh, how you were going to scream and cry and hold him later, all as punishment for making you worry—
Jason's eyes passed over you, carrying on towards Dakota like you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.
Fear and routine and fear of your routine were the only things stopping you from tearing off your helmet and slamming it into his chest, demanding to know who the hell he thought he was, scaring you so thoroughly for months and then acting like he didn’t know you.
But then you remembered Percy, and how he hadn’t been able to remember anything.
That couldn’t be right, no, Jason loved you. And maybe it wasn’t in the way you loved him, but hadn’t Hadlee, the daughter of Venus, gone on and on the other night about different types of love? You knew with a certainty you had never felt before that Jason loved you, even if it was only in the sense of friends.
The way fellow soldiers would die and bleed and get torn to shreds for each other.
You had gotten upset when he asked what else was there for the two of you to be. Now, you would trade every scrap of pleasure and freedom for the chance to be only soldiers with Jason Grace for the rest of time.
You pressed your arm tight against your side, elbow pointed in and poking at the unhealed, unchecked injury from the Cyclops. At first, you had refused to go to the medics because they were still all cheering for Percy to take place at praetor.
Then the pain just became a good enough distraction from losing Jason, even if it didn't really work.
These thoughts and more swirled in your mind as Jason introduced himself and the Greeks he had arrived with. Annabeth, Piper, Leo, Coach Hedge. The names meant nothing to you, but still you memorized them, because they were important to Jason.
He and Annabeth took turns explaining the quest they were on. You only understood half of what they were talking about, because every time someone other than Jason even attempted to speak, their voice was drowned out by the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.
Gaea is rising. Giants trying to wake the earth mother. Need to go to the Ancient Lands to stop them.
You gathered enough to know that whatever was happening was bad. They needed Jason, your Jason, and the fate of the world was more important than the heartbeat pulsing in the tips of your fingers.
Wasn't it?
Miles and miles away, maybe already in the Ancient Lands, you heard Reyna's voice cut through the static.
Let's discuss over a meal, she had said, your stare watching the relief wash over Jason's face. You were certain no one but yourself noticed the minute reaction on his behalf. At least, you had hoped. We reconvene in the city proper for a lunch. Centurions, dismissed.
There it was, that permission you had been waiting for.
Your helmet was torn from your head before Dakota even had time to slouch, shoulders dropping from the stiff way he held them while in formation.
It clattered to the ground beneath you, and you might have even stubbed your toe on it as you stepped forward, desperate for proof that you weren't imagining things. Your soldier was home, gods praise, he was home and within arms reach.
The rank of centurions behind you remained still, anticipating the long awaited and bitterly fought for reunion between two of New Rome's finest, the two soldiers that rarely ever separated, but spent six and a half months apart.
You surged forward. Jason stayed still. You understood what was happening, but you wanted to pretend for a moment longer.
"Hey, soldier," You breathed, voice tight and eyes burning. You clenched your hands into fists, then splayed your fingers wide, stretching, desperate to reach out and touch.
But you were on very uncertain ground. You had to wait for him to make the first move, even if it killed you.
"If the legion weren't here, I'd kick your ass for making me cry." You settled on saying, knowing that he would understand just how much you missed him.
Once, during a particularly violent round of training, Jason had caught the underside of your jaw with the blunt end of his lance. Nothing had broken, which considering Jason's strength, had been both a shock and a blessing, but you hadn't been able to control the tears that sprung to your eyes and raced down your cheeks in pain.
I did this to you, he had lamented, torn between anger at himself and grief for having hurt you. His aching in his words had been nearly enough to get you to resent yourself for feeling pain. I should have been more careful. Next time, I will.
His hands had been cradling your face, turning in it ever so gently to the side to inspect the bruise already forming on your jaw. His touch on your skin had felt like too much, but now you were realizing it had never been enough.
Next time, I'll be faster, you had promised hooking your leg around the back of his and shoving into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards and landing square on his ass in a move that never would have been possible if he hadn't been distracted by your tears at his hand.
You had barely cried then. What would he say, now, learning of the hysterics you had been reduced to?
“Er, do I know you?” Jason asked, stammering, flush coating pale cheeks you could have drawn from memory.
The simple question felt like being dunked in an ice bath, then held under while your lungs filled with water. It had to be some cruel joke, some wicked nightmare you would surely wake from any minute.
Know you? Did Jason Grace know you?
The question was almost unnecessary. Laughable, even. Seven months earlier, if someone had asked that question, you would have cracked a grin. Jason would have been by your side, naturally, and been offended by the insinuation that he didn't.
And then he would have proceeded to list off all of your favorite things, in alphabetical order, organized by category.
The idea was laughable. He knew you. He had to know you.
“Jase?” It was pathetic, really, that that was all you could muster. A breathy, pained whisper of the nickname you’d given him when he was being stubborn about taking care of himself and you poked out your bottom lip to try and convince him to rest.
Most times, it worked.
Now it just hurt.
“Sorry,” He shook his head, darting a glance to the curly haired Latino boy wincing at his side, your stomach dropping to somewhere around Pluto’s palace. “I don’t remember, well, anything, really.”
How foolish had you been? Percy had remembered Annabeth, sure, but Annabeth was his girlfriend. What were you to Jason?
Just another soldier, like he had claimed the day he went missing.
Just another soldier. Only ever soldiers.
And the worst part was he looked genuinely apologetic. You wished he could have scoffed and waved you off, like some prissy, no-good asshole that turned up his nose simply because he was the savior of the world and had earned so much battlefield glory he practically reeked of it.
But that wasn't like Jason. No, not only did the jerk have to be the strongest, most strategic soldier you had ever had the pleasure of fighting alongside, he was also one of the nicest.
Holding open doors, comforting the new, young, arrivals, braiding your hair for you to keep it out of your face that one time the stomach bug had torn its way through the Fifth Cohort. You had spent thirty-six straight hours bent over a toilet, and Jason had been there through all of it.
I don't remember, well, anything, really.
But you had never just been anything to Jason. Sometimes, he looked at you and you could almost convince yourself that you were his everything.
Dakota, of all people, a little hopped up on kool-aid, came to your rescue. Knotting his red-stained fist in the back of your toga, he tugged you back into the line of centurions, using his body to block Jason from your line of sight.
And you would have expressed your thanks, if you had been able to express anything beyond total heartache.
“No one would blame you if you snuck out,” Dakota lowered his voice, ducked his head close to your ear, and that snapped you out of your stupor.
“And leave my legion?” You glared sharply at him, glad for an excuse to funnel out some of your anger, though you felt a little bad that Dakota had been your punching bag the last six months. Really, you owed him. “I don’t think so. I’m fine. Just… shocked. I’m good.”
Dakota winced. Usually, you were ace at lying.
Who tied Octavian’s shoelaces together?
Not me, you’d dutifully shake your head.
Who broke curfew and snuck into the city to retrieve little Julia’s stuffed teddy from Octavian’s sacrifice pile?
I’d never, you’d claim, aghast.
Who’s head over fucking heels, dizzyingly in love with Jason Grace?
Not my type, you’d hold a hand over your heart, scouts honor.
But a simple I’m fine?
Even Frank Zhang couldn’t pretend to not know you were lying through your clenched teeth, and he pretended like he had never found you sobbing outside bunkhouse after curfew one night, a few days following his arrival at camp.
How had Jason forgotten you? It didn’t feel real, but everything felt like too much.
Maybe Dakota had a point. Maybe you needed to get out.
"Come," Reyna ordered, breaking the silent tension that had been building as Greeks and Romans alike stopped to gawk at your conversation with Dakota. "Let's eat."
You picked your helmet up out of the dirt, a dutiful little soldier with lungs full of glass shards.
You were supposed to be strong.
You were supposed to be strong, but you were just a kid.
Ten years old to be exact. Tears stung at your eyes, burned their way up your throat. You could have vomited. You might have already.
You're a thief and a monster, the other kids at school had claimed, words like bullets as they lobbed pencils and crumbled paper and anything they could get away with at you.
A thief, you would admit to being. You couldn't help it, fingers moving almost of their own accord, always finding the easiest target, the shiniest reward. It didn't matter that you always returned everything you took. No one wanted to be friends with the freak that managed to lift the teacher's wedding band off her finger in kindergarten.
A thief, you were.
But a monster? Monsters were the creatures that clawed at your window at night. Monsters were the odd shapes in the grass your mother never managed to see. You weren't a monster. You were ten.
"Hey, we're not supposed to be back here."
The voice of another child cut through your misery, and you sharpened your glare to pin the intruder to his spot. You recognized him, because he was the type of guy that had called you names in school. Tall—for a kid—and built like an athlete. Tan skin, blond hair, blue eyes.
You were pretty sure his name was Jake Greene, or something.
"You're back here," You reasoned, waving a hand littered with scabbed knuckles around for emphasis. Here being the stretch of unwatched grass behind the Mess Hall, a little place you had discovered on your second day and realized it was secluded enough that no one could see you cry.
Now, a week in, you discovered that it was secluded enough that no one could see you cry, but Jake Greene.
He looked around uncomfortably, like he was just then realizing that he, too, was breaking the rules. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for witnesses, before trodding through the plush grass to sit beside you, legs stretched out in front of him while yours were pulled tight to your chest.
You checked the ground quickly, relieved to find you hadn't actually vomited.
"I'm Jason. Jason Grace." He introduced himself, as if your eyes weren't bloodshot and face blotchy and cheeks wet with tears.
Not Jake. Noted. Now that you thought about it, you didn't think there was a Jake at Camp Jupiter. Not one that you had met, yet, at least.
You nodded, hoping Jason, Jason Grace would get the hint that you wanted absolutely no fucking part of whatever nice guy routine he was putting on. Even if he was one of the few to approach you since you had arrived, bloody and starved, at the camp's borders, Lupa and her pack deciding you worthy.
This one is feisty, you could have sworn the alpha wolf had snarled a grin at the older centurion who found you. Young, but strong willed.
You didn't feel strong willed. You felt like you missed your own home.
You had to remind yourself that your own home hadn't wanted you and your new home was a Roman military camp.
"Your father is Mercury, right?" Jason tried again, this time earning a sharp glare.
It was easier to be angry than it was to be vulnerable, wasn't it? Wasn't that why you always bit the hand that fed you, got sent to the literal fucking wolves at ten years old?
Jason Grace didn't flinch at your hatred. Hatred? That wasn't the right word. You didn't hate anything or anyone but the schools and teachers that had convinced your mother that you were too difficult to deal with, that you needed to be sent away.
Can I come back for Christmas, Mom?, you had naively asked, not understanding why your mother was crying as you rolled to a stop outside a crumbling, wooden house in Sonoma.
A week later, you wondered if your mother was still crying. Or maybe she was enjoying the peace of no longer getting calls from schools or policemen about you.
You wished you could wipe your hands clean of yourself, like Mom had. Maybe you would understand why everyone in your life always seemed happier after they had gotten rid of you.
"It's not so bad here, I promise," He tried, again, and part of you had to congratulate him for not giving up. You would have. "I cried, a lot, when I first got here."
"You?" The exclamation fell past your lips before you could help it, and Jason's own twisted into a victorious grin. He had a scar, on the side of his lips, shining pearly white in the sun, set against his skin.
"Me," He confirmed. Sure, you had just met the guy, had been calling him the wrong name for a week, but he didn't seem like the type to cry. "I did come here when I was two, though."
You didn't know whether to gasp or swat his arm in retaliation, so you did both, finally uncurling from the ball of fear and hatred you had woven yourself into.
"You're really good in training," Jason complimented, taking your childlike assault in stride. You nodded, picking a few blades of grass out of the ground, right at the roots.
"I used to fight in school," You offered, if it was that simple. But punching your bullies was a whole lot different than locking sword and shield.
In the bunkhouse, the boy in the bed across from you was a son of Ceres, the goddess of the harvest. Your first night, in an effort to make you stop crying, rambled on and on about plants. How to properly care for different crops, what too little sunlight did to a flower, and how a tree could be dug up from the ground, roots and all, and planted somewhere else to live a perfectly normal, perfectly long life.
You stared at the blade of grass in your hand, feeling very much like the plant, your roots floating in the middle of nowhere by the hand of some unseen, unforgiving god.
But maybe you could plant your roots, too.
"If I don't make it here," You whispered, little kid voice hoarse. "Then that's it for me. I don't have anywhere else. I'll have to live on the streets. I've done it, once. Made it a whole week before Mom found me."
Part of you regretted the words as soon as they left your lips. What had Lupa shown you about weakness? It got you killed. It got you punished.
But Jason didn't sneer. He pursed his lips in a thin line, scar shining even brighter with the movement.
"I don't know my mom," He confessed, suddenly just as weak as you. Frowning, you tried to figure out why he was saying it. Big, strong—at least to ten year old you—Jason Grace should not have been any kind of weak.
Nodding, you didn’t have anything to say. But you felt the connection build, just two weak children, forgotten by their mothers.
“But I know you,” Jason offered, the admission warming something in your chest involuntarily. And you knew in that moment that maybe you were scared, but you weren’t alone.
At least Jason Grace knew you.
You grinned, then. A far cry from the glares and snarls everyone else you had come across had received. The ones that even he had been victim to, at the start of the conversation.
"Well, Jason Grace," You stuck out your hand, and he clasped your forearm like a good little Roman. "You're never getting rid of me, now."
The smile he gave you in return was a little lopsided, and when he dropped your arm and glanced over his shoulder, you remembered that your not-so secret hiding spot was off limits.
"Just don’t tell anyone we were back here, please.”
If you had thought your mood was bitter before the trireme arrived, it was nothing compared to the sulking, sorrowful mess you currently were.
For starters, you had somehow been shoved and duped into the seat beside Octavian and across from Jason. You didn't really want to see either of them, at all, at the moment.
Secondly, and you may have been reading far too much into things, but the second girl the Greeks arrived with, Piper, was sitting entirely too close to Jason. You wished that you had a good enough reason to not like her, but with your rotten luck, Piper McLean had been an absolute sweetheart despite your best efforts to act like a dickhead.
And it wasn't like Jason had ever actually been yours, ever.
Third. The plate the sprites dropped in front of you was filled with all of Jason's favorite foods. You weren't sure if it was your will or the sprites that made it happen, but you felt like tossing it all away.
Maybe you would dump it in Octavian's lap. It might make you feel better. It certainly was worth a try.
Finally, there was one aching thought echoing inside your mind relentlessly. The last conversation you ever had with your Jason had been an argument. You had walked away from him, a little petulant, entirely unnecessarily. And you had lost your soldier boy.
Because the Jason seated across from you at the Dining Hall in New Rome was not the same one that wrote out your to-do lists for you on neatly lined paper, offering to tag along with you while you checked them off.
He was just Jason, not yours.
And that hurt far more than you cared to admit.
“Centurion, you must be ecstatic,” Octavian crooned, his sickly smirk pinned on you. You felt a whole lot of things, but ecstatic wasn’t one of them.
“How so, Augur?” You huffed, even though you knew it only invited trouble. Across from you, Jason and Piper clearly had one ear on the conversation.
"Well, you have been inconsolable with our dear Jason Grace missing," Octavian said, as if he really cared about you. More heads started turning in your direction, and you found your fingertips inching to do something that would really get you in trouble. "You were a mess, honestly. Looking like—"
"That's enough," Jason interrupted, even though he didn't have any memories of you.
At least he was still the same horribly perfect sweetheart he had been before he left. His months with the Greeks—all of them watching you with mixed emotions—hadn't turned him sour.
"Oh, you should have seen her, Jason!" Octavian was going now, flourishing in the attention and you hated him, hated him so much your cheeks burned as bright a red as the kool-aid trapped perpetually in Dakota's hip flask. "Crying, every night. She even has—"
"I said, enough, Octavian,"
"—has a key to your bunkroom!" The augur finished, and if you had been able to think of anything beyond your embarrassment or frustration or fear that you were totally, irrevocably erased from Jason's mind, you would have remembered Octavian's threat, earlier, before the trireme arrived. He was just exacting his twisted form of justice.
Embarrass me in front of the Senate, and I will destroy you in front of Jason Grace, you could practically hear him sneer.
"Wait," The Greek named Leo narrowed his eyes at Jason before darting them to you, a grin on his lips that screamed trouble. "Did you two use to date?"
"I don't know," Was Jason's clipped, short reply, his cheeks dusting pink as he fixed his attention on your face. He studied you like he didn't understand you, which was ridiculous, because sometimes it felt like you and Jason shared a heart.
"No," You grunted, shoving your plate forwards, glare fixed on the stupid cherry tomatoes rolling atop the porcelain that you despised and Jason adored.
"We never could figure out if that was the truth," Octavian slanted a look to you, smirking. "But I guess we don't have to worry about that now, do we Centurion? Since he has no memory of you, of—"
Faster than what would have been possible, if your father had been anyone different, you lifted the knife set beside your plate and slammed the tip into the wooden table, between two of his fingers. He screamed, and the plates on the table rattled.
Weapons were forbidden inside the Pomerian Line, but dinner knives were only utensils.
The whole table fell silent. And maybe the whole Dining Hall, had, beyond Octavian's spluttering and cursing and calling for your trial before the Senate for attacking an Augur.
And maybe if Percy wasn't glaring at Octavian, and Reyna hadn't been the one to slip you Jason's key, he might have had a case against you.
"Praetors," Standing, you bowed your head to Reyna and Percy, and though every muscle in your body screamed to pay the same respects to Jason, you couldn’t get yourself together enough to meet his eye. How could he not know you? "I request to be dismissed."
"I will come find you later." Reyna nodded, intelligent eyes shimmering with understanding, and you never realized just how much it hurt to be pitied by her. "We’ve got much to discuss."
"Yeah. Uh, lots." Percy nodded, looking between you and Reyna like he couldn’t quite figure out what he was missing. But then his attention snagged on Jason, seated across the table, and you saw it all—the understanding, the pity, the sorrow—pass over his face. "Wait—"
Annabeth jammed her elbow into his side, and you met her eye briefly. She might have been the only one who understood even a fraction of what you were going through.
But at least Percy remembered her, and he had loved her freely, before.
“Later.” You confirmed through clenched teeth, turning swiftly to try and find a spot far enough from Jason Grace so that his lack of memories didn’t hurt.
You weren’t sure such a spot existed.
Your feet carried you deeper into the city, walking past store after store. You couldn't stomach going into much of them, every bakery and café and bookstore holding some memory of Jason. Far more memories than he held, of you.
You weren't sure how much time had passed before you heard the first explosion.
And Roman training kicked in, instantly, as you raced towards the forum, where the Greek trireme was firing on your city, the one you had only just saved from and army led by a giant.
Fall in! You shouted, organizing legionnaires, your mind and your instincts at war. And you knew Greeks and Romans were at war, too. Protect the city!
You barely were able to glimpse the dark haired boy, Leo, manning the ballistae attached to the side of the ship before it took off, rocketing through the skies, even with Roman firepower slamming into the hull.
And as the trireme disappeared into the distance, fear tore through you.
Because you knew Jason. You knew he was on that ship, with his new friends. You knew he was sailing off with them, bound to a quest that meant saving the world, if what they said was to be trusted.
And you knew what came next.
Jason Grace, loyal to the end.
You were going to have to kill him.
a/n: did not mean to give reader such a tragic backstory but I kinda love it... im so curious to know what ur fav part is, bc I cannot decide. ty for reading this much and plz let me know what you think!
tag, you're it: @aezuria @tayswiftlovebot @bonnie-tz @folklorefantasies14 @sunshine-of-ur-life @irwinchester@bellamysnatblida @saph-nic @auroraofthesun1 @helloimamistake
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