#risen ferryman

[muzzleroars]

Any interactions between risen ferryman and everyone?

the ferryman is a strange presence in heaven - long accustomed to the styx and the sinners they carried across it, they have a quiet yet strict demeanor. the world they come from is, obviously, harsh and relentless by its very design, and they had to meet it in equal measure to deal with the husks that constantly poured onto their ship. it makes them a bit out of place with the other human souls who have forgotten things outside of paradise yet they also can't hope to breach the circles of the true angels, and they fear almost that hell has made them unfit purely over time.

however, michael, who brought them here in error, is the first to understand them in their personality and their unwavering faith in god. he invites them to worship with him, guiding them through the heavenly service as one of the high priests of god's altar, and i think they spend a lot of time together in study as well. michael has rarely experienced human faith which differs greatly from the angels, and in time too they begin to relate over the harshness of the duties they once carried out. the ferryman's always quite glad when v2 visits as well, not only appreciating it as a wealth of deep thought and helpful philosophies, but also simply grateful it's as out of place as they are. v2 shrugs it all off, saying if they're in with mike there's really nothing anyone can say about it - it helps them explore, enthusiastically moving through heaven's streets or its now vast outskirts in ways they may not have alone.

uriel is just as reserved as they are, but the ferryman marvels at all of his vast works, now completed, a library impossible to see the beginning or end of. yet they learn uriel very much enjoys stories - he knows the whole of history, but he listens with rapt, meditative attention to the ferryman recount their life on earth or their time in hell. he appreciates the personal touch, they find, and they end up sharing dozens of stories while uriel is a wonderful source of everything they had ever wished to know (he knows too all the little questions they had asked themselves, and the answers to them even if they're now long forgotten). importantly, the ferryman helps uriel use his hands once more in art and writing as they trade their stories.

raphael is the most unsure relating to them with the little contact he's had to those in hell - however, the ferryman is more gentle than their demeanor can sometimes suggest. they enjoy fishing together, with raphael taking a good interest in how the ferryman had once cared for the souls they carried across the styx - they had fiercely defended the sanctity of their ship while also still making it as comfortable as hell could allow. i think they also enjoy learning from raphael, who has very little to share his knowledge of herbs and cures with now since they're so defunct.

they feel a bit awkward for some time when they visit gabriel, though he insists he is nothing but happy for them now. he's glad to receive news about heaven's state from them when he knows his siblings can have a very different perspective from the human souls there, and gabriel is an invaluable source in turn for navigating heaven. v1 is actually quite the comfort as well, a risen "soul" itself that can relate to their confusion and occasional frustrations transitioning from sinner to saved. it gives them much more confidence, seeing it fully embrace its new state and not care about its mistakes, though they know its situation is quite different.

difficulties do arise with the prime souls and lucifer, however, who each have their reservations or outright rejection of the ferryman's current status. minos and sisyphus take issue in accepting their elevation, both ghosts now locked in what they died for and much more unable to see nuance. minos is conflicted, wanting the best for human souls but too damaged by the institution of heaven and how it is upheld by humanity as well. sisyphus views it as ceding to the law of heaven, how the only way to be allowed into their fold is through the deepest supplication over decades. lucifer entirely pushes them out, their visits accordingly short as it will always attract his open hostility - he will see no angelic presence in hell that has no business with him. gabriel has attempted to soften lucifer's treatment of the ferryman in particular, but he's made little progress.

[queen0fm0nsterz]

It seems the "legacy" that Six and Mono has do needs each other so they can bonded together just so they'll get the right mindset for them to grow into monstrous adults given Mono becomes the Thin Man after he's betrayed by Six and Six gradually becomes worst with her hunger to where she eats up the Lady after she gets hurt by Mono destroying her trust

Yes, and it saddens me to literally no end.

We get to witness how their friendship grows only to see it ripped apart. Both parties suffering the consequences of their actions.

For some reason this ask got me to think, so... Here's a bunch of mini theories I have about The Square (Thin Man, Lady, Mono and Six) that I wanted to share with you guys but never had the chance to. Be sad with me or else.

1) Pacific Thin Man.

The Thin Man wasn't actively trying to kill either Mono nor Six. He only wanted to separate them, which is why he chased Mono away. I think this is almost universally agreed on.

2) The Thin Man wasn't trying to get to Mono at all and only used him to leave. He wanted Six from the beginning.

I actually think the Thin Man was doing what he's always done, even back when he was still Mono: taking his friend back at all costs and keeping her by his side so that he could protect her. Would explain why he only starts running after Mono when he tries to free her from the TV.

I mean, he had plenty of other occasions to get a hold of Mono. My boy literally travels through the TVs a bunch of times before getting here, but the Thin Man only shows up when Mono is actively trying to take Six away.

All three times we see him in person are related to Six.

First time: he takes her.

Second time: Mono tries to take her back so he steps in to stop him.

Third and last time: The Thin Man is the only thing standing between Mono and the Signal Tower, in which Six is trapped.

This would also explain the Thin Man's official description. Let's give it a read:

"As the ever-present hum of The Transmission chokes the airwaves, The Thin Man continues his endless journey through this desolate place, haunting the shadows, searching for something. "

The something would of course be his old friend. Although, he may be mistaken without even realizing it, which brings me to my next theories ...

3) Mono is the only one stuck in a loop.

This is mostly based to the meaning behind his name, especially compared to Six's.

We all know that his name means single, one, only, alone. Many people made the connection with the word "monophobia", a.k.a the fear of being alone, and that's an incredibly valid and fitting connection, but I think it may have an addictional hidden meaning just below the surface.

Because, let's be honest. If they wanted to keep the number theme, why not name him "One" instead?

Mono is a... very unique child. He's the only one capable of controlling the transmission, which is why the Eye keeps him around: to use that power as it pleases. I wouldn't be surprised if it messed with the timeline so that Mono was reborn again and again and again.

The number 6 written on the door could symbolize the fact that this Mono we're seeing is the sixth one.

I tried to check for a 7 on Mono's door at the end of the game, but couldn't see anything.

OOOOR, it could be referring to the Ladies of the Maw, which leads me to...

4) Six and the current Lady are NOT the same person...

The main reasons why I believe this is something that everyone seems to forget.

Guys. THEIR COMFORT SONGS ARE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

"And what does that mean?" EVERYTHING MY GUY. LITERALLY EVERYTHING. In a series where characters don't speak, it's up to the visuals and music to tell us the story - which means their role is extremely important.

It seems strange to me that they would use two songs that are so drastically different in melody and pacing if the characters are supposed to be one and the same - especially considering just how personal the songs are to both. For example, when Mono becomes the Thin Man, the latter's theme is prominent in End of The Hall, but when Six eats the Lady it's her own theme song that prevails.

Fortunately, we get a clear listen to both music boxes in the games, so we can hopefully make a comparison.

Here's Six's music box and The Lady's.

5) ... But Six does grow up to become the next Lady.

This. Just, this entire thing.

You see, for the Maw to keep running, it needs a Lady to lure people in and turn children into Nomes. We can assume that it works in a similar fashion to the Signal Tower.

Which basically means that the two structures only function if there's an Host they can feed off from, otherwise they fall apart, just like the Tower did at the end of LN 2.

Let's put it this way: Six absorbing the Lady's powers is the same as Mono sitting on the chair. They sealed an invisible contract with the Eye from which they can't break free, destined to be it's slave until the next Mono and... a possible Seven take their place.

6) The Lady can't leave the Maw...

I already mentioned this in the previous one, but basically what I mean is: The Lady is the only Host of the Maw. If she leaves, the entire thing crashes down.

7) ... But she's been in the Pale City.

We've got proof of this because a lot of paintings and pictures on the Maw depict various sections of the Pale City and some of their citizens. Both the Hospital and the School get their time to shine in these, especially ones the Bullies (I think it's finally time for me to push my "Teacher & her students on the Maw" agenda) who can be seen around the Residence.

Admittedly, most of these paintings aren't placed in the Lady's quarters, so maybe they just belong to her employees who hang them around to decorate the place a bit like Roger did, BUUUT! There's a very particular set of paintings that can be found in her quarters.

Well well well, if it isn't our blob bestie 🙃

Based on what we know, the only location we find the Eye blob is the Signal Tower, so... I think it's pretty safe to assume that's where she saw it. Then again, when did she see it? Probably when she was a child, before the got on the Maw for the first time. Talking about the Maw...

8) How much time has Six been on the Maw?

This may be kind of an odd question, but I wanted to answer it because it has always bugged me. Me, the fool, trying to form a cohesive timeline in this extremely vague franchise... Sigh.

Anyway. First of all, let's give the Maw's official description a read:

" The Maw arrives every year. Always at the same time, but never in the same place, it creeps and crawls and buries its claws deep beneath the glistening water. And there it sits in vast silence. Waiting.

Soon after, they start to arrive. The guests. The monstrous, sweating, hungry guests. All seams bursting, bodies bulging, eyes dead with boredom. They shuffle up the gangway and into the mouth of The Maw. And then they are no more.

For none of those that enter have ever returned to tell the tale. At least, not yet... "

So the Maw comes up once a year, stays there for a while and then goes underwater once again. When the Ferryman takes an unwilling Six to the Maw by boat, implying that Maw has risen.

And the next time we see the outside world in in LN, when Six climbs her way up in that wonderful scene. We can see the guests coming in again, so we can assume it's been at least a year.

The thing about the comics that is really funny to me is that it implies that Six has been wandering around since when she first got on, meaning both Roger and the Chefs are already aware of her presence and are familiar with her. The thought of them being like "Oh no this kid again" when they meet her in the game is so funny I can't.

Also, Mono has been trapped in the tower for at least a year by now :)

9) Mono glitching?

I got to think about this while playing LN 2. You know when Mono starts absorbing the glitching remains? If you don't get too close that he "eats" them but manage to stay close enough, you'll see that Mono himself starts to glitch a bit.

Huh. Leaves room for thought.

Anyway, this is all I have for now.

MASTERPOST

[lamentsof-bee]

one ghost king to rule them all

ALRIGHT SO - i finished my self indulgent character analysis of our little gay lord and savior, nico di angelo. 

and let me tell you. THE PAIN really just makes him more gothy and i’m here for it. 

under the cut if y’all wanna read it. your choice. except wendy, she has to read it bc i said so. 

Summary: 

There were many boys at one point. Boys with flames on their skin. Salt water in their hair. Lightning in their veins. And they all mattered…

The one with the animal heart and the one with a halo made of sun.

Each and every single one mattered.

But not like the boy born of shadows.

Never like him.

[Nico di Angelo would never walk a straight and narrow path, Hestia promised him that much. His would always be a journey marred by sadness, distrust and destruction. But sometimes, beauty can be born of hate. And acceptance can be found in even the darkest of nights.]

[An in-depth look at Nico's journey from the cliff of Bar Harbour to the Battle of Gaea]

Read it on AO3. 

There were many boys at one point. Boys with flames on their skin. Salt water in their hair. Lightning in their veins. And they all mattered…

The one with the animal heart and the one with a halo made of sun.

Each and every single one mattered.

But not like the boy born of shadows.

Never like him.

Nico di Angelo remembers the death of his mother.

He was young but still, there is an imprint of the year 1941 on his brain, and the crash that came with Zeus destroying the ceiling.

The faint glow of his father’s power still wakes him at night. A black force field that could only be described as suffocating. The warmth that the Lord of the Underworld could create was never quite inviting though. It licked at you, like hot flames whose only goal was to singe. He had shielded Nico and Bianca from the physical harm, they had survived, but he left them torn.

River Lethe was strong, strong enough to wipe even a Titan’s memories Nico would later find out, but no power was stronger than a mother’s love. The memories of vows of vengeance that Hades swore had faded, the white marble of the Washington D.C. hotel had withered. But Maria di Angelo’s red lips and olive skin will never leave Nico’s mind. Nor will the first moment his father chose to protect him.

For a long time Nico would think it was the last. If only he knew back then how wrong he’d be.

They travelled some with a dark haired lawyer that asked but never listened. And they ended up in the Lotus Hotel.

Nico, even at his young age, heard whispers of The Child of the Eldest Gods and a prophecy to end all prophecies. It was drowned out by the lights of Las Vegas and the inviting doors of the Lotus Hotel.

A month passed for Nico and he and Bianca were swept away by a new lawyer with the same habit of questioning and ignoring. The world outside had changed. Washington D.C. had new subway stations, motorized vehicles had more efficient and ugly, everyone seemed to have something called a ‘cell-phone’.

They were taken to Westover Hall, a military academy in Bar Harbour. Things had changed, Bianca wore a hat and learned everything about this new, modern world that she could. Nico picked up Mythomagic and found himself loving something for the first time since his mother died.

There was so much heartbreak since then.

So many deaths. So many losses.

Nico swore he wouldn’t lose anyone else. Not after his mother had gone so suddenly. So he made Percy Jackson promise to keep Bianca safe.

Percy could do it! Nico insisted to himself. Percy was strong and experienced and he’d been on a quest before. His hair was dark and his eyes sparkled, Nico liked that a lot. Nico knew Mythomagic, he knew what kind of points the monsters would have that his sister would be facing. And she needed someone to watch her six. Someone who knew how.

Percy could do that.

He tried his best to keep his spirits up after the group’s departure.

It was still cool, that Camp Half-Blood was like Mythomagic brought to life. The lava climbing wall and real life land mines made for an interesting stay.

But still…he felt quite lonely.

He’d never been without Bianca before…

He’d never been alone…

On his first lone night, Nico stood apart from the campers gathered around the fire. They sang together off-key and toasted marshmallows as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Everyone seemed happy, everyone seemed at home.

Except Nico.

And that one young girl in a mousy brown dress with eyes like fire.

She stared into the blazes, her gaze softening as it grew with the intensity of the love around the hearth. She seemed so ordinary. Without thinking Nico drew towards her wanting to get a better look at her face. When he did, he noticed it was all together unremarkable. Freckles on the bridge of her nose, brown hair to match her dress but she had flames in her eyes. 

She looked at him and said nothing. Still, there seemed to be an invitation in the air.

He took a seat next to her and stared in the blazes.

‘Your hearth,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s so small.’ Sorrow clouded her voice.

Nico felt vulnerable and naked. His hearth was practically empty. His father would feed him to the dogs, his mother had passed before he could grow old enough to remember her and his sister had left him behind. The coals of his hearth were barely glowing. He felt as if there was only one left and its ember was extinguishing.

‘A small hearth is still a home.’ His voice was as quiet as hers. His eyes never leaving the fire.

‘And home you will always return.’

The smile she gave him was small and the wisdom in her eyes seemed far beyond her years. She looked of Nico’s age but her demeanour betrayed her.

‘You have far to travel, Nico di Angelo.’ Her tone sounded sombre again. ‘You have much to face. But for your kindness you will be rewarded. You shall always find a place at my hearth.’

He wanted to ask her how he knew his name and what exactly she was talking about but a warmth filled his stomach. A sense of calm and serenity washed over him and suddenly it didn’t matter so much that his hearth was small or he had been left behind. This fire was warm enough and a hearth could be rebuilt with time.

His life had been touched by a goddess.

Since his time at Camp Half-Blood, Nico’s powers had grown. He felt the souls passing on, meeting the ferryman at the River Styx. He felt the marble shake with his father’s anger and watched as the flowers wilted when he walked.

But nothing quite made him feel like the Son of Death than when Percy came back without Bianca and only a Mythomagic figurine to make up for it.

Nico had wondered before why his father had such rage built up inside him. Why he couldn’t just accept the life his siblings chose for him? But in that moment, Nico understood.

With every step Bianca took towards her hearing, Nico felt the pang echo in his chest. As if he were standing there with her, he could see the gold masks leering down at him. He felt the ringing in his ears.

The rage exploded inside him like a volcano and sizzled the pity Percy tried to shovel on him. The hero he had in his mind, the greatness Percy Jackson encompassed, had disappeared. The fluttering in his stomach, the butterflies that took flight when he looked at Percy, they withered and died as Bianca was sentenced.

The amorous feelings, as amorous as a ten year old kid could feel, he had towards Percy were marred with darkness and stained with hate. Still… when the skeleton warriors pounced Nico couldn’t help it.

He saw Percy get disarmed. The ringing in his ears increased. He brought his hands to his head, trying to shake away the sound. The darkness grew inside of him, like a ball of energy ready to combust until he couldn’t take it anymore.

‘No! Go away!’

The ground split open and the skeletons were swallowed by flames and earth. One crunch later and not a single bone was left to be found.

Panting, Nico’s eyes moved from the fissure in the ground to Percy. He looked back at the kid, wide-eyed and awestruck. Bianca may have died but Darkness has just risen.

One step forward was all it took for Nico to shout a curse at Percy and run into the shadows of the woods. With this he would leave behind any feelings that Percy Jackson awoke in him.

- 

The road to Daedalus is dark and messy. Minos whispers in his ears with a voice as smooth as silk and provided both comfort and education. The things Nico learned with Minos he will never forget. Shadow travel, raising of spirits, conferring with the dead. It took some practice but eventually Nico made it back from his accidental trips to China and succeeded in summoning a soul.

Theseus’ words were muddled and unhelpful. His gaze drawn constantly to Nico’s ghostly guide, unsettling the young boy. He senses your power. That was what Theseus had said but he hadn’t said who. Darkness closed in again and Nico was alone, no one but Minos and an empty pit.

When he faces Percy next, Nico is disappointed to find that his heart still skips a beat. He likened it to a minor heart attack first and thought perhaps he’d be able to find Bianca that way but when the sensation passed with Percy’s eyes still on him, Nico only looked back coldly.

Your soul is worth nothing to me! He wanted to shout at Percy. How dare he think his soul could be exchanged for Bianca’s? Bianca’s soul was worth thousands of Percy’s. No amount of good looks and boyish charm could save him from that.

‘Let’s ask Bianca.’

That was what Percy had said. As if her appearance would rectify the wrong he had caused her. As if she would appear in front of Nico simply because Percy willed it.

If it were true, if Bianca showed this time, Nico would wring Percy’s neck.

He poured the root beer into the pit and let the words come from the deepest part of him. The chant brought about a mist and spirits followed it to kneel by the depth.

The chanting became forced and as Minos lowered himself and drank.

‘Be gone, Minos!’ He ordered.

The ghost flickered, hesitated and tried to stay. Nico’s voice strained as his power fluctuated and the ghost obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

The figure that followed formed into the glowing spirit of Bianca di Angelo. Silver snowboard jacket, olive skin and sad eyes.

She gazed at Percy and rejected his apology. ‘I made my own choice. I don’t regret it.’

Watching her raised, the words spilled out of Nico. ‘Why didn’t you answer me sooner? I’ve been trying for months!’

His heart breaks when she says, ‘I was hoping you would give up.’

‘Give up?! I’m trying to save you!’

Her hand stretches towards her little brother. He’d grown since they’d seen each other last. His eyes were colder, surrounded by dark rings. He’d become taller too. ‘Don’t do this.’ She said quietly. ‘Percy is right.’

‘You must listen to me,’ she implored, ‘holding a grudge is dangerous for a child of Hades.’ Her hand evaporated as it got close to his face. ‘It is our fatal flaw.’

She cocked her head, asking him for understanding.

‘You have to forgive. You have to promise me this.’

He shook his head like a child refusing to let their parent leave before they fell asleep.

‘You are close to the truth now,’ she told him. ‘It is not Percy you’re mad at, Nico. It’s me.’

The wound he had been trying to cover broke open. The scab felt raw and wet. He felt the hurt leak from his heart through his body until even his toes were drowned in sorrow.

‘You must overcome your anger. Or else it will be your doom.’ She insisted. Don’t do this her soul begged.

‘No! I am the son of Hades. I can.’

 For the second time, a dead demigod spoke of Nico’s power before disappearing. It hurt all that much more because it was Bianca. When the mist cleared there was nothing left in the pit but a leftover smell of root beer and bad barbeque.

It rattled him to his core. The strength he felt surge inside of him. The orb of darkness that pulsed, sometimes so strongly that it forcefully pushed out of him and dark tendrils followed him when he walked. Souls cowered where he went, even nature couldn’t seem to thrive in his presence. Maybe he was destined for a life in the labyrinth. A life filled with darkness and solitude.

He yearned for laughter and peace. He wished he could imagine a life happiness. He thought, if he could picture it, which he can’t but if he could, maybe Percy would be there. Maybe he’d hold out his hand towards Nico and all would be forgiven. Maybe he would know that Bianca would give him her blessing and he would finally rest knowing that he was okay. That he was not deviant. That he was only human…

But he wasn’t.

He felt the darkness move inside of him like a pool of ink staining a white shirt. Noticeable and inevitable. When the dracanae captured him, his only thought was that he hadn’t found Percy yet. Minos betrayed him – not that Nico was surprised. He’d played enough Mythomagic to know who King Minos had been and his power over Darkness was strong enough to know who Minos had become.

The battle started and Nico was pushed to the ground. The iron on his chains bit into his wrists but as he watched the people he knew – his friends? – fight, he felt helpless. Annabeth duelled with her knife, Percy sparring with his sword. They weren’t holding their own. The emotion rammed into his chest and made the Darkness surge. Like iron against fire, the chains melted into smoke as they left Nico’s wrists. This is not how he would go down.

Percy would not die before he had atoned for his sins, not before Nico could understand why his heart still skipped a beat when the dark haired boy looked at him. Minos would not rise again to call himself the ghost king. Luke would pay for his treachery.

He starred at his ghostly former companion.

‘You do not control me, young fool.’ Minos sneered. ‘All this time, I have been controlling you. A soul for a soul, yes. But it was not your sister who will return from the dead. It is I!’

Spirits shimmered around Minos as his body solidified. The whirling energy inside Nico forced his entire body to awaken. His gaze hardened, his look one of ice.

You dare speak to Son of the Dead that way?

‘No.’ Nico insisted. ‘I am the son of Hades. Be gone!’

If looks could kill, Minos would have returned to the grave again.

‘You have no power over me. I am the lord of the spirits! The ghost king!’

A crazed look fell into Nico’s eyes as his dead tilted. He drew his stygian sword with intention and stared Minos in the face.

‘No.’ He held up his sword. ‘I am.’

He plunged the sword into the floor and ran through it like butter. He called to all the spirits that clawed at his feet and his mind. He ordered them to take back Minos and put back where he belonged, under the rule of Hades. The windows cracked and the ground boomed and suddenly the spirits around Minos veered towards him. When the fissure opened in the ground, much like the one that had appeared in Camp Half-Blood, Minos could not struggle against the souls holding him down. He could do nothing but disappear into the depths of the Underworld where he would forever walk with Nico’s shadow over his head. Spending an eternity knowing he had challenged the wrong Darkness.

The energy he needed to banish Minos sucked more out of Nico than he’d like to admit. His olive complexion turned pale, his sword hand could barely lift the weight of his blade. Still, he followed Percy, Annabeth and a strange red-haired girl called Rachel when they fastened him into make-shift wings.

They stopped at a gift shop, attempting to find a way back into the maze.

‘Daedaulus isn’t dead.’ Nico told them when they wondered if the labyrinth was even still alive. ‘That I know for sure.’

Percy thanked him as Annabeth and Rachel walked ahead. For a second it felt like pure adrenaline running through Nico’s body. He pushed the feeling away and muttered something about being even for the fight on the ranch and raising Bianca.

‘Minos was right.’ Percy looked at him confused. They walked in silence for a while. ‘Daedalus should die. To cheat death for so long. It’s not natural.’

‘So you were going to trade Daedalus’ soul for Bianca’s?’ Percy voice doesn’t sound accusing, more like the pieces are finally falling into place and he can see the big picture.

Nico walks in silence wondering if he should bare his soul. He looks at Percy and sees a glimmer of the boy he admired. The one that makes his blood pump faster than usual. He figures, now is as good a time as any – since he’s not coming back.

‘It’s not easy, you know. Having only the dead for company.’ His words are quiet and his eyes downcast. ‘Knowing I’ll never be accepted by the living due to my heritage. Having only the dead respect me, if only out of fear.’

‘You could be accepted.’ Percy answered. And there it was, that naïve optimism that made Percy so attractive. His blind desire to help and save and foster. But good intentions not a good life make.

Look at what happened to Luke. 

- 

Kronos strode towards them, shimmering gold eyes, Luke’s short cropped blonde hair and scythe in his hand – ready to take whatever path he deemed worthy.

Nico knew the only escape would be to venture back into the labyrinth but Kronos’ domineering voice giving orders shook him to his core.

As it always did when he was afraid, the Darkness within him pulsed.

‘NO!’ Nico yelled as Kronos ordered his cronies to target them. He clapped his hands together and pushed his energy outward. If it would have been visible, people would have seen a shadow fall over the fortress. A spire of black rock erupted and tore the building to pieces. Kronos and his servants were left under piles of debris.

And Nico had outed himself. Well, not outed as… he couldn’t even think that. But outed as one of the Big Three.

When Percy had said as much, all Nico could do was shrug. ‘Big deal.’

What was one more person on his tail.

- 

They find their way back into the maze and into the cave of the Nature God, Pan. Nico’s life had been touched by the Gods before but this time, this time it was different. The shimmering form of Pan sat before them, glistening off the ruby and sapphire walls.

His pull so strong that even Nico fell to his knees in respect. Yet, there was something eery about the whole thing. Like Nico could feel the energy being sucked out of the cave and towards nothingness. As if it were only a fragment of a life, a well-kept memory of something already passed…

Only once did the god acknowledge his presence.

‘Dear Grover,’ Pan said, ‘you must accept the truth.’ His gaze moved towards Nico’s bowed head. ‘Your companion, Nico, he understands.’

Nico nodded slowly, looking up at the god. His answer hesitant. ‘He’s dying.’ Grover made a strangled sound. ‘He should have long ago. This…this is more like a memory…’ As Nico said the words, the world seemed to make sense again.

The god had held on long enough for his disciple to find him but still, the years had waned his strength and he was but a collection of hope left over. Fading was a god’s punishment for not staying relevant in the modern world. And the modern world had no place for nature the way it had in the past. The times of forest foraging and daylight dwelling was over, it was replaced with technology and skyscrapers and time running out.

Nico could feel the sand in Pan’s hourglass running out. It was about to let the last granule drop.

He gave each of Nico’s companions a message, a gift of wisdom. Only Nico was ignored. What could Pan teach Nico about nature that he didn’t already know. His power was the most natural of all – to watch life end and return to its birthing place.

Still the god’s words struck a chord with Nico.

The only salvation you must make for yourself. Each of you must.

Some souls have escaped the claws of death but that day, one long over due returned. When the lights faded, the cave was dark and the moss on the walls had receded. As had the holy presence that lured them there.

Nico felt the essence of the god disappear, until not even a whisper of it remained in the undead realm.

There was no time for rest or mourning. Though it seemed Grover would take time for the latter eventually. It took only one uncomfortable pegasus ride for Nico to fall back into his thoughts about Percy. The sea demigod was always protecting him, always bargaining with him, trying to make sure that Nico was safe. It was a selfless act, stupid, but still selfless. And for that Nico had to give him credit. The way Percy had chastised him for revealing his powers to Kronos made him aware of the fact that Percy had kept his secret. He hadn’t told anyone about Nico’s birth right or his heritage. And he had done it to try to save him.

- 

The battle wasn’t over though. Luke’s plan, Kronos’ plan – whatever, had succeeded. They had infiltrated camp and were running rampage on the grounds.

It was quite a sight to see – all the demigods coming together to fight for their lives. A dozen dracaenae were heading towards the cabins when Percy alerted Nico of the threat.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his hands, straining as if an invisible force was resisting their pull upwards. ‘Serve me!’

The earth trembled and parted in the midst of the dracenae. Undead warriors, all answering to Nico, rose from the depths and engaged the enemies. He pushed as much of his power as he could into the corpses, daring them to oppose his will.

He sunk to his knees as the soldiers drew more and more of his energy to stay aboveground.

He gave and he gave and he gave. He watched the lady dragons get pulverized until his vision started to fade and blackness surrounded him.

When he woke, a figure was standing above him with a canteen of nectar. The people in his vision slowly started reforming from their three-fold selves and his sight cleared. Percy was hovering over him with more people fanned out.

His eyes landed on Daedalus.

‘I came to correct my mistake.’ The words struck Nico. The labyrinth could not continue, that much was clear. The only thing left to do was offer up one last sacrifice, a last trade to compensate for the damage the old inventor had caused.

Annabeth protested. ‘You won’t get a fair trial! The spirit of Minos sits in judgement –’

The inventor smiled at her ruefully. ‘I will take what comes.’ He turned to Nico. ‘And trust in the justice of the Underworld, such as it is. That is all we can do, isn’t it?’

Nico’s dark look didn’t waver Daedalus’ spirits. The boy nodded in agreement.

‘Will you take my soul for ransom, then? And use it to reclaim your sister?’

Nico’s eyes lowered and for a second he wished he could act like the boy that he was. But he knew he could not. Instead, he had to act like the son he was born to be.

‘No,’ His answer was firm. ‘I will help release your spirit. But Bianca has passed. She must stay where she is.’ Thus is law of nature.

Daedalus looked at him with reverence. ‘You are becoming wise, son of Hades.’ There was a pause. ‘I am ready to see my son…and Perdix. I must tell them how sorry I am.’

Getting to his feet, with much effort, Nico turned to the old inventor with his sword. He raised a hand towards the forehead of the old man and whispered ‘Your time is long since come. Be released and rest.’

The inventor smiled with relief and released as sigh so deep it seemed to have been held for eons. Slowly his skin became transparent until the gears behind it became visible. The machinery halted its whirling and the old man turned to ash and blew away with the wind.

Nico shared the relief the inventor had felt. Releasing a soul so long overdue and feeling it return to the depths of the earth had granted him some freedom. The souls bound to the mortal plane that evaded the clutches of Thanatos weighed him down more than he had realized.

- 

Post-battle Nico spent a short time in the Apollo cabin’s med-bay where the head councillor prodded his bruises and poked his scratches with very little comment. The councillor seemed wary of him.

Nico felt the vitality in the cabin. There were plenty of campers running around and plenty of patients to be treated. Nico felt the life of each being in the room. There was a plump blonde boy at the back of the room. There was a small gathering around him, a kid maybe slightly older than Nico stood with his head bowed. The kid in the bed was dead. Nico felt his life extinguish on the battle field, still the medics tried to breathe life back into lungs and jump-start his heart with compressions.

It was no use.

Nothing good was going to come of the Son of Death hanging around in a place meant for healing.

Nico got to his feet, using his knees to push himself upwards. He spared a glance at Castor, the fallen demigod, a son of Dionysus if he remembered correctly. He had liked Mythomagic and had a twin. In another life, if Castor had lived and Nico weren’t shunned for his heritage, perhaps they could have been friends.

A sigh escaped Nico’s lips as he turned. He briefly caught the eye of the small boy standing at Castor’s bedside. A mop of blonde hair almost covered his blue eyes but still, they looked into Nico’s, wide eyed and wondering. As if to ask why are you leaving?

The implication of the question stopped Nico short.

He shook the blue eyes out of his mind and turned.

Nico had a lot of work to do. On himself. On discovering who he really was, where he came from and what his purpose was. Camp Half-Blood couldn’t help with that. There was a reason why Hades didn’t have a cabin on the grounds. It was best to keep death as far away from a haven as possible. And Camp Half-Blood was a sanctuary if Nico ever did see one.

He left camp with a short goodbye to Hestia. The goddess didn’t bless his travel or his journey but she did give him some advice.

Wisdom will come to you when you least expect it. And someday you must face your own shadow. Beware, Son of Hades, the path you walk will never be straight but it will lead you home.

He didn’t know what to make of her words but he chose to guard them closely and maybe soon they would become clearer.

He travelled the underworld and began to feel more at home amongst the souls that transcended through the realm. Sometimes Ms O’Leary joined him, more often than not though, he travelled alone. Daedalus’ hearing took place and although Minos pushed for a malice filled punishment, the Lord of the Underworld had other ideas. It was the first time Nico saw his father enact any type of power within his realm. Minos stewed quietly behind his golden mask and obeyed his master. He visited his father at court and found nothing but malevolence boiling below the surface of their relationship. Questions about his mother and the life he led before the Lotus Hotel remained a mystery.

Time passed quickly and before he knew it, days had turned into months.

He became familiar with the happenings of the Underworld and the created a map inside his mind. He placed all the rivers in his model and added in Asphodel and the Fields of Punishment. It was only when he got to the River Styx that he discovered something that may change the way his wind blew.

A plan formed in his mind.

A bargain made with his father.

And then, he went off to return to the one person that scared him the most.

He watched Percy from the bottom of the fire escape . The demigod gently placed a sprig into a small planter box and sprinkled it with nectar. The look on Percy’s face was almost melancholic, it pulled at Nico’s heartstrings. He took a breath and stepped into the shadows, and tried to leave any feelings for Percy at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Nice plant.’ He said, stepping out of the shadows.

Watching Percy Jackson jump was one of the few pleasures Nico had left in life.

‘Sorry.’ He said, not meaning it. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

Percy’s eyes looked greener in the moonlight, the sprig that had grown in the plant box and the way he had handled it made Nico wonder if he’d ever be able to treat something with so much care.

For a mere moment, he wondered if he might, someday, be able to treat Percy with such care.

A compliment was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he said ‘I want to make you an offer.’

All business, all the time.

Over blue cake and soda, Nico explained to Percy what he was proposing. How Percy could save the world, how the tide of the upcoming war could be changed. It was risky and really, really stupid, still Nico was convincing.

But Percy was scared.

For that, Nico could not blame him. Still, he had to push.

He decided what Percy needed was time. And what he needed was answers. So he left Percy in New York to stew over his plan with the intention to return within the month.

It took him much longer than that. Almost a year passed before Nico next contacted Percy to set their plan into motion.

It brought him back to his time in the Underworld. Back when he thought there was no place a son of Hades couldn’t see. He should have stayed home, even if home was a ghastly castle made of black marble that provided a highway for souls to transcend their mortal lives. 

There had been some comfort there though.

There had been Bob…

The most gentle of giants, the friendliest Titan in the world.

‘Time passes quickly.’ Bob had said to Nico as he cleaned the stairs of the palace. Though how that was possible for an immortal Titan, Nico did not know.

Nico sat on the marble staircase and watched the giant.

‘Never quickly enough…’ Nico had muttered under his breath. He had meant not quickly enough to forgo the suffering he was enduring but Bob had misunderstood.

‘You’ll see your friends soon.’ His tone was light.

‘Friends…’ Nico hesitated.

‘Bob would like to have friends.’ The Titan’s expression was thoughtful, melancholy even.

‘You’d need a friend like Percy.’ The worlds rolled out of Nico before he could stop them.

‘Percy…’ Bob looked at Nico curiously.

‘Yeah, you know…’ He swallowed his pride. ‘Someone who looks out for you when you’re in trouble. Who comforts you when you’re down and tells you no matter what it’s gonna be alright.’

‘Your Percy… he does this?’

Your Percy.

It shouldn’t have struck a chord with Nico but it did.

‘Yeah.’ He swallowed hard. ‘He does.’

-

He took the breadcrumbs his father gave him about his mother’s birth and followed them to Olympus. While he was in the area, he headed to Mount Othrys. Any chance to eavesdrop on a Titan was a good chance to take. While he was there he sent a dream vision to Percy, this was the time to push. Time was running out and he was running out of leads.

‘You see Percy?’ His voice barely a whisper. ‘You’re running out of time.’

A change in the air told him to return to his father’s realm. A shift was about to take place.

He followed his impulse back to Styx where he went to speak with Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld. Before he could greet the Spirit of Boundaries a presence drew his eye. Between a small group of people he found the head of tall dark familiar person. Beckendorf looks at him with recognition and regret.

Nico walks up feeling a little numb.

Beckendorf had been the best of them. Always the first to take the lead, the first to sacrifice, the first to comfort. He was in the wrong place. And yet, Nico knew that Beckendorf’s mortal life was over.

‘Hey.’ Beckendorf’s low voice was still comforting.

‘Hey.’

‘Nice place you got here.’ Beckendorf raises an eyebrow in jest.

Nico snorts. ‘Thanks.’

He sobers and turns to his tall companion. ‘Follow me. You don’t have to wait in line.’

Beckendorf walks behind Nico, who leads him to Charon and passes the ferryman with a nod.

They speak little on their journey to the hearing. Beckendorf asks if Percy survived the fall from the Princess Andromeda and for one awful second Nico needs to go searching for his soul and hope to Gods that he doesn’t find it. He breathes a sigh of relief. Percy’s soul has not passed on. He survived the explosion.

He tells Beckendorf as much and mentions that for his heroic sacrifice he will be granted admission to Elysium. Nico brings up rebirth but Beckendorf only smiles and shakes his head.

‘I’m waiting for someone.’

His stance is resolute. His eyes are clear.

‘If you see Percy…’ Beckendorf smiles ruefully. He will never see Percy again. ‘Tell him it wasn’t his fault. That he shouldn’t beat himself up over this. I’m good here. I’ve got something worth waiting for.’

Watching Beckendorf pass through the gates towards the court of judgement made Nico feel dizzy. He had seen demigods fall before, he had felt souls pass on a-plenty but this was different. Beckendorf had been the most competent soldier amongst their legion. And still, he had fallen. It hit close to home.

He needed to protect what little he had left.

He needed to protect Percy.

And he would.

After he found out about his mother.

The plan wasn’t thought through. He doesn’t know why he trusted his father and betrayed Percy. Tricking a guy into an audience with your undead Lord of the Dead father is the best way to get someone to fall in love with you – not. Still, there were some things that took precedent. And the di Angelo history was one of them. One of the few. Okay, the only thing.

The look of betrayal on Percy’s face had Nico looking away in shame.

The throat pin in the cell was definitely deserved.

‘I swear on the River Styx, I didn’t know what he was planning.’ Nico heard the rush of water in his ears as the oath was sworn.

‘You know what your dad is like!’

The anger was real and justified. Nico hadn’t given Percy any reason to trust him in the past and he may have just marred any chance he had of getting Percy to trust him in the future.

But Percy bathed anyway.

Even when Achilles told him to turn back.

It will make you powerful. But it will also make you weak.

Nico watched Percy stare in Achilles’ face and say no. If Luke had bathed, then Percy must too. It is the only way he would stand a chance.

Let the gods witness I tried.

The boys shivered as the wisdom of the greatest mortal hero to ever live rolled down their backs. Achilles disappeared and the river kept churning.

The minutes Nico spent on shore seemed endless. He counted the pebbles at his feet and tried to ignore the river that had swallowed his friend. A son of Poseidon couldn’t drown…right?

This was the only way. This was the right choice.

Nico repeated the words in his mind like a mantra. This will save him. This will set him free.

There was no doubt in Nico’s mind that Percy was the hero of the prophecy. That knowledge both hurt and healed him. He knew the object of his affection was going to be a great hero, was an honourable half blood but the same hero’s hubris may come at too high a cost. Nico would never be the child of the prophecy. It had nothing to do with his father’s taunts of Your sister would have done a better job. And more to do with the fact that Percy was just cut from hero cloth. He inspired loyalty and trust…and love.

And if he took this dip. If Percy came out of the river alive then he would be able to survive the prophecy and he would be saved!

Then we would thank Nico!

Then maybe…

Maybe they could start over.

-

After that night the trust was broken between Nico and Percy and maybe that was for the best. He stayed in the Underworld and attempted to persuade Hades to join the fight.

It was futile.

Their relationship, what was left of it, was strained and strenuous at best. Nico tried to implore his father but to no avail. He couldn’t understand why Hades would rather watch the world burn and him with it than protect what he loved by serving the greater good.

Only when he dug up Persephone’s flower beds and called upon his mother did he begin to understand the god he called his father.

‘Why? What is he hiding?’ Nico had asked Bianca when she took her mother’s place.

‘Pain. Hatred. This knowledge will only hurt you. Remember what I said.’

He clawed his way through her image, it was replaced by a series of scenes like something out of a movie.

He watched his own mother’s death and the destruction of life as he knew it. He felt he couldn’t take it all in until a girl entered the picture and Hades began to chant.

His eyes fully black, Hades looked possessed by an otherworldly creature. ‘I swear as long as my children remain outcasts, as long as I labour under the curse of your Great Prophecy, the Oracle of Delphi will never have another mortal host. You will never rest in peace. No other will take your place. Your body will wither and die, and still the Oracle’s spirit will be locked inside you. You will speak your bitter prophecies until you crumble to nothing. The Oracle will die with you!’

The screams of the girl would make Nico wake up in cold sweat for many years to come. So chilling was it, watching his father enact his rage on an innocent bystander.

Now Nico knew why Bianca had warned him. Grudges were fatal to the children of Hades because they had been fatal to their father. A curse born of hatred had caused the world to fall into chaos and it was their duty, no, only Nico’s duty now, to atone for the sins his father had committed.

 It must have been a miracle that Hades decided to join the war, that Luke woke up at Annabeth’s injury, that Olympus didn’t fall at the hands of Kronos that day.

Hades was welcomed into the throne room with pats on the back and words of welcome. And Nico sat at the foot of his make-shift throne feeling like he might finally be worthy of his father’s attention. The Curse of the Oracle had been broken. Or so it seemed…

The next few weeks are something out of a dream. Nico is welcomed the same way his father was and for a while things seem to be looking up. He built his cabin with style. Obsidian walls and green fire torches. No cabin would compare.

He spent a little time in the med-bay again. This time his wounds were minor but his health had deteriorated due to his shadow travel. He would need to get stronger to shadow travel more often. The head counsellor was nowhere to be seen. The kid he had seen at Castor’s bedside treated his wounds instead. His bright eyes and sunny disposition were jarring. Still there was something calming about the guy.

‘Solace. Will Solace.’

After the blonde, Will, had covered Nico’s wounds in nectar and band aids, he held out his hand.

‘Right uh, Nico. di Angelo.’

He hesitantly grabbed Will’s hand, standing up. To his surprise, Will didn’t shiver or back away from Nico. He grasped Nico’s hand softly and gave it a shake.

‘Nice fighting and all that.’

‘Oh uh thanks.’ Nico, who had never really interacted much with people, became aware that it might be normal to compliment Will as well. ‘Nice… um.. healing and stuff.’

If Will thought his reaction was strange, he didn’t show it. He simply flashed Nico a blinding smile and threw up a peace sign.

‘Thanks.’ He gave Nico a wink. ‘See you round.’

With that he turned and exited.

The people he met – Annabeth, Grover, Rachel … Percy… they all became his friends. They became his reason for continuing his journey. Maybe the curse of Hades really had been broken. Nico finally felt like he had something worth returning to.

-

There were so many experiences that led Nico to becoming the person he was destined to be.  Meeting Percy at Camp Jupiter had shaken him but he had remained strong. His father’s will would undoubtedly win. And his word’s rang true. Go to them. It is important you make this connection. The path was never going to be easy. Hestia had all but promised him that much. Whether Tartarus had always been part of that destiny, though, was unclear. But Nico knew if he could give it back – he would.

The pull of the pit had been too strong. It sucked him in like a black hole and left him feeling naked, empty and helpless. Still, he followed it. He knew he would find the Doors at the end of the burning road. Nevertheless, he drank the fire water and faced the Goddess of Misery, Akhlys. She had congratulated him on his sorrow and whined ‘Child of Hades, what more could I do to you? You are so perfect. So much sorrow, so much pain.’

He could add it to the things that kept him up at night. Her blood streaked face, his distress mirrored in her tears on the shield of Hercules. He would never forget the true face of misery and how it had welcomed him home.

In a way it seemed right for him to be overwhelmed in Tartarus. Overrun by Gaea’s minions. In a way, he had seen it coming. He had prepared for the worst.

The pomegranate seeds he ate had been a last resort. As the air in the bronze jar thinned and his pomegranate supply dwindled, he wondered if this was all he had been meant for.

To be a puppet in another god’s game.

He had been so close. He had found the Doors of Death. He almost saved them.

He had only just gotten Hazel back and now he would be the one that needed finding in the Fields of Asphodel.

He thought suffocating under Rome in a bronze jar would be the worst thing to happen to him since losing Bianca.

And then…

And then he watched Percy and Annabeth fall to their doom.

Lead them there! Percy had begged him. Promise me!

He saw them fall into blackness and almost jumped after them. He clawed at the rocks and bellowed and cried. Not again. Nico screamed until his lungs gave out. Bring them back! Bring them back! Bring them back! He was inconsolable.

Not again!

None of it seemed to matter anymore. He knew Percy could survive Tartarus, especially if Annabeth was with him. Nico just didn’t know who Percy would come out as at the other side.

Gaea didn’t want to give him time to dwell on it but he did so anyway.

He’d stay up late at night and watch the shadows dance against the walls as Coach Hedge walked up and down the hallway making sure everyone was in their own cabin. Not that Nico had anywhere else to go.

The last battle ran through his head like a movie. Some parts were marred by dizziness and fog because he hadn���t completely recovered from the asphyxiation in that moment but still, the outlines of the figures were clear. Percy was standing over him again. Percy was saving him again.

And all Nico could do was lay there trying to catch his breath.

The Death Trance had taken plenty out of him. The black clothes he wore seemed to slowly become one with him as he faded in and out of the shadows. It took his upmost control to not sink through the lumpy mattress he was sitting on in that moment.

He needed to be stronger.

He always needed to be stronger.

Bu there was no time. Every minute Percy (and Annabeth, he reminded himself) stayed in Tartarus was a minute longer they stood in hell. They needed a way out and Nico had to make it to the Doors of Death when they found it.

Nico would make sure that Percy and Annabeth survived their walk through the abyss. But it would be a whole lot easier with an army by his side…

Chasing the Sceptre of Diocletian brought Nico face to face with a demigod he thought he’d never see again. Jason Grace.

He looked different than Nico remembered.

His close cut hair had grown slightly, the glasses on his face (also new) seemed to be permanently askew. His strength hadn’t waned though. Jason still emanated an intense aura. Like that of a lightning storm coming to pass. Close, suffocating and inevitable. Still, he didn’t look so Roman anymore.

Nico had extended a challenge. Go with me to Diocletian’s Palace if you dare. And the son of Jupiter was never one to back down from a fight.

Maybe Jason had become a little more Greek than he’d like to admit.

‘I just can’t imagine how weird that must be, coming from another time.’

It almost made a shiver run down Nico’s spine. You have no idea.  

‘No, you can’t.’ He wanted to end the conversation there but sometimes you have to take one for the team. Jason wasn’t trying to be hostile or interrogative.

‘I don’t like talking about it… Honestly, I think Hazel has it worse. Me…’ a beat. Not just him. ‘Me and Bianca, we were stuck in the Lotus Hotel. Time passed so quickly. In a weird way, that made the transition easier.’

‘Percy told me about that place. Seventy years but it only felt like a month?’

A hitch in Nico’s stride and a darkness that seemed to fall over them.

‘Yeah. I’m sure Percy told you all about me.’

If Nico had known who he would meet in the Palace, he would have never entered in the first place. Let alone taken Jason with him.

What Favonius said wasn’t cruel but it may as well have been because it felt like a sword sharper than his stygian iron one was being pushed through Nico’s heart.

‘I knew eventually you would return to look upon my master’s face.’

What little blood Nico had left in his cheeks drained.

‘The one you care for most … plunged into Tartarus. Still, you will not allow the truth?’

Panic rose in Nico until he felt the gall all the way at the top of his throat. His heart rate quickened and the grip on his sword loosened as his hands became sweaty.

No.

‘We’ve come for Diocletian’s sceptre.’ He struggled to keep his voice level.

The words Hestia spoke to him years ago came back to haunt him.

‘Your trials will be much more difficult.’ Favonius looked amused. ‘If you want the sceptre, you must face the god of love.’

Favonius almost ripped Nico apart by taking him to see Eros. But the grass that wilted at his feet and the blackness of his shadow that snaked out wasn’t only due to unforeseen air travel.

‘I don’t blame you for being nervous, Nico di Angelo. Do you know how I ended up serving Cupid?’

A knot tightened in Nico’s stomach, for a second he regained his stature and stood. ‘I don’t serve anyone. Especially not Cupid.’

 What came next was anyone’s guess. Nico would have never thought that the god of love and the god of death were so intimately connected. But Cupid had been right, sometimes Death was kinder.

Blood ran down Nico’s sword arm, the red arrow lying at his feet dissolved with his wound. Nico’s fear was replaced by frustration.

He watched Jason get thrown around. First hitting the columns, then almost swallowed by a crumbling wall.

‘Stop it! It’s me you want. Leave him alone!’ He stretched out his arms as if standing in front of Jason and covering him would stop the god from attacking his friend.

Still, the taunting continued.

‘And you – what have you risked in my name?’

Anger burned in his stomach.

‘I have been to Tartarus and back,’ Nico snarled, his eyes icy. ‘You. Don’t. Scare. Me.’

For a second it seemed like Nico had found his fight again. ‘Give us Diocletian’s sceptre, we don’t have time for games.’

 An invisible hand rapped against Nico’s cheek. He went flying into a granite pedestal. Head cloudy and throbbing, Nico tried to sit up.

‘Tell him, Nico di Angelo. Tell him you are a coward, afraid of yourself and your feelings. Tell him the real reason you ran away from Camp Half-Blood and are always alone.’

Something inside Nico broke. His eyes were shaking and he lost control. He let loose a terrifying scream as he realized that there was nowhere left to hide. Nowhere that Cupid wouldn’t find him. The ground split open and bodies of passed soldiers clawed their way to the surface until they surrounded Nico.

The darkness rolled off of Nico in waves so powerful Jason almost couldn’t withstand it. Every pulse of energy that Nico released, seemingly unintentional, brought with it a wave of hatred, shame and fear.  

The images his power brought to the surface were ones he tried his best to supress. Percy’s smile, the clap on the shoulder he received after the Battle of New York, the way his stomach flipped when they were together.

To his horror, he realized Jason saw all the same things.

He looked over at the blonde in horror and urged his soldiers forward.

They grappled with the invisible god until he released a cruel, low laugh.

‘I wasn’t in love with Annabeth.’ Nico’s confession is hollow, his eyes downcast. He looks as if he has lost all his strength. The fight, the denial, it all left his body at once.

Nico crumbled to the ground with his soldiers and the darkness around him subsided. All that was left was a boy drowning in his own shame and misunderstanding.

Jason couldn’t believe how young Nico looked in that moment.

‘I hated myself.’ Nico confessed quietly. ‘I hated Percy Jackson.’  Because I loved him.

Cupid’s shape became clear, the white wings and black hair that belonged to the god were startlingly magnificent yet Jason couldn’t help but hate him. Love was cruel and Cupid was a monster.

‘Happy now?’ Nico demanded.

Cupid’s gaze changed, for a moment he seemed to almost pity Nico. ‘I wouldn’t say Love always makes you happy. But at least you’ve faced it now. That is the only way to conquer me.’

With the next gust of wind, the god dissolved and in his place was the sceptre of Diocletian.

It suddenly dawned on Jason that Nico’s story was not an ordinary one. He finally understood why Nico’s past weighed on him so much. To be born in the 1940s, during a time of war, a time where feelings such as Nico’s would have been shunned. It’s no wonder Nico battled so heavily with his secret.

The modern world that he lived in now, where acceptance was more wide spread than before, was not his home. Nico had always felt out of place. And the acceptance that the queer community got nowadays did not feel inclusive to the kid from World War II. 

‘Nico,’ Jason said gently, ‘I’ve seen a lot of brave things. But what you just did… that was maybe the bravest.’

Jason was unsure if Nico’s battle with Cupid had changed anything within the son of Hades but over the next days he saw Nico firm up. His once starved body became taut with muscles though his skin stayed as pale as ever.

And waiting in front of northern coast of Africa was making everyone antsy. Especially Nico.

‘Any word from the king?’

‘Every day, he calls for me later and later.’ Jason sounded frustrated.

‘We need to leave,’ Nico insisted. ‘Soon. Percy is close to the Doors.’

Jason had his doubts. The king of the South Wind was uncooperative, the ship was no where near ready and now with Leo gone…

‘I promised I’d lead you to the House of Hades,’ Nico said, his voice hard as if sensing Jason’s uncertainty. ‘One way or another, I will.’

‘You can’t shadow-travel with all of us.’ Jason had already considered that idea but it was worthless if Nico wouldn’t survive the trip.

Bringing up Nico’s inability somehow made the orb on the sceptre glow. Hanging on Nico’s belt it somehow seemed to throb.

‘Then you’ve got  to convince the king of the South Wind to help.’  Nico sounded angry. ‘I didn’t come all this, suffer so many humiliations…’ He trailed off but his intention was clear.

I did not suffer all these trials and forcefully out myself to you for you to NOT make it.

The dark energy that swirled around Nico and blackened the floor was unsettling. For the first time in his life, Jason thought this may be a foe he couldn’t defeat in battle. And he didn’t want to find out, if he was truly honest.

Jason wanted to be Nico’s friend but he wasn’t exactly making it easy.

The conversation shifted, for an uncertain amount of time it was always going to be about Nico’s coming out. Until he accepted his own feelings, that is.

‘It’s not like you’ve got a choice. It’s just who you are…’ Jason’s sympathetic voice sounded accusing to Nico.

‘Just who I am... What would you know about who I am? I didn’t choose any of this.’ He lashed out with his hands, swiping through the wind. ‘My father, my feelings.’

There was a pulse of energy.

But for some reason Jason began feeling just as frustrated as Nico.

‘I get it, what do I know. But Nico, you choose how to live your life. You want to trust somebody? Take the risk. Find out if I’m really your friend and if I’ll accept you. At least that’s better than hiding.’

The floor cracked, Nico’s eyes were cold and his aura seemed to be sucking in all the shadows from around him.

‘Hiding?’ It was barely a whisper.

Jason’s instincts told him to run, to grab his sword, to fight this threat. But he stood his ground.

‘Yes, hiding. You’ve run away from bot camps. You’re so afraid they’d reject you that you won’t even try!’ He pushed just a little further. ‘Maybe it’s time you came out of the shadows.’

Hestia’s words echoed in his mind.

And someday you must face your shadow. Beware, son of Hades.

 For one unbearable moment, Jason felt like his bones were being pulled towards the Underworld and then it passed. Nico dropped his eyes and the fissure in the floor closed. The ghostly light around the son of Hades faded.

‘I’ll honour my promise,’ Nico’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘I’ll take you to Epirus. I’ll help you close the Doors of Death. Then that’s it. I’m leaving.’

For a second Nico wonders if he and Jason were always mean to butt heads. After all, it was Zeus who had smited Maria di Angelo. How could Nico be sure that Jason was any different than his father? This olive branch was nothing but rotten.

 The journey to the House of Hades was nothing but unsettling, even for the children of the Underworld. Nico marvelled briefly at Hazel’s ability to crumble a house sized boulder into nothing before they continued their journey.

They reached the chalice filled with dark green liquid. Nico felt he was at a crossroads. Hecate was watching. Nico drank and offered it to Jason.

‘You asked me about trust. Well, here you go, son of Jupiter. How much do you trust me?’

Jason’s eyes glinted but he didn’t hesitate grabbing the cup from Nico. Jason drank never breaking eye contact as if to dare him. Next question. He all but threw the goblet at the others.

Nico hid his shock. An olive branch if he ever did see one.

The group continued downward.

A shudder made his way through Nico’s heart. He kept walking. It happened again. He saw Hazel pause too, ever so briefly. He briefly recounted the time. Twelve minutes. The Doors of Death were opening every twelve minutes.

Then Frank saw a ghost and the plan Nico had in his head went down the drain.

They were surrounded. On all sides.

‘Nico, the sceptre!’

He raised it and the dead with it. Not that it was much use though, Jason couldn’t command them and neither could Frank.

‘My rank,’ Frank realized. ‘I’m only a centurion.’

Nico carved through a gryphon with his stygian sword.

‘Well, then promote him!’ He shouted at Jason as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Jason didn’t hesitate.

‘Frank Zhang! I, Jason Grace, praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, give you my final order: I resign my post and give you emergency field promotion to praetor, with the full powers of that rank. Take command of this legion.’

Then, the battle changed and Nico couldn’t help but smile.

Watching Frank take control of the legion of undead soldiers had Nico thinking: maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he could trust Frank with Hazel.

They won. Nico could barely believe it but they won.

A glimmer of hope ran through him.

Until, he staggered. His heart panged and he knew something changed.

‘The Doors,’ Nico said. ‘Something’s happening. We need to go now.’

Hazel and Leo were in full battle mode when they arrived. And Clytius was a terrible foe, even Nico had to admit. They attacked as a group. Even Annabeth and Percy had their weapons raised. Every time the giant attempted to tackle them with his dark smoke, Nico stood guard and absorbed the dark energy. For the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like to inhale and feel true air in his lungs. The substance Clytius released did nothing but agitate Nico’s hunger for darkness more.

Still, watching the giant burn to death had been awful but nevertheless, Nico felt a sick sense of relief.

There was hesitation in his step. Being so close to Percy after almost losing him. He couldn’t help but feel slightly paralyzed. He managed a ‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ and kissed Hazel’s forehead. ‘The ghosts were right,’ he said. ‘Only one of us made it to the Doors of Death. It was you, it was always supposed to be you. You would have made dad proud.’

She noticed his eyes were bloodshot and his face was wet with dried tears. Something had broken inside her brother recently and it was all flooding to the surface now. She wished so badly she could give him some peace of mind and some comfort. But she didn’t understand what was going on. And he wouldn’t tell her.

He got goose bumps as he realized Percy was standing behind him holding up Annabeth. Hazel suggested shadow-travel and Nico winced. ‘Hazel, I can barely manage that with only myself. With seven more people –’ I would die. He thinks.

I don’t want to die.

It’s an afterthought, the first time he had ever thought such a thing, but still it rang true.

‘I’ll help you.’ She’s insistent. And so he believes her.

The pain in Nico’s chest intensified as they sat in a circle and traded war stories. He watched Percy lace his fingers through Annabeth’s and felt like the loneliest person in the world.

Jason caught his eye, his gaze sympathetic. Nico couldn’t do anything but turn away in shame.

Later, when the commotion had passed and Nico was rigging up the statue, Percy found him.

‘Thank you.’

Nico stops. ‘What for?’

‘You promised to lead the others to the House of Hades, you kept your promise.’

Nico’s words are curt and guarded. They have Percy hesitating and rubbing the back of his head in discomfort.

‘Also…’ Percy said, ‘you visited Bob…You convinced Bob that I could be trusted, even though I never visited him. I never gave him a second thought. You probably saved our lives.’

Nico’s face darkens. ‘Yeah, well, not giving people a second thought. That can be danger.’

Confusion joins Percy’s discomfort. ‘Dude, I’m trying to say thank you.’

Nico’s laugh is humourless, there is something icy in his gaze. ‘I’m trying to say you don’t need to.’ You’ll never need to.

He made the one decision that made the most sense. The Athena Parthenos needs to go west, so he will take it there. Along with Reyna and Coach Hedge.

 -

The trip was hard.

Not as hard as surviving Tartarus but still, by all means, hard.

There was no comfort to be found on their journey. His gang slept in their tent on the outskirts of a road that seemed endless.

Maybe he would have felt warmed by the fact that Jason prayed to his dad every time he burned an offering. And that Hazel begged for his safe return. He plagued the thoughts of the Seven.

Reyna lent him her power in their moment of need which was good because he barely had any left. With every jump, he felt the darkness spread. It wasn’t like the darkness he had felt with Clytius, that darkness had strengthened him. This one tried to consume him. Until he was nothing left but shadow.

‘It’s not mind-reading,’ Reyna had said about her gift. ‘Not even an empathy link… just a temporary wave of exhaustion. Your pain washes over me.’ Hesitance. ‘I take some of your burden.

Shame and embarrassment washed over him.

‘You should rest,’ was the only thing she told him.

There was a lot of time spend unconscious for him. A lot of time for him to mull over the last few months. Sometimes he saw Akhylis, the Goddess of Misery, other times a vague picture of his father floated around his mind. Most often though, he was tethered down the thoughts of the Seven. He waned past all the usual painful memories and always landed back on his friends. Hazel’s face, Jason’s intense eyes, Frank’s look of determination.  

He had plenty of grief during his waking hours too though. He wished he could find some peace in his sleep.

The most peace he got was when Clovis dragged him off course and into Hypnos’s dreamscape. The detour was annoying but nonetheless helpful. He watched Will Solace, the lanky boy from the med-bay, diffuse a row between Clarisse and Rachel. The combat medic had something of Jason in him. Brave, loyal but the eyes were different. The eyes… bore right into your soul. Even in the dreamscape, Nico had to look away.

When he awoke he had no choice but to follow the burning man into his father’s chapel.

He felt his father’s presence before he saw him. Like a cold shadow that falls over you.

Nodding at the skull lined walls he asks his father dryly ‘Getting some redecorating ideas?’

‘I can never tell when you’re joking.’

‘Why are you here, Father?’

A pulse of embarrassment rushes through him as Hades mentions the sceptre of Diocletian and it’s… exploded state. It had been enough to rouse the god from his confused state. Still, that was not why he had come.

‘So tell me, Father. What do you want?’

‘Can you entertain the notion that I might be here to help you? Not simply because I want something?’

Nico suppresses a snort. ‘I can entertain the notion that you might be here for multiple reasons.’

It turns out Hades can be useful. He tells of Orion, the fallen archer who gave in to bitterness and anger after being scorned by love. ‘You can understand that.’ Hades had said to Nico.

What do you know about what I understand?

‘Still there is more,’ Hades said, ‘Your sister.’ He falters. ‘Your other sister. Hazel. She has discovered one of the Seven will die.’ Nico’s heart stops. It couldn’t be… ‘She may try to prevent this. In doing so, she may lose sight of her priorities.

Would Hazel be safe? Would Jason?

Nico barely notices that now, Percy is an afterthought.

‘Who will die?’

Hades’ eyes face the floor. ‘Even if I were certain, I could not say. I tell you this because you are my son. You know that some deaths cannot be prevented. Some deaths should not be prevented. When the time comes, you may need to act.’

Great, more responsibility.

A softness enters Hades’ face and his tone. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘whatever happens, you have earned my respect.’ Nico swallows hard. ‘You brought honour to our house when we stood together against Kronos in Manhattan. You risked my wrath and guided that Jackson boy to the River Styx.’ For a second Hades reverts back to his old self. ‘Never before have I been so harassed by one of my sons. Percy this and Percy that. I nearly blasted you to cinders.’

There’s a hollowness in Nico’s chest. That feels like a lifetime ago.

‘I didn’t do it for him,’ he insists. ‘I did it because the whole world was in danger.’

Hades allows his son this lie and gifts him the faintest of smiles. ‘I can entertain that you acted for multiple reasons.’

Nico can’t stop his eyes filling with tears. There was something under the surface there, something close to acceptance.

‘You and I rose to the aid of Olympus because you convinced me to let go of my anger,’ Hades reminded him. ‘I would encourage you to do the same.’ Sadness twinges his voice. ‘My children are so rarely happy. I… I would like to see you be an exception.’

‘My son, what you are attempting – shadow-travel across the world, carrying the statue of Athena – it may well destroy you.’ Nico thought he imagined the pain in his father’s voice. But there was nothing to be done about that.

‘I will see you again,’ Hades promised. ‘I will prepare a room for you at the palace. Perhaps your chambers would look good decorated with skulls of monks.’

‘Now I can’t tell if you’re joking.’

Hades’ eyes shimmered. ‘Then perhaps we are alike in some important ways.’

- 

Lycaon followed just as Hades had said he would. And Orion did too. Their escape led them to Old San Juan. It led Nico to realize that maybe Reyna was as lost and bitter as he was. The only memory left of that part of their trip was a Hawaiian shirt and the glowing figures of Reyna’s past.

‘I can’t,’ she pleaded, as if asking the spectres for forgiveness. ‘Please, I can’t.’

Nico raised his hand and stood in front of her. The ghosts dissipated but they both knew they would never truly be gone. He would shield her from this.

‘I don’t want to talk about San Juan.’ She said when they arrived at their next destination.

For the first time, Nico found himself giving out advice. ‘You should,’ he said, ‘That’s the thing about ghosts – most of them have lost their voices.’ He turns to her and shrugs. ‘In Asphodel, millions of them wander around aimlessly, trying to remember who they were. You know why they end up like that?’ She gave no answer. ‘Because in life they never took a stand one way or another. They never spoke out, so they were never heard.’

She takes in his words. And he does as well.  

‘Your voice is your identity,’ he continues, ‘without it… you’re halfway to Asphodel already.’

Damn, he needed to take his own advice.

‘I don’t like talking about it either,’ he said, looking into her eyes, ‘but sometimes, you have to.’

What Nico learned about Reyna that night thoroughly changed his opinion of the praetor. She was strong and resilient and came from such a broken home. Nico listened attentively, rarely commenting, only taking in.

In the end, the PTSD got to Reyna’s father and he became ‘a mania…’ Nico speculated. ‘I’ve seen it before. A human withering away until he’s not human anymore.’

It didn’t help. Tears filled Reyna’s eyes as she confessed her sins to Nico.

‘I killed my own father.’

He shook his head.

‘No. Reyna, no.’ Nico’s words were firm. ‘That wasn’t him. That was a ghost, a mania. What you did, you did out of self-defence. You were protecting your sister.’ And he would never blame her for that.

‘You don’t understand.’ But he did, she just didn’t know it. ‘Patricide is the worst crime a Roman can commit. It’s unforgivable.’

‘You didn’t kill your father.’ Nico insisted. ‘That man was already dead. All you did was dispel a ghost.’

Her tears awoke something in Nico. A protective instinct that usually only flared up around Hazel, and more recently Jason, came to the surface. He knew a little something about pretending to be strong and putting on a face for everyone around you. And then secretly crumbling away inside like a rock slowly being eroded.

If there were ever a moment when Nico would have imprinted on someone like a duckling, it would have been that moment.

And then, Bryce Lawrence decided to threaten his duckling.

‘I am a descendant of Orcus, the god of broken vows and eternal punishment. I’ve heard the screams of the Fields of Punishment first-hand.’ He stared at Nico crazed. ‘And they’re music to my ears.’

Nico was paralyzed as undead soldiers clawed their way up from a grave that he had thought previously was empty. It was the first time someone had used their own power of the Underworld against him.

The skeletons grabbed Reyna and only then did Nico regain his senses.

‘Nico, take the statue and go!’

He looked down at his hands. They were transparent and smoky. Had Bryce been right? Was he losing his grip, literally?

His energy was waning. Even standing in direct sunlight couldn’t hold his molecules together anymore.

His eyes met Reyna’s and a warmth spread through him.

She shared with him her strength and her drive.

Bryce laughed as if he were invincible. ‘I hope they’ll execute you in the ancient way.’ He nods at Reyna. ‘I’ve always wanted to see that. I can’t wait until your little secret comes out.’ He flicked his pilum across Reyna’s face. A trail of blood poured down.

A beat. Silence.

And then Nico exploded.

The air dropped to freezing temperatures and the grass on which they stood withered and died. With a single, glass-shattering cry the darkness poured out of him leaving every living creature to experience exactly what pain and anger were.  

Bryce had challenged Nico. And Nico would teach him.

You want secrets? HERE.

Bryce’s soldiers disintegrated into dust until all that was left was a shivering Roman falling over his own feet. Tortures of Tartarus and Akhlys, a suffocating bronze jar and modern world that didn’t make sense transmuted through the air.

Nico ripped the probation tablet from about Bryce’s neck. ‘You. Are not. Worthy of this.’

It took all his self-control not to hit Bryce across the face with it. Nico’s eyes were black and he didn’t blink as the rocks split and Bryce sank down to his waist.

‘You took an oath to the legion. You broke its rules. You inflicted pain. You killed you own centurion.’

They weren’t accusations. There was no defence. This was not going to be a fair trial.

‘You should have died for your crimes. That was the punishment.’ Nico cocked his head. ‘Instead, you got exile.’ The crazed look Bryce had carried was now mirrored on Nico’s face. ‘You should have stayed away. Your father may not approve of broken vows but I know another god who does not favour escaped punishment.’

The Underworld had no mercy. It only had justice.

‘Please!’ Bryce whimpered. But his beg fell on deaf ears.

‘You’re already dead.’

Bryce’s eyes widened in horror.

‘You’re a ghost with no tongue, no memory. You won’t share anyone’s secrets anymore.’

‘No!’ Bryce sunk deeper into the ground. ‘No! I’m Bryce Lawrence! I’m alive!’ He recounted it as if it were a mantra but his body turned dark and his skin became translucent.

Nico’s cold eyes gazed down at him.

‘Who are you?’

And Bryce couldn’t answer. Bryce was no longer alive. He would forever be a spirit with no voice. Just a nameless spectre amongst millions of others.

Nico swiped his hand through the ghost’s body. ‘Begone.’

And with that, he collapsed.

-

Three days.

That’s how much time they lost with Nico unconscious and his body barely a shadow.

He had been in a shadow coma. And it scared him.

Am I dying?

He expected them to recoil. To feel threatened and paralyzed by him after the show he had put on. He wanted to feel angry towards them for knowing they were judging him. But his anger wouldn’t materialize. He just felt… tired.

‘Why didn’t you leave me? You knew I couldn’t help you anymore. You wasted three days watching over me. Why?’

Reyna looked at him sympathetically. ‘I trust you, Nico. You lifted some of my burden. Your not the only one who lets out the darkness every once in a while. You shared your painful experiences; how could we not support you?’ Her face opened up. ‘We’re friends.’

‘Two days. The Romans will attack Camp Half-Blood in two days.’ Nico shook his head. ‘We have to hurry. I have to get ready.’ Even if it kills me. He realized.

But Coach Hedge relieved him of his burden.

Instead, they took to the sky with pegasi. And then they took a ride with Jules-Albert, Nico’s undead chauffeur.

He bid Reyna farewell with a grip on the arm.

‘It’s been an honour questing with you, son of Hades.’

‘You’re the most courageous demigod I’ve ever met, Reyna.’ The look in her eyes was almost too much. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Nico made it to the battle with two legionnaires and Jules-Albert at the wheel.

‘Leila, Dakota, Jules-Albert will drive you to the legion lines. Get out, talk to your troops, convince them to follow your lead. I need a distraction.’

‘I’m not hurting any of my fellow legionnaires.’

Nico supressed a growl. ‘No one is asking you. But if we don’t stop this war the entire legion will be wiped out.’ He looked at them, his orders clear. ‘I’m counting on you.’

They nodded at him.

‘I’m going dark,’ Nico said and faded into the shadows. 

- 

The second he jumped the shadows he began to dissolve. It wasn’t setting a great precedent for the battle. The voices called out to him Help us. Remember us. Join us.

He did his best to keep them at way and as he faced the sunlight, he answered. No! I am the son of Hades. I control the shadows. They do not control me. He rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

A brief look at Octavian’s tent had Nico wondering if maybe an assassination might solve their current problem. He didn’t have time to test his theory though. Will Solace tapped him on the shoulder instead. Nico jumped and almost took his head off.

The son of Apollo muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Nico, what are you doing here?’

‘Me? What are you doing here? Getting yourselves killed?’

He surveyed Will and his two companions, dressed in black with matching face paint.

‘You’re dressed in black with the sun coming up. You painted your face but didn’t cover that mop of blonde hair. You may as well be waving a yellow flag.’ He scolded. Will’s ears turned red.

Nico inquired about Coach Hedge making it in time for his baby’s birth. The group nodded.

Will grabbed Nico’s hand unexpectedly ‘My hands are still shaking. See? But I delivered it. A very cute little satyr boy.’

Nico pulled his hands away, ignoring the electric current that ran through his body.

He was going to go back to his assassination plan until Will spouted some nonsense.

‘No more shadow-traveling. Doctor’s orders.’

Nico wanted to make a comment about how Will’s ‘doctor’s orders’ didn’t really mean much since he went into the OP with his a scrub shirt, khakis and flipflops but it didn’t seem like the right moment.

Not worth it.

‘Whatever. You follow my lead.’

Nico revised his impression of Will on their way to manipulating onagers. Talented, yes. Cool-headed, yes. Stubborn, double yes. Aggravating, unbelievably so.

In the next minutes Nico learned he could add reckless to that list too. Will, with the intention of creating a diversion, sprinted off and engaged six Romans at once. He needed an assist.  

‘Six at once, not bad.’ Will punched him in the shoulder.

‘Not bad?’ Nico asked blandly. ‘Next time I’ll just let them run you down, Solace.’

‘Ah, they’d never catch me.’ He shoots Nico a blinding smile.

They were moving towards to last onager when they were spotted.

‘Do we run?’ asked Lou Ellen quietly.

‘No,’ Nico said. ‘Let’s give them what they want.’

He raised his hands and called upon five skeletons. Watching the look on the Roman’s faces was almost worth his falling back and being caught by Will.

‘Idiot.’ Will held him up. ‘I told you no more.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Shut up. You’re not.’

The spat with Will caused him to miss the entrance of the entire First Cohort. Octavian at the helm. His purple robes shone in the sun, jewellery glittering around his neck. On his head he wore a crown of laurels.

He watched Will let out a piercing taxicab whistle and suddenly Octavian didn’t seem so high and mighty anymore.

‘My – my elite guard!’ Octavian spluttered helplessly like a complaining child. The dog-men crumbled at his feet. ‘Did you see what he did to my elite guard?’

Regaining his posture, Octavian marched right up to Nico and to his credit he didn’t seem the slightest bit scared. Nico felt Will tighten his grip, staring Octavian down over Nico’s shoulder.

Up close Octavian looked sickly and bare. A descendant of Apollo but only evident in the shade of his hair. The arrogance and lust for power, that wasn’t a child of Apollo. Octavian was nothing but a watered down copy of Will Solace. Whatever it was that made a child of Apollo special, that made them glow the way Will did, Octavian didn’t have it.

‘Tell me son of Pluto,’ hissed the augur, ‘why are you helping them? What have they ever done for you?’

Nico’s hand itched to reach for his sword. He could do it now. Assassinate Octavian. He could probably even manage before the First Cohort intervened… it would be worth it.

Still, he hesitated.

If he committed this act of murder and died – he wouldn’t mind so much. For the good of the world and all that. But Will, Cecil and Lou Ellen… they would become casualties of his plan.

It wasn’t right.

Octavian intervened in Will and Nico’s quarrel. ‘What do you mean you’re leaving camp?!’ If they lived long enough, they would be able to hash out whether Nico should stay at camp or not.

‘I see ruthlessness in you,’ Octavian encouraged. He looked greedy. ‘And I appreciate that. Step aside and allow the Romans to win.’

‘Don’t do this, Octavian.’ Will shook his head. ‘Don’t force your people to choose. This is your last chance.’

There was sympathy in Will’s eyes. As if the gift of prophecy had been granted to him again, as if Apollo’s head had finally cleared.

The clearer Will’s eyes got, the more crazed Octavian’s seemed in comparison.

‘I will SAVE ROME!’ He explained. ‘Now, Romans, follow my orders! Destroy these Graecus scum!’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Will yelled, his voice almost as loud as the second taxicab whistle he’d let ring to stop the Greek armies from waging against the Romans.

He pointed to the sky. Nico couldn’t believe his eyes.

Reyna was flying on Guido with six pegasi hauling the Athena Parthenos behind her.

Reyna’s voice boomed. ‘Greek demigods, Behold your most sacred statue. I return it to you now as a gesture of peace.’

An intense energy emanated from the statue all across the Greek camp. Everyone stood dazed. The statue seemed to be speaking out to each of them individually.

Nico felt his throat close as the voice whispered. ‘You are not alone. You are part of the Olympian family. The gods have not abandoned you.’

Reyna asked for the help of the demigods. Unite, please, so that we can all thrive.

‘Listen to her!’ Nico insisted, marching forward. ‘Reyna risked her life for all of you! We brought this statue half way across the world, Roman and Greek working together. We must join forces –’

And then Gaea woke. 

- 

When the battle started, it didn’t seem to end.

Nico found the Seven or well… Six (Leo was no where in sight) on the hill. Nico hadn’t felt his soul pass… still, there were too many casualties to be sure.

‘He’ll be fine.’ He met Jason’s eyes.

‘Sure.’ Jason sounded unconvinced.

‘But…just in case… For Leo.’

Jason nodded. ‘For Leo.’

Fighting with Jason was almost like a dance. It seems although they were made from separate cloth, their threads were very much intwined. They fought in harmony like they had been doing it all their lives.

And then Will Solace ran up to Nico. He said one word into Nico’s ear.

‘Octavian.’

On their way to the augur they felt the Earth shake. Festus snatched up Gaea and soared away with her. Stunned only for a moment, they continued on their way.

As they got closer, Nico saw Octavian furiously messing with an onager’s levers. He kept glancing up at Festus. It seemed his intention was to shoot the bronze dragon out of the sky.

‘Octavian!’ Nico yelled.

With a start, the augur turned, not noticing his flowing purple robe getting caught on the trigger. He looked crazed, hungry.

Will walked forward with his hands raised. ‘Octavian, get away from there. It isn’t safe.’ He spoke in calm, quiet words. As if psst-ing at a frightened kitten.

Nico nudged Will and looked at Jason soaring toward Festus with Piper in his arms.

‘If you fire the onager, you’ll kill Jason and Piper and –’

‘Good!’ Gods, it was hard to reason with him. ‘They’re traitors. All traitors!’

Will tried again. ‘Listen to me. This is not what Apollo would want. Besides, your robes –’

When Mike Kahl showed up, a bruised bump on his head, Nico thought he’d have to draw his sword. The soldier only surveyed the scene and looked at the Centurion.

‘Are you certain, Octavian?’

‘Yes!’

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘Octavian, don’t.’ Will pleaded.

He stepped forward only to be stopped by Nico’s hand. ‘Will, we can’t stop him.’

He saw the dread in Will’s eyes, the pain of causing another human being harm. But Hades had been right, some deaths cannot be prevented. And some…should not be prevented.

Octavian cut the release and disappeared into the sky. The flaming fireball landed in the middle of the storm and exploded.

He had achieved his goal. He had saved Rome.

The only sound that Nico registered was Will’s shark inhale.

Nico felt a new soul join the ranks of the Underworld and it wasn’t Octavian.

No.

- 

There was no time for rest and recovery. At least not for Nico.

He watched over the dead and honoured them with the proper funeral proceedings. So many casualties…

Many would be remembered as heroes. Even Octavian would have his place in the stories. But Leo was going to be the hero that no one forgot. The greatest sacrifice.

An oath to keep with a final breath.

Nico wondered who Leo had sworn to and if it was worth it.

They recounted the tales of bravery. Nico never thought he would see the day that Greeks and Romans sat around the campfire singing together. Even if it was a song of mourning.

Reyna stepped up and looked at the faces in front of her and thanked them. For their bravery, for their loyalty, for their loss.

‘We could have chosen hatred and war. Instead, we found acceptance and friendship.’

She turned to Nico with the warmest look he had ever seen and pulled him towards the flames of campfire.

‘We had one home,’ she said. ‘Now we have two.’

Nico didn’t notice but if he had, he would have seen Will’s approving gaze on the two of them. And even a little ways behind him stood Hestia. Disguised as a teenager, she looked out from under her headwrap and nodded. Your path has led you home, don’t you see?

Maybe staying wouldn’t be so bad after all…

- 

At midnight, still awake, Nico saw a blonde tiptoe. His heart jumped but settled when a framed face came into view.

‘Jason.’ Nico greeted.

Nico knew he came to ask about Leo. There was no comfort Nico could give him. They hung their heads together. Jason wanted to convince him to stay. The more he blabbered on, the more endearing he became. ‘I probably can’t change your mind about leaving but I have to try –’

Nico’s ‘I’m staying,’ had Jason blinking so hard that he had to shake his head to clear it.

The joy was so prevalent in his face that Nico even granted him a hug. Soon, Jason was off talking a mile a minute about sharing a table and teaming up and, and, and. The fact that it was midnight didn’t seem to wear on Jason’s enthusiasm.

There was a tiny sense of peace that settled in Nico’s heart.

A true friend.

So that’s what it felt like.

- 

Lucky.

That’s what Nico thought when Will ordered him to the Apollo cabin to rest.

Someone to look out for you. That’s what it seemed like.

In the midnight moon, Will’s hair seemed to shine brighter than usual.

‘I told you, no more Underworldly stuff, doctor’s orders. You owe me at least three days of rest in the infirmary.’

Will held up three fingers with an insistent look on his face.

Nico agreed self-consciously. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Will had asked where he had been. That he had been looking for him, that he had wanted to see Nico…

‘I hope you got over all that nonsense about leaving camp.’

Nico looks up with a start. ‘I – yeah. I did. I mean,’ he shrugs, ‘I’m staying.’

‘Good. So you may be dense but you’re not a complete idiot.’

Nico wants to threaten Will or say something back but he doesn’t get the chance.

‘You make yourself an outcast.’ Will told him. His tone would have been accusing if his demeanour hadn’t  changed. He looked tired now, worn. Like someone that had seen hardship and wished it away.  ‘How will people ever accept you if you don’t let them know you?’ It was the first time Nico had ever seen something resembling anger on Will’s face. His eyes were hard and his ears red.

A bout of confusion hit Nico. ‘Who would want to ever be around me?’ His voice is quiet, as if he were truly asking himself that question because he couldn’t comprehend it.

‘Me.’ This time Will’s eyes look open and honest. And a little hurt.

Nico felt reprimanded.

‘I don’t understand.’ Nico whispered, looking confused.

‘Then learn.’ Will insisted.

‘…okay.’

Will huffed as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders. ‘Okay.’

[codenamecynic]

Helplessness (Dungeons & Dragons - pre-relationship Taliesin ‘Harper’ Ferryman/Cort Raghnall, circa year 13 of Swordmaster’s Son)

Warning for violence, abuse, mention of harm to animals

If this was the first time, Cort might have been surprised. It’s not.

He knows what’s going to happen even before Taliesin throws the first punch. He should have stopped Gordri the minute the ham-fisted bully decided to amuse himself at Taliesin’s expense, or whatever it was he thought he was doing, drowning a litter of kittens. He isn’t even sure that Gordri knows himself, except that hurting things seems to come naturally and a hammer is just as useful for breaking bones as it is for building bridges, a tool regardless.

It all happens so fast. Cort’s too far away to make a move, his feet frozen to the ground, and his father, impassive and blank-faced as ever, stands still and silent next to him watching as Lord Dorhal Ferryman dismounts his horse and whips his son bloody.

Cort wants to look away but he doesn’t, curling his toes against the insides of his boots until his bones ache because he can’t even clench his fists, can’t even frown. People are watching. People are always watching.

It isn’t over quickly, and it’s all the more savage for it. Taliesin, the bloody little idiot, won’t just take it - he never just takes it - stumbling over and over to his feet, and then his knees, and then crumpled into a ball in the dirt, back rounded against the lash. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t plead for it to stop, just these little sounds when the leather connects that seem like they’ve been strangled out of him, high and sharp.

The crop breaks across Taliesin’s shoulder and Lord Ferryman sneers and throws it away, leaving it and his son on the ground like refuse for someone else to clean up. The sparse crowd disperses, the entertainment over. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

Cort doesn’t move until his father does, hard on his heels but still walking. The swordmaster doesn’t run for things that aren’t emergencies. 

Taliesin hasn’t risen and doesn’t as they draw near, head down with forehead resting in the dirt, both arms crossed across his stomach, holding himself like he’ll split apart at the seams. His breath is short and sharp like the noises from before, face splotched red and wet with tears, his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t open them, not even when Cort’s father reaches down to pick him up, pulling him over one shoulder like a corpse. Cort trails behind him as they walk to the swordmaster’s quarters, reassuring himself with the way one of Taliesin’s hands clutches the back of his father’s shirt, clenched to a white-knuckled fist.

*

They lay Taliesin out face down across the little bed in the back, made up with just a sheet, and Cort fetches water while his father hunts down the bottle of strong-smelling astringent and a handful of bandages.

Taliesin whimpers once when the first strip is laid, fingers curling into the sheets until his knuckles go pale and bloodless, but quickly hushes when his father's ministrations don't cease, as if he knows it's pointless. Instead he shivers mutely, the muscles in his thin arms flexing as he holds tight to the wet coverlet beneath him as the blood from his wounds is sluiced away and Cort’s father covers the angry rents in his flesh with the tincture-soaked gauze.

It stings, Cort knows, but Taliesin bears it in silence, his face deceptively neutral. His eyes are open, unfocused, fat tears sliding unchecked across the bridge of his nose until they disappear into the blanket beneath him, but he doesn't make a sound. It strangles something in Cort's own throat, choking him on the urge to vomit or scream.

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't, and eventually his father stops, pulling himself up from the edge of the mattress with a creaking of knees and a sigh. He crosses wordlessly out of the room, drying his hands on the remains of the shirt they've cut from Taliesin's back, and Cort follows him silently into the office, closing the door behind him.

"You have a question."

"Why didn't you stop him."

It doesn't sound so much like a question but a desperate accusation; he hears the edge of emotion in his voice and immediately tempers it, body shifting unconsciously to mirror his father's stance, firm and planted.

Nial Raghnall looks at his son across the distance of the desk between them, more expressionless than usual. "Taliesin or his father?"

"Lord Ferryman." He wants to hiss the title, spit it from his mouth like venom.

"Why didn't you?"

He's not expecting that, the burbling wrath in his chest suddenly falling still. He doesn't have an answer that feels right. It wouldn't have made a difference. It would have made it worse. Taliesin should have known better, should have picked a better moment, shouldn't have cared at all.

He clasps his hands behind his back, tight and wringing, unable to answer as his father moves to face him, man to man.

"That's not what we do."

"What do we do, then?"

"We serve. And we remember our place."

It sounds like a threat, but when he lifts his eyes to his father's face all he sees is weariness, no hint of sharp disapproval in the edges of his expression. He doesn't know what it means. Less so when Nial lays a red vial down on the edge of his desk and crosses to the door.

"Have him drink it, and make him rest. He'll scar if he doesn't."

And then he is alone with the cacophony of his thoughts, roaring like blood in his ears. He takes the vial and it is strangely hot in his hand. He can't feel magic like some people can; maybe it's just his own body going up in flames, so fruitlessly, pointlessly angry and dissatisfied.

But that's not something he's meant to need. Satisfaction is for people who want things, and that is not what they do either.

The hopelessness in that moment is overwhelming, and he puts the vial in his pocket lest he crush it in his grip. Then it would be as much use to Taliesin as he is.

He doesn't make a practice of crying but the tears come anyway, gathering hot and hateful. He lets them well but not spill over, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, deep breaths until the hammering inside him stops and his vision is clear again. He does not have time for this self indulgence, pointless wallowing when there is work to be done.

Taliesin needs someone, and all he has is Cort.

He looks almost asleep when Cort reenters the room, too exhausted to do more than lie there. He stirs when Cort sits down at the end of the bed though, blearily lifting his head. Cort hesitates and then reaches out a hand to soothe him, fingers sliding over the frantic curl of Taliesin's hair, smoothing it back.

Taliesin hesitates under the gentleness of the touch but quickly sighs and lays his head back down, letting Cort do as he likes. They stay that way for a long time, Taliesin's hair soft and cool under Cort's fingers, delicate in a way Cort has never been.

"You're upset," Taliesin ventures eventually, less a question than a muted bid for confirmation. "At me?"

Yes. "No." Both are true.

Taliesin makes a humming sound deep in his throat, quietly acknowledging.

"I shouldn't have. It was just kittens. I knew better."

He shouldn't say it, shouldn't say anything; it's not his place, but the words come spilling out anyway, too honest. "It's never just kittens, Taliesin."

"No, I don't suppose it is."

His voice is tired, world-weary, ill-suited to the distressing smallness of him, and Cort's fingers go still on the back of his neck, just above the highest strip of gauze that wraps over the deep gash in his shoulder. It's tempting to let him fall asleep where he is, feels cruel to make him move, but his father's words echo in the back of his mind. This will leave its marks, and he doubts Taliesin will thank him for them if he can lessen their effect and chooses not to.

"Sit up," he prompts and Taliesin shifts sleepily under his fingers, needing help. They manage it between the two of them, slowly and careful, though Taliesin wavers again with his fingers around the vial, unsteady. Cort closes his hand over Taliesin's to keep him from dropping it, and bites his tongue against the urge to wince when Taliesin looks up at him, gray eyes dull with more than just pain.

"Should I? It's not so bad."

"You'll scar."

"I already have scars."

He does, and each one feels like a failure. "...drink the potion, Taliesin."

Eventually Taliesin tips his head at the command, acquiescent, and drains the vial. Cort watches him swallow painfully, taking the empty glass from him before it can fall from nerveless fingers and shatter on the floor. 

"S'gross," he complains, words slurring, and Cort frowns.

"The least of your problems I'm sure," he says tartly and Taliesin gives a little laugh that comes out more like a wheeze, and doesn't argue. Cort relents, too quickly like always, and allows it when Taliesin drops his head onto his shoulder, leaning against his upper arm.

It's no good to hold him, the mess of his back won't permit it, and he's not sure he should anyway. He doesn't want to encourage this, even if he doesn't really think that Taliesin was wrong. In starting the fight, anyway. Cort's not sure about the rest of it. It's dangerous, clear and present, and no one will miss an unruly fourth son, especially one who won't buckle under authority and toe the line.

Taliesin's young, there's still time to learn, but Cort isn't sure he wants that for him. Isn't sure whether or not that makes him a traitor, or who in this situation most requires his loyalty.

As if he could choose.

"Lie down." The words come out harsh, much more harshly than he means them to, but it only stirs Taliesin a little.

"Mmm?"

"I said lie down, Taliesin. You need to rest so the potion will work."

"Okay, okay," he capitulates, almost drunken, and again between the two of them they get him horizontal, spread out over soiled sheets on his stomach. Cort checks his bandages once he's settled, smoothing them over tender skin so they lie flat over each wound. He tries to be gentle, but if he isn't Taliesin doesn't say.

He does reach for him when Cort makes to get up though, a clumsy finger hooking into his pocket. "Don't go."

"Taliesin-"

"Stay. Please?" He murmurs, both pleading and bargaining so pridelessly. "Just ‘til I fall asleep."

Such a child and still, fool he is, Cort can't say no. He settles down again, bed dipping cautiously beneath his weight, and Taliesin closes his eyes, long thin fingers curled to clutch at the loose fabric of the leg of Cort's pants. Such a desperately small thing, a sad little gesture like that's comforting enough and he'll make do, and as his breathing calms and deepens Cort fights to control the way his own wants to thunder out of him like clattering stones down a mountainside. He doesn't even dare to touch him as he had before, does nothing at all, sitting still and silent with hands clenched into fists on his thighs until he's sure Taliesin is asleep.

[vesuvianvienna]

Red Sky

Have some sweet Julian angst because as much as i love my poor boy i love to make him suffer. As for most of my stories, mc is my apprentice Vienna. Also thank you to @zephyronthewind for sending fluffy headcanons to keep me from getting too sad while finishing this. Gonna publish those here in a sec. @notquitepainless pls don’t hate me for this.

CW: Arcana spoilers, mc death

Sand kicked up from the heels of his boots as he took off in a sprint from the shore to the looming, black tower. The sun had yet to rise, the first hints of sickly grey light thrusting seeking, scrabbling fingers over an inscrutable horizon. His heart hammered in his throat. What the ferryman had said...it couldn’t be true. He was lying. Delusional.

she can’t be gone can’t be gone he’s lying lying she’s fine she’s just fine she--

Julian skidded to a stop as another doctor, an older man with grey in his hair and his beard hidden behind a mask filled up the doorway. Slowly, he shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come back, Julian. There’s nothing left to be done here.”

His chest heaved beneath his coat as he panted. “Where is she,” he gasped, his voice sounding weak, thin and desperate. “Where is she?”

The older doctor looked pained, tugging his mask down and placing a steadying hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Son...she didn’t make it. No one does.”

There was a hollow ringing in his ears, as if the horror of those words had deafened him. It couldn’t be true, couldn’t be. She was strong, a fighter, a survivor. He was positive she would be able to withstand the plague. He couldn’t have failed the one person he wanted most to save. “No,” he whispered, taking a step back, hands shaking at his sides. “She...She’s not…”

Slowly, the doctor nodded. Julian fell to his knees in the dirt, hands gripping at his hair, feeling as if he had been sliced open, all of his insides replaced with ice. Cold. Numb.

she’s dead and it’s my fault i should have been here i should have saved her

she’s dead my fault she’s dead she’s dead she’s DEAD

“Her body,” he abruptly choked out, looking up with eyes that were wild, like tempestuous waters deep at sea. “Let me take her body. She deserves a proper burial, a funeral--”

“Julian,” the doctor said in a low tone that bore a note of resigned finality. “She’s already gone. You know we don’t leave the dead to spread their infections. She was taken to the furnace last night. I’m sorry.” With that, he turned on his heel and left, walking away just a little too quickly, his lips pressed too tightly together and his eyes too watery for a man meant to be impartial.

Julian got to his feet, gutted by the shock and grief. His feel felt like two blocks of frozen iron as they carried him back toward the shore, his eyes fixed on the black plume of smoke and ash that rose from the giant incinerator; had it always seemed so sinister? He couldn't remember, couldn't think past the screaming thought that the ash rising into the air had once been her, had once been her living, breathing flesh--

He collapsed in the cold, wet sand, falling to his hands and knees as his stomach gave a queasy, sickening lurch, a sob clawing at his throat. Julian knew if he gave it voice, that sob would become a scream, and oh, would he ever be able to stop screaming? Tears slipped from his dark grey eyes, falling soundlessly to the sand below, indistinguishable there from the seawater. He whispered her name, the syllables as sharp as a knife's edge, lost to a sudden gust of wind that seemed to tear the word from his lips. How long he stayed collapsed in the sand, he couldn't tell, but when his eyes lifted once more, the sun had risen, staining the horizon a baleful, venomous crimson.

Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

A rhyme he had learned from Mazelinka as a boy came whispering through his mind, like a ghost in an empty room. A pained sound left him as he clutched at his aching chest, head rolling as he sat back on his heels, lifting his face up into the treacherous scarlet dawn.

His tears ran dry quickly; Pasha had always been the one to cry enough for both of them. He was left only with a dull, deep-seated pain that seemed to come up from his very bones, seeping like venom into his bloodstream. Julian took a deep, trembling breath, and looked down with a start to see a pile of roses at his side. Not just any roses. Lavender roses. Her favorite. She had kept a small trimming in a pot at the edge of her tiny desk, lovingly tending it to it when she wasn't assisting him. The color was a balm to his soul, seemed to soothe the ache of all that red, and he gathered the flowers in his arms, unmindful of the possibility of thorns. God, even the scent was the same, the scent of her roses always clinging to her skin, masking the smell of death and burning bodies.

His mask. The familiar beaked object swung at his hip, and he unhooked it from his belt. Carefully, Julian separates four blooms from their stems and pushed them into the beak, where he could keep that small reminder of her close forever. With the rest of the flowers, he stood, walking to the waters edge and wading in up to his hips, paying no mind to the near freezing sea. Carefully, he plucked each petal from its stem and scattered them into the water, as he would have scattered her ashes. At least he could do this. He could say his farewells to some small part of her. As the waves carried the tiny petals out to sea, he idly wondered where the bouquet had come from, as he was quite sure they hadn't been on the sand before he collapsed there. But it was a small concern, not one he bothered to ponder over long. He was simply grateful they had been there at all.

As the sun rose higher into the sky, the ugly red dissipating, he slowly waded back to shore, watching as the last of the petals faded from view. He turned his face toward the heavens, eyes closed, and whispered two words before hooking his mask back onto his belt and turning on his heel, long legs carrying him back toward the docks. There was nothing more he could do here. Nothing left to save. But he could still find it. The cure. He could spare others from her fate. It was what she would have wanted, rather than having him wallow in his grief and guilt. As the ferry pushed off from the pier and the Lazaret began to shrink in the distance, the words he'd uttered on its shores echoed in his mind, like a benediction within a tomb, cold and final.

Goodbye, Vienna.

[cryptids-of-the-world]

Storsjöodjuret is a plesiosaur-like creature living in Lake Storsjön In Sweden. Storsjöodjuret is described as living plesiosaur with a dog-like head and big ridges on its back. There are many local legends about Storsjöodjuret one being "A long, long time ago two trolls, Jata and Kata, stood on the shores of the Great-Lake brewing a concoction in their cauldrons. They brewed and mixed and added to the liquid for days and weeks and years. They knew not what would result from their brew but they wondered about it a great deal. One evening there was heard a strange sound from one of their cauldrons. There was a wailing, a groaning and a crying, then suddenly came a loud bang. A strange animal with a black serpentine body and a cat-like head jumped out of the cauldron and disappeared into the lake. The monster enjoyed living in the lake, grew unbelievably larger and awakened terror among the people whenever it appeared. Finally, it extended all the way round the island of Frösön, and could even bite its own tail. Ketil Runske bound the mighty monster with a strong spell which was carved on a stone and raised on the island of Frösön. The serpent was pictured on the stone. Thus was the spell to be tied till the day someone came who could read and understand the inscription on the stone." The other one being "It is said that beneath this [rune]stone lies a dreadfully large head of a serpent and that the body stretches over Storsjön to Knytta by and Hille Sand where the tail is buried. The serpent was called a rå and therefore shall this stone be risen. Since no one peacefully could cross [Storsjön], the ferryman and his wife states, along with many others, that in the last turbulent time this stone was tore down and broken in two. As long as this stone laid on the ground many strange things occurred in the water, until the stone was risen and assembled anew." There have been many attempts to capture Storsjöodjuret however most capture attempts have failed except it has been captured on film. In 1986 Storsjöodjuret was made an official endangered species however the endangered label was removed in 2005.

[version103]

Latin Names - Male: C

CADMUS: Latin form of Greek Kadmos, meaning "the east." In mythology, this is the name of the brother of Europa. He is said to have founded the city of Thebes and introduced the alphabet to the Phoenicians. CÆCILIUS: Old Roman Latin family name derived from the byname Cæcus, meaning "blind." CÆCUS: Latin byname derived from the word cæcus, meaning "blind." CÆLESTINUS: Roman name derived from Latin Cælestis, meaning "heavenly." CÆLESTIS: Latin unisex name meaning "heavenly." In Roman mythology, this is an epithet belonging to the god Jupiter (Jupiter Cælestis) and the goddess Diana (Diana Cælestis). CÆLINUS: A derivative of Roman Latin Cælius, meaning "heaven." CÆLIUS: Old Roman family name, probably derived from Latin c�lum, meaning "heaven." CÆSAR: Ancient Roman Latin name meaning "severed." In the bible, this is the surname of Julius Caesar, which adopted by Octavius Augustus and his successors afterwards became a title, and was appointed by the Roman emperors as part of their title. CAIAPHAS: Latin form of Greek Kaiaphas, meaning "as comely." In the New Testament bible, this is the name of a high priest of the Jews. CAIETANUS: Roman Latin name meaning "from Caieta (Gaeta, Italy)." According to Strabo, the place name Caieta was derived from the Greek word kaiétas, meaning "cave," and Virgil tells us that Caieta was the name of Aeneas' wet-nurse who was buried there. CAIUS: Variant spelling of Roman Latin Gaius, meaning "lord." CALIGULA: This is a pet name for the despotic Gaius Julius Cæsar Augustus Germanicus, third Roman Emperor, meaning "little boots." Roman historian Suetonius referred to him as a "monster." He was a member of the Julio-Claudian dynasty (gens Julia and gens Claudia), all of whom were linked through marriage and adoption. It is interesting to note that the founder of the clan of Claudia, Appius Claudius Sabinus Inregillensis, was also "harsh by nature," according to Livy. CALIX: Short form of Latin Callixtus, meaning "most beautiful." CALLIAS: Latin form of Greek Kallias, meaning "beauty." CALLICRATES: Latin form of Greek Kallikrates, meaning "beauty-power." CALLISTRATE: Latin form of Greek Kallistrates, meaning "beauty-army." CALLISTRATUS: Latin form of Greek Kallistratos, meaning "beauty-army." CALLISTUS: Latin form of Greek Kallistos, meaning "most beautiful." CALLIXTUS: Variant spelling of Latin Callistus, meaning "most beautiful." CALOGERUS: Latin form of Greek Kalogeros, meaning "beautiful elder." CALVINUS: Latin form of the French surname Chauvin, from a diminutive of Norman calve ("bald"), hence "little bald one." CAMBYSES: Latin form of Greek Kambyses, probably meaning "handsome king." CAMILLUS: Roman family name, possibly meaning "attendant (for a temple)." CANICUS: Latinized form of Scottish Gaelic Cináed (English Kenneth), meaning "born of fire." CANUTUS: Latin form of Old Norse Knútr, meaning "knot." In use by the Norwegians and Swedish. CAPANEUS: Latin form of Greek Kapaneus, meaning "arrogant." In mythology, this is the name of one of the Seven Against Thebes. He is said to have had a body of immense size and strength, but he was notoriously arrogant and was eventually struck and killed by a thunderbolt sent by Zeus. His wife Evadne committed suicide by throwing herself on his funeral pyre. CARATACUS: Latin form of Welsh Caradog, meaning "dearly loved." CARMINE: Latin name meaning "song." CAROL: Short form of Latin Carolus, meaning "man." Compare with feminine Carol. In use by the Romanians. CAROLUS: Latin form of German Karl, meaning "man." CARPUS: Latin form of Greek Karpos, meaning "fruit." In mythology, this is the name of a son of the nymph Chloris and the god Zephyrus. In the bible, this is the name of a Christian at Troas mentioned in the second epistle of Timothy (2 Ti. 4:13). CASIMIRIA: Latin form of Polish Kazimierz, meaning "commands peace." CASSIAN: A derivative of Roman Latin Cassius, possibly meaning "empty, hollow." CASSIEL: Latinized form of Hebrew Kafziel, meaning "speedy one of God." In Jewish lore, Kafziel is the name of an archangel. Unlike most of the other angels, Kafziel is a watcher, rather than a doer. He is called the angel of solitude and tears, and presides over the deaths of kings. He is associated with the Seventh Heaven, the planet Saturn, and has even been worshiped by Satanists. CASSIUS: Roman family name, possibly derived from Latin cassus, meaning "empty, hollow." CASTOR: Latin form of Greek Kastor, meaning "beaver." In mythology, Castor and Pollux ("very sweet") are the twin sons of Jupiter and Leda and are known as the Dioskouroi ("boys of Zeus") and the Gemini twins. CATIGERNUS: Latinized form of Welsh Cattegirn, meaning "battle lord." CATO: Roman Latin name meaning "all-knowing, wise." CATOTIGERNOS: Latinized form of Welsh Cattegirn, meaning "battle lord." CATUTIGERNOS: Latinized form of Welsh Cattegirn, meaning "battle lord." CELER: Roman name meaning "swift." This is the name of the horse of the Roman Emperor Verus. It was fed on almonds and raisins, covered with royal purple, and stalled in the imperial palace. CELSUS: Roman Latin family name meaning "upright, stately." CEPHALUS: Latin form of Greek Kephalos, meaning "head." In mythology, this is the name of the faithful husband of Procris. CEPHAS: Latin form of Greek Kephas, meaning "rock, stone." In the New Testament bible, this is the surname given by Jesus to Simon son of Jona, to distinguish him from Simon Zelotes. CEPHEUS: Latin form of the Greek Kepheus, meaning "gardener." In mythology, this is the name of a king of Ethiopia, the husband of Cassiopeia. CERBERUS: Latin form of Greek Kerberos, meaning "demon of the pit." In mythology, this is the name of the three-headed dog that guards the entrance to Hades. CEYX: Latin form of Greek Keyx, possibly meaning "kingfisher." In mythology, this is the name of a king of Thessaly, the son of Eosphoros. CHARON: Latin form of Greek Kharon, meaning "fierce brightness." In mythology, this is the name of the ferryman of Hades who ferries the dead across the river Acheron. CHIRON: Latin form of Greek Kheiron, meaning "surgeon." In mythology, this is the name of a wise centaur, the son of Cronus and the nymph Philyra. He fathered Ocyrhoe with the nymph Chariclo. He was said to be a great healer, oracle and astrologer. CHLOTHARIUS: Latin form of German Chlothar, meaning "loud warrior." CHRISTIANUS: Latin form of Greek Christianos, meaning "believer" or "follower of Christ." In the bible, this is the name first given to the worshippers of Jesus by the Gentiles, but from the second century onward accepted by them as a title of honor. CHRISTOPHORUS: Latin form of Greek Christophoros, meaning "Christ-bearer." CHRYSANTHUS: Latin form of Greek Chrysanthos, meaning "golden flower." CHRYSAOR: Latin form of Greek Khrysaor, meaning "golden sword." In mythology, this is the name of a son of Poseidon and the Gorgon Medusa. He is usually described as a giant, but sometimes as a winged boar, just as his twin brother Pegasus is described as a winged horse. CHRYSES: Latin form of Greek Khryses, meaning "golden." In mythology, this is the name of a priest of Apollo. CICERO: Roman Latin name derived from the word cicer, meaning "chickpea." CIMON: Latin form of Greek Kimon, possibly meaning "sleepy." CLARUS: Ancient Roman Latin cognomen, meaning "bright, clear." CLAUDIUS: Roman family name derived from Latin claudus, meaning "lame." CLEDAUCUS: Latin name of a legendary king of the Britons who was preceded by Eliud and succeeded by Clotenus. Meaning unknown. CLEISTHENES: Latin form of Greek Kleisthenes, meaning "glorious strength." CLEMENS: Late Latin name meaning "gentle and merciful." CLEMENT: Short form of Latin Clementius, meaning "gentle and merciful." meaning "gentle and merciful." In the bible, this is the name of a companion of Paul. CLEMENTINUS: Latin name meaning "of Clementius." CLEMENTIUS: Latin name meaning "gentle and merciful." CLEOPAS: Latin form of Greek Kleopas, meaning "glory of the father." In the New Testament bible, this is the name of a disciple. CLEOPATROS: Latin form of Greek Kleopatros, meaning "glory of the father." CLEOPHAS: Latin form of Greek Kleophas, meaning "glory of the father." In the bible, this is the name of two disciples to whom the risen Jesus appeared at Emmaus. CLETES: Pet form of Latin Anacletus, meaning "called back; invoked." CLETIS: Variant spelling of Latin Cletus, meaning famous, renowned." CLETUS: Latin form of Greek Kleitos, meaning famous, renowned." CLIMACUS: Latin name derived from the Greek word klimax, meaning "ladder." CLITUS: Latin form of Greek Kleitos, meaning famous, renowned." CLOPAS: Latin form of Greek Klopas, probably meaning "my exchanges." In the bible, this is the name of the father of the apostle James the less. CLOPHAS: Contracted form of Latin Cleophas, meaning "glory of the father." CLOTENUS: Latin name of a legendary king of the Britons who was preceded by Cledaucus and succeeded by Gurgintius. Meaning unknown. COLUMBA: Latin name meaning "dove." COLUMBAN: Short form of Latin Columbanus, meaning "dove." COLUMBANUS: Elaborated form of Latin Columba, meaning "dove." COLUMBUS: Latin name meaning "dove." CONSTANS: Latin name meaning "steadfast." CONSTANT: From Latin Constans, meaning "steadfast." CONSTANTINE:  Medieval form of Roman Latin Constantinus, meaning "steadfast." Compare with another form of Constantine. CONSTANTINUS: Roman name derived from the Latin word constans, meaning "steadfast." CONSTANTIUS: A derivative of Latin Constans, meaning "steadfast." CONSUS: Roman name, probably of Etruscan or Sabine origin, meaning "to sow." In mythology, this is the name of a god of grains and subterranean silos. CORNELIUS: Latin name derived from the word cornu ("horn"), hence "of a horn." In the bible, this is the name of a Roman centurion who converted to Christianity. Compare with another form of Cornelius. CORNELL: Medieval form of Roman Latin Cornelius, meaning "of a horn." COSMO: Latin form of Greek Kosmos, meaning "order, beauty." CREON: Latin form of Greek Kreon, meaning "ruler." In mythology, this is the name of a king of Thebes, husband of Eurydice and father of Haemon. CRESCENTIUS: Latin name meaning "to spring up, grow, thrive." CRISPINUS: A derivative of Roman Latin Crispus, meaning "curly(-headed)." CRISPUS: Old Roman family name meaning "curly(-headed)." CRIUS: Latin form of Greek Krios, meaning "master, ruler." In mythology, this is the name of one of the Titans. CRONUS: Latin form of Greek Kronos, meaning "time." In mythology, this is the name of the Titan father of Zeus. CUPID: Short form of Latin Cupido, meaning "desire." In Roman mythology, this is the name of a god of love, the son of Venus. He is also known as Amor, "love." His Greek name is Eros, meaning "sexual love." CUPIDO: Latin name derived from the word cupido, meaning "desire." CYPRIAN: Short form of Latin Cyprianus, meaning "from Cyprus." CYPRIANUS: Latin name meaning "from Cyprus." CYRIACUS: Roman Latin form of Greek Kyriakos, meaning "of the lord." CYRILLUS: Latin form of Greek Kyrillos, meaning "lord." CYRUS: Latin form of Greek Kyros, meaning "like the sun." In the bible, this is the name of the king of Persia, Cyrus the Great, conqueror of Babylon, who freed the captive Jews.

[healthandfitnessrecipes-blog]

Why Do The Elites Participate In Child Sacrifice At Bohemian Grove?

https://healthandfitnessrecipes.com/?p=7710

The complex, behind-the-scenes story of what is going on in the dark sanctuaries of world power is coming into view, piece by piece. A lot is still hidden, but that has as much to do with our collective reluctance to truly confront the darkness as anything else. Evidence and information about our world’s elite continue to mount, thanks to the testimonies of brave whistleblowers and the work of courageous investigators, that we are fundamentally dealing with people who have lost all strands of their moral fiber, and who commit unthinkable acts of depravity and inhumanity that somehow serve to solidify their hold on power, wealth, and worldly pleasure.

As we continue to acclimatize ourselves to the fundamental character of our world’s financial and political elite, it becomes very important for us to suspend our outrage and incredulity for a moment, in order to singularly focus our minds on an understanding about how our human brethren could have chosen to walk so far astray down a path of moral degeneracy.

The Illuminati

At the very top levels of planetary control there appears to be a secret group or secret society, call them the Illuminati, cabal or whatever you wish. One of the fundamental strengths of this group seems to be their ability to entice people who have risen to positions of power to join the secretive fray, at least at some level. They are expert at appealing to the drives and vicissitudes of the human ego, and with unlimited resources at their disposal, only the strongest and most grounded are able to resist their deftly delivered promises of worldly pleasure and, subsequently, threats of pain.

The inner circle of this group radiates outward from core members to new initiates; the farther from the inner circle, the less that is revealed. New initiation into the group seems to be based on the invitation from friends and colleagues who are already involved; rarely if ever does a person step into this world without the assuring hand of a trusted friend leading him to the outer circle; once there, the initiate’s behavior is carefully and secretly observed by members in the know; if the opportunity presents itself, that initiate is provided with an opportunity to take a step inward, either by a direct invitation or the unfolding of a situation in which the initiate may be revealed to have compromising ego-driven desires.

There is likely no direct coercion, but rather subtle forms of persuasion, as it remains important that a person makes a ‘choice’ by free will, which then ‘defines’ that person in their own mind. This way, the person identifies with their own behavior and choices, and may therefore be more inclined to continue moving deeper in. Let us take a look at one famous ‘vehicle’ that promotes movement towards the inner circle: Bohemian Grove.

Bohemian Grove

Every year, the top movers and shakers of the world–male only–are invited to an exclusive weeks-long vacation in July at Bohemian Grove, a restricted 2,700-acre campground located in Monte Rio, California. The blueprint is tried-and-true: many or most high-profile celebrities, politicians and businessmen are attracted to rich surroundings, indulgence of the senses, and the lure of being part of an ‘exclusive’ club that holds a secret mystique that will always remain hidden from ‘ordinary people.’ This event is ‘by invitation only’, with members having the opportunity to invite guests. One thing that is made clear to all who are invited, though. What happens at Bohemian Grove stays at Bohemian Grove. At the entrance, guests are met with a plaque displaying an owl and the words ‘Weaving Spiders Come Not here.’

The words hearken back to Walter Scott’s famous line. ‘O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!’ It is as if they are warning people about being deceitful, posing as vacationers but really there to observe and report back findings. Such deceivers, the owl seems to be warning, may end up tangled in their own web–or worse.

The Cremation Of Care

The heavy security at Bohemian Grove and rough treatment that some journalists and other transgressors have reported speaks to the notion that indeed, there are likely nefarious activities that go on there, many in extreme secrecy. However, the one I’d like to concentrate on is the well-known child-sacrifice drama usually played out on the first day of the event entitled ‘The Cremation of Care,’ where a (supposedly) mock child-sacrifice ritual is played out. Here’s how Wikipedia describes it:

The ceremony involves the poling across a lake of a small boat containing an effigy of Care (called “Dull Care”). Dark, hooded figures receive from the ferryman the effigy which is placed on an altar, and, at the end of the ceremony, set on fire. This “cremation” symbolizes that members are banishing the “dull cares” of conscience.[14] At the time the script was developed, the primary meaning of the word ‘care‘ (cearu, “anxiety, anguish”) was synonymous with ‘worry’, having more negative connotations than in modern times when it tends to be associated more positively with compassion.[15] The ceremony takes place in front of the Owl Shrine, a 40-foot (12 m) hollow owl statue made of concrete over steel supports. The moss- and lichen-covered statue simulates a natural rock formation, yet holds electrical and audio equipment within it. During the ceremony, a recording is used as the voice of The Owl.

Here is a video excerpt from Alex Jones’ documentary “Dark Secrets: Inside Bohemian Grove” with footage of the actual ceremony:

Inculcation

It seems as though many of the members and guests at Bohemian Grove go there for relaxing, kick-back male bonding time. There are occasions of serious discussions and presentations of business and political matters, but otherwise, the order of the day appears to be drinking, tomfoolery, and sensual pleasures.

But whether they are aware of it or not, participants are slowly being inculcated into a mindset in which all ‘care’ and concern for other human beings is lost, in favor of a wholly service-to-self mentality as well as an “us and them” allegiance to those who think the same way. One’s sense of well-being goes from a deep underlying connectedness with others that informs a healthy conscience, into a disconnected sense of self-importance, a belief in the value of one’s own fulfillment at the expense of others, and a complete loss of conscience.

The notion that the use of the word ‘care’ was originally used to connote anxiety/anguish/worry (about worldly affairs) is an obvious contradiction. One overcomes worldly worries and concerns by abandoning the material in favor of the spiritual: love, family, respect for all of life. Here, clearly, it is not from worldly cares that one is being relieved, but rather from one’s own humanity.

The Impact Of Such Ritual

By all accounts, witnessing a body being burned in sacrifice can lead to a disassociation from one’s own sense of compassion and decency. Whether it is a symbolic sacrifice or an actual one, the difference in impact only lies in the degree. If the organizers decided at some point to make the now well-known ‘Cremation of Care’ ceremony a mock sacrifice, it is only because they wanted to now use it to provide an ‘appearance’ that nothing criminal was going on there.

In reality, it is likely that any and all acts of human depravity and inhumanity are made available to those who show a willingness and a readiness for such experiences. People who already have an inclination towards valuing worldly success above all else are more easily led down this path. While some probably dislike the need to participate in and witness inhumane acts, likely there are others with sociopathic tendencies that participate eagerly as they gravitate into the inner circle.

Hard-core members ‘have each other’s back’ out in the public domain by supporting each other in worldly pursuits of power and riches, while creating a cult of shared condoning of acts of violence and treachery that directly contributes to the fulfillment of their worldly ambitions. As we are slowly finding out, this is the environment at the highest reaches of power in the world today, where the long-held agenda is depopulation of the planet to a size that is manageable for the centralized enslavement of the remaining inhabitants of the planet.

What We Can Do

I am speaking here about things going on in the world I would never have believed possible only a few years ago. In the pursuit of truth and knowledge about how the world works and why it is in the state it is in, I have stumbled upon one piece of information after another that continues to refine my understanding about the fundamental evil and depravity that exists at the highest reaches of power.

With that understanding, I do not feel fearful–I feel empowered. I am empowered by the knowledge that I live in a benevolent universe, yet one in which unthinkably inhumane acts are perpetrated in order to hone our collective discernment and spark our shared desire to create a planet of our own free and intentional choosing, founded on harmony, respect, and love for all of life.

Our job is not to fight fire with fire; rather we are called to have the courage to be aware of what is going on and look at it with eyes wide open, not to fulfill a perverse and short-lived curiosity, but for our empowerment and more comprehensive understanding about life. For having understood what is real and true underneath the veils of darkness, and why such things have been permitted to occur on our planet, we can then support one another to collectively move away from the lure of extreme worldly power and wealth and relegate that entire control system to the dustbin of our history.

https://cdn3.collective-evolution.com/assets/uploads/2018/06/bohemian-1024x576.jpg Credits: Original Content Source

[muzzleroars]

I am obsessed with this acended v1 idea now, a fallen angel and an acended machine!!! Please I want more thoughts on this I’m begging you

(see this!)

I KEEP THINKING ABOUT THEM TOO....i've of course talked about them a bit here, here, and here, BUT this lets me sort of give some miscellaneous thoughts i couldn't fit into those other asks!! of course i'm still formulating this part of the au so things are probably...very subject to change but they're on my mind in a big way....

first is the time gap that sort of happens here, with v1 taking years for gabriel to revive - he departs from hell a few days after its death, but ascending mount purgatory is difficult for a fallen angel, especially as he moves higher and higher. everything becomes more oppressive, his feet growing increasingly heavy as v1's body eventually feels like a lead weight in his arms. crossing lethe is treacherous as such - if he touches its waters, every memory will be wiped from his mind in an instant, and so he's required to leap from one bank to the other (assisted minimally by wings he hasn't taken out in years). and on the other end of eden, its sister eunoe threatens to burn him away (all sin is meant to be forgotten in this river, which would likely be highly detrimental to a fallen angel). so he vaults again, yet this journey was the easy one - he has all of heaven to traverse now, unable to teleport, unable to fly, but still finding some way to move between the spheres.

SO LIKE. THE GAME I GUESS BUT WITH GABRIEL IN HEAVEN KIND OF. he doesn't kill nearly as many angels as v1 does everything in hell, doing everything he in his power to threaten and scare them off rather than engage them for his sake and theirs. gabriel still cares for his old home, harboring no grudges for the people he once deeply loved and would have defended to his own death. yet he won't be stopped, he will kill if it comes down to it, and despite his exhaustion, despite an entire heaven hostile toward his very being, he's only grown stronger as they've become weaker. and so his travels take far more time than v1's descent, yet to find what he's looking for is what truly counts the years - gabriel walks through a ruined, broken heaven, a world no angels have touched since god disappeared, his vast kingdom crumbing outside the small inhabited islands. this is particularly true in the ninth sphere, yet gabriel goes alone into its unknown reaches to find what he needs...and eventually, likely in part following the lead of the other archangels, the others only let him go, let him search. fighting him is no longer worth it, not with the loss of life it incurs, and they see he truly means them no harm if he can help it.

and since those other asks covered the in-between here, risen v1 ideas!!! honestly, if v1 were to receive gabriel's light, it would be surprised how similar this still feels to being a machine - it's no wonder they understood each other so well. it is much better at recognizing emotion in itself and others, and art finally comes much easier for it, but otherwise its major adjustments are more how the divine interacts with the mechanical. v1 can now imbue things with light too, much like the ferryman's cloth but MUCH more powerful. v1's definitely already been given to playing with hell mass, but it absolutely panics when it does so, the same as it always has...and then it starts walking around!!!! it's alive!!!! it blasts it, instantly, but then it happens again and again and!!!!!! gabriel comes home one day to find a bunch of weird....bugs???? running around as v1 sits there in the middle of the floor, shaping yet another little creature in its hands for experimental replication purposes. the rest of the day is spent reckoning with v1's ability to grant life and gabriel stressing the GREAT responsibility of that - he is firmly against hell mass pets while v1 wants to make spore in real life.

in the same vein, there is simply a period where v1 is incredibly destructive. it always has been, naturally, but this is much less controlled, running loose with its new abilities and hurting itself quite severely more than once. there are times the power stresses its body to breaking point as v1 overuses it, leading to break downs that bring back a lot of bad memories for gabriel. however, on the flipside, their sparring matches are absolutely on another level for both of them now - v1 learns gabriel's old tricks, teleporting and using the light to construct any weapon it wants (it's VERY creative there lol) while gabriel is now a demon that could easily rival lucifer in his raw power and command of hell energy. they both feel a new burn fighting one another, something in their natures now antithetical to another; v1 feels the sullied corruption of a fallen angel's claws while gabriel's frozen body is electrified with molten gold every time he's struck by v1's light. and they're both absolutely wild for it lol after all this time, a new, almost forbidden dimension has been added to their battles and their love. ghosts of those feelings inhabit every touch as well, like a lingering threat for both of them for some time, and they both delight in it. they've got to be careful overdoing things for a bit because of it lol

[beatrixpotterstories]

My Kinsman, Major Molineux

"My Kinsman, Major Molineux" was written in 1831 and first published in 1832. It was later included in the 1852 edition of The Snow-Image, and Other Twice-Told Tales, the final short story collection of short stories that was published while Hawthorne was still living. I have characterized it with its original publication date of 1832, but belonging to his final collection.

AFTER the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing the colonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and generous approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, under the original charters. The people looked with most jealous scrutiny to the exercise of power which did not emanate from themselves, and they usually rewarded their rulers with slender gratitude for the compliances by which, in softening their instructions from beyond the sea, they had incurred the reprehension of those who gave them. The annals of Massachusetts Bay will inform us, that of six governors in the space of about forty years from the surrender of the old charter, under James II., two were imprisoned by a popular insurrection; a third, as Hutchinson inclines to believe, was driven from the province by the whizzing of a musket-ball; a fourth, in the opinion of the same historian, was hastened to his grave by continual bickerings with the House of Representatives; and the remaining two, as well as their successors, till the Revolution, were favored with few and brief intervals of peaceful sway. The inferior members of the court party, in times of high political excitement, led scarcely a more desirable life. These remarks may serve as a preface to the following adventures, which chanced upon a summer night, not far from a hundred years ago. The reader, in order to avoid a long and dry detail of colonial affairs, is requested to dispense with an account of the train of circumstances that had caused much temporary inflammation of the popular mind.

It was near nine o'clock of a moonlight evening, when a boat crossed the ferry with a single passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at that unusual hour by the promise of an extra fare. While he stood on the landing-place, searching in either pocket for the means of fulfilling his agreement, the ferryman lifted a lantern, by the aid of which, and the newly risen moon, he took a very accurate survey of the stranger's figure. He was a youth of barely eighteen years, evidently country-bred, and now, as it should seem, upon his first visit to town. He was clad in a coarse gray coat, well worn, but in excellent repair; his under garments were durably constructed of leather, and fitted tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped limbs; his stockings of blue yarn were the incontrovertible work of a mother or a sister; and on his head was a three-cornered hat, which in its better days had perhaps sheltered the graver brow of the lad's father. Under his left arm was a heavy cudgel formed of an oak sapling, and retaining a part of the hardened root; and his equipment was completed by a wallet, not so abundantly stocked as to incommode the vigorous shoulders on which it hung. Brown, curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful eyes were nature's gifts, and worth all that art could have done for his adornment.

The youth, one of whose names was Robin, finally drew from his pocket the half of a little province bill of five shillings, which, in the depreciation in that sort of currency, did but satisfy the ferryman's demand, with the surplus of a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at three pence. He then walked forward into the town, with as light a step as if his day's journey had not already exceeded thirty miles, and with as eager an eye as if he were entering London city, instead of the little metropolis of a New England colony. Before Robin had proceeded far, however, it occurred to him that he knew not whither to direct his steps; so he paused, and looked up and down the narrow street, scrutinizing the small and mean wooden buildings that were scattered on either side.

``This low hovel cannot be my kinsman's dwelling,'' thought he, ``nor yonder old house, where the moonlight enters at the broken casement; and truly I see none hereabouts that might be worthy of him. It would have been wise to inquire my way of the ferryman, and doubtless he would have gone with me, and earned a shilling from the Major for his pains. But the next man I meet will do as well.''

He resumed his walk, and was glad to perceive that the street now became wider, and the houses more respectable in their appearance. He soon discerned a figure moving on moderately in advance, and hastened his steps to overtake it. As Robin drew nigh, he saw that the passenger was a man in years, with a full periwig of gray hair, a wide-skirted coat of dark cloth, and silk stockings rolled above his knees. He carried a long and polished cane, which he struck down perpendicularly before him at every step; and at regular intervals he uttered two successive hems, of a peculiarly solemn and sepulchral intonation. Having made these observations, Robin laid hold of the skirt of the old man's coat just when the light from the open door and windows of a barber's shop fell upon both their figures.

``Good evening to you, honored sir,'' said he, making a low bow, and still retaining his hold of the skirt. ``I pray you tell me whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.''

The youth's question was uttered very loudly; and one of the barbers, whose razor was descending on a well-soaped chin, and another who was dressing a Ramillies wig, left their occupations, and came to the door. The citizen, in the mean time, turned a long-favored countenance upon Robin, and answered him in a tone of excessive anger and annoyance. His two sepulchral hems, however, broke into the very centre of his rebuke, with most singular effect, like a thought of the cold grave obtruding among wrathful passions.

``Let go my garment, fellow! I tell you, I know not the man you speak of. What! I have authority, I have -- hem, hem -- authority; and if this be the respect you show for your betters, your feet shall be brought acquainted with the stocks by daylight, tomorrow morning!''

Robin released the old man's skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an ill-mannered roar of laughter from the barber's shop. He was at first considerably surprised by the result of his question, but, being a shrewd youth, soon thought himself able to account for the mystery.

``This is some country representative,'' was his conclusion, ``who has never seen the inside of my kinsman's door, and lacks the breeding to answer a stranger civilly. The man is old, or verily -- I might be tempted to turn back and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, Robin! even the barber's boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! You will be wiser in time, friend Robin.''

He now became entangled in a succession of crooked and narrow streets, which crossed each other, and meandered at no great distance from the water-side. The smell of tar was obvious to his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced the moonlight above the tops of the buildings, and the numerous signs, which Robin paused to read, informed him that he was near the centre of business. But the streets were empty, the shops were closed, and lights were visible only in the second stories of a few dwelling-houses. At length, on the corner of a narrow lane, through which he was passing, he beheld the broad countenance of a British hero swinging before the door of an inn, whence proceeded the voices of many guests. The casement of one of the lower windows was thrown back, and a very thin curtain permitted Robin to distinguish a party at supper, round a well-furnished table. The fragrance of the good cheer steamed forth into the outer air, and the youth could not fail to recollect that the last remnant of his travelling stock of provision had yielded to his morning appetite, and that noon had found and left him dinnerless.

"Oh, that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at yonder table!'' said Robin, with a sigh. ``But the Major will make me welcome to the best of his victuals; so I will even step boldly in, and inquire my way to his dwelling.''

He entered the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the fumes of tobacco to the public-room. It was a long and low apartment, with oaken walls, grown dark in the continual smoke, and a floor which was thickly sanded, but of no immaculate purity. A number of persons -- the larger part of whom appeared to be mariners, or in some way connected with the sea -- occupied the wooden benches, or leather-bottomed chairs, conversing on various matters, and occasionally lending their attention to some topic of general interest. Three or four little groups were draining as many bowls of punch, which the West India trade had long since made a familiar drink in the colony. Others, who had the appearance of men who lived by regular and laborious handicraft, preferred the insulated bliss of an unshared potation, and became more taciturn under its influence. Nearly all, in short, evinced a predilection for the Good Creature in some of its various shapes, for this is a vice to which, as Fast Day sermons of a hundred years ago will testify, we have a long hereditary claim. The only guests to whom Robin's sympathies inclined him were two or three sheepish countrymen, who were using the inn somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish caravansary; they had gotten themselves into the darkest corner of the room, and heedless of the Nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the bread of their own ovens, and the bacon cured in their own chimney-smoke. But though Robin felt a sort of brotherhood with these strangers, his eyes were attracted from them to a person who stood near the door, holding whispered conversation with a group of ill-dressed associates. His features were separately striking almost to grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep impression on the memory. The forehead bulged out into a double prominence, with a vale between; the nose came boldly forth in an irregular curve, and its bridge was of more than a finger's breadth; the eyebrows were deep and shaggy, and the eyes glowed beneath them like fire in a cave.

While Robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman's dwelling, he was accosted by the innkeeper, a little man in a stained white apron, who had come to pay his professional welcome to the stranger. Being in the second generation from a French Protestant, he seemed to have inherited the courtesy of his parent nation; but no variety of circumstances was ever known to change his voice from the one shrill note in which he now addressed Robin.

``From the country, I presume, sir?'' said he, with a profound bow. ``Beg leave to congratulate you on your arrival, and trust you intend a long stay with us. Fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings, and much that may interest a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your commands in respect to supper?''

``The man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed that I am related to the Major!'' thought Robin, who had hitherto experienced little superfluous civility.

All eyes were now turned on the country lad, standing at the door, in his worn three-cornered hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn stockings, leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a wallet on his back.

Robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, with such an assumption of confidence as befitted the Major's relative. ``My honest friend,'' he said, ``I shall make it a point to patronize your house on some occasion, when'' -- here he could not help lowering his voice -- ``when I may have more than a parchment three-pence in my pocket. My present business,'' continued he, speaking with lofty confidence, ``is merely to inquire my way to the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux.''

There was a sudden and general movement in the room, which Robin interpreted as expressing the eagerness of each individual to become his guide. But the innkeeper turned his eyes to a written paper on the wall, which he read, or seemed to read, with occasional recurrences to the young man's figure.

``What have we here?'' said he, breaking his speech into little dry fragments. `` `Left the house of the subscriber, bounden servant, Hezekiah Mudge, -- had on, when he went away, gray coat, leather breeches, master's third-best hat. One pound currency reward to whosoever shall lodge him in any jail of the providence.' Better trudge, boy; better trudge!''

Robin had begun to draw his hand towards the lighter end of the oak cudgel, but a strange hostility in every countenance induced him to relinquish his purpose of breaking the courteous innkeeper's head. As he turned to leave the room, he encountered a sneering glance from the bold-featured personage whom he had before noticed; and no sooner was he beyond the door, than he heard a general laugh, in which the innkeeper's voice might be distinguished, like the dropping of small stones into a kettle.

``Now, is it not strange,'' thought Robin, with his usual shrewdness, -- ``is it not strange that the confession of an empty pocket should outweigh the name of my kinsman, Major Molineux? Oh, if I had one of those grinning rascals in the woods, where I and my oak sapling grew up together, I would teach him that my arm is heavy though my purse be light!''

On turning the corner of the narrow lane, Robin found himself in a spacious street, with an unbroken line of lofty houses on each side, and a steepled building at the upper end, whence the ringing of a bell announced the hour of nine. The light of the moon, and the lamps from the numerous shop-windows, discovered people promenading on the pavement, and amongst them Robin had hoped to recognize his hitherto inscrutable relative. The result of his former inquiries made him unwilling to hazard another, in a scene of such publicity, and he determined to walk slowly and silently up the street, thrusting his face close to that of every elderly gentleman, in search of the Major's lineaments. In his progress, Robin encountered many gay and gallant figures. Embroidered garments of showy colors, enormous periwigs, gold-laced hats, and silver-hilted swords glided past him and dazzled his optics. Travelled youths, imitators of the European fine gentlemen of the period, trod jauntily along, half dancing to the fashionable tunes which they hummed, and making poor Robin ashamed of his quiet and natural gait. At length, after many pauses to examine the gorgeous display of goods in the shop-windows, and after suffering some rebukes for the impertinence of his scrutiny into people's faces, the Major's kinsman found himself near the steepled building, still unsuccessful in his search. As yet, however, he had seen only one side of the thronged street; so Robin crossed, and continued the same sort of inquisition down the opposite pavement, with stronger hopes than the philosopher seeking an honest man, but with no better fortune. He had arrived about midway towards the lower end, from which his course began, when he overheard the approach of some one who struck down a cane on the flag-stones at every step, uttering at regular intervals, two sepulchral hems.

``Mercy on us!'' quoth Robin, recognizing the sound.

Turning a corner, which chanced to be close at his right hand, he hastened to pursue his researches in some other part of the town. His patience now was wearing low, and he seemed to feel more fatigue from his rambles since he crossed the ferry, than from his journey of several days on the other side. Hunger also pleaded loudly within him, and Robin began to balance the propriety of demanding, violently, and with lifted cudgel, the necessary guidance from the first solitary passenger whom he should meet. While a resolution to this effect was gaining strength, he entered a street of mean appearance, on either side of which a row of ill-built houses was straggling towards the harbor. The moonlight fell upon no passenger along the whole extent, but in the third domicile which Robin passed there was a half-opened door, and his keen glance detected a woman's garment within.

``My luck may be better here,'' said he to himself.

Accordingly, he approached the doors and beheld it shut closer as he did so; yet an open space remained, sufficing for the fair occupant to observe the stranger, without a corresponding display on her part. All that Robin could discern was a strip of scarlet petticoat, and the occasional sparkle of an eye, as if the moonbeams were trembling on some bright thing.

``Pretty mistress,'' for I may call her so with a good conscience thought the shrewd youth, since I know nothing to the contrary, -- ``my sweet pretty mistress, will you be kind enough to tell me whereabouts I must seek the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?''

Robin's voice was plaintive and winning, and the female, seeing nothing to be shunned in the handsome country youth, thrust open the door, and came forth into the moonlight. She was a dainty little figure with a white neck, round arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of which her scarlet petticoat jutted out over a hoop, as if she were standing in a balloon. Moreover, her face was oval and pretty, her hair dark beneath the little cap, and her bright eyes possessed a sly freedom, which triumphed over those of Robin.

``Major Molineux dwells here,'' said this fair woman.

Now, her voice was the sweetest Robin had heard that night, yet he could not help doubting whether that sweet voice spoke Gospel truth. He looked up and down the mean street, and then surveyed the house before which they stood. It was a small, dark edifice of two stories, the second of which projected over the lower floor, and the front apartment had the aspect of a shop for petty commodities.

``Now, truly, I am in luck,'' replied Robin, cunningly, ``and so indeed is my kinsman, the Major, in having so pretty a housekeeper. But I prithee trouble him to step to the door; I will deliver him a message from his friends in the country, and then go back to my lodgings at the inn.''

``Nay, the Major has been abed this hour or more,'' said the lady of the scarlet petticoat; ``and it would be to little purpose to disturb him to-night, seeing his evening draught was of the strongest. But he is a kind-hearted man, and it would be as much as my life's worth to let a kinsman of his turn away from the door. You are the good old gentleman's very picture, and I could swear that was his rainy-weather hat. Also he has garments very much resembling those leather small-clothes. But come in, I pray, for I bid you hearty welcome in his name.

So saying, the fair and hospitable dame took our hero by the hand; and the touch was light, and the force was gentleness, and though Robin read in her eyes what he did not hear in her words, yet the slender-waisted woman in the scarlet petticoat proved stronger than the athletic country youth. She had drawn his half-willing footsteps nearly to the threshold, when the opening of a door in the neighborhood startled the Major's housekeeper, and, leaving the Major's kinsman, she vanished speedily into her own domicile. A heavy yawn preceded the appearance of a man, who, like the Moonshine of Pyramus and Thisbe, carried a lantern, needlessly aiding his sister luminary in the heavens. As he walked sleepily up the street, he turned his broad, dull face on Robin, and displayed a long staff, spiked at the end.

``Home, vagabond, home!'' said the watchman, in accents that seemed to fall asleep as soon as they were uttered. ``Home, or we'll set you in the stocks by peep of day!''

``This is the second hint of the kind,'' thought Robin. ``I wish they would end my difficulties, by setting me there to-night.''

Nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive antipathy towards the guardian of midnight order, which at first prevented him from asking his usual question. But just when the man was about to vanish behind the corner, Robin resolved not to lose the opportunity, and shouted lustily after him, --

``I say, friend! will you guide me to the house of my kinsman, Major Molineux?''

The watchman made no reply, but turned the corner and was gone; yet Robin seemed to hear the sound of drowsy laughter stealing along the solitary street. At that moment, also, a pleasant titter saluted him from the open window above his head; he looked up, and caught the sparkle of a saucy eye; a round arm beckoned to him, and next he heard light footsteps descending the staircase within. But Robin, being of the household of a New England clergyman, was a good youth, as well as a shrewd one; so he resisted temptation, and fled away.

He now roamed desperately, and at random, through the town, almost ready to believe that a spell was on him, like that by which a wizard of his country had once kept three pursuers wandering, a whole winter night, within twenty paces of the cottage which they sought. The streets lay before him, strange and desolate, and the lights were extinguished in almost every house. Twice, however, little parties of men, among whom Robin distinguished individuals in outlandish attire, came hurrying along; but, though on both occasions, they paused to address him such intercourse did not at all enlighten his perplexity. They did but utter a few words in some language of which Robin knew nothing, and perceiving his inability to answer, bestowed a curse upon him in plain English and hastened away. Finally, the lad determined to knock at the door of every mansion that might appear worthy to be occupied by his kinsman, trusting that perseverance would overcome the fatality that had hitherto thwarted him. Firm in this resolve, he was passing beneath the walls of a church, which formed the corner of two streets, when, as he turned into the shade of its steeple, he encountered a bulky stranger muffled in a cloak. The man was proceeding with the speed of earnest business, but Robin planted himself full before him, holding the oak cudgel with both hands across his body as a bar to further passage

``Halt, honest man, and answer me a question,'' said he, very resolutely, ``Tell me, this instant, whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux!''

``Keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, and let me pass!'' said a deep, gruff voice, which Robin partly remembered. ``Let me pass, or I'll strike you to the earth!''

``No, no, neighbor!'' cried Robin, flourishing his cudgel, and then thrusting its larger end close to the man's muffled face. ``No, no, I'm not the fool you take me for, nor do you pass till I have an answer to my question. Whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, Major Molineux?'' The stranger, instead of attempting to force his passage, stepped back into the moonlight, unmuffled his face, and stared full into that of Robin.

``Watch here an hour, and Major Molineux will pass by,'' said he.

Robin gazed with dismay and astonishment on the unprecedented physiognomy of the speaker. The forehead with its double prominence the broad hooked nose, the shaggy eyebrows, and fiery eyes were those which he had noticed at the inn, but the man's complexion had undergone a singular, or, more properly, a twofold change. One side of the face blazed an intense red, while the other was black as midnight, the division line being in the broad bridge of the nose; and a mouth which seemed to extend from ear to ear was black or red, in contrast to the color of the cheek. The effect was as if two individual devils, a fiend of fire and a fiend of darkness, had united themselves to form this infernal visage. The stranger grinned in Robin's face, muffled his party-colored features, and was out of sight in a moment.

``Strange things we travellers see!'' ejaculated Robin.

He seated himself, however, upon the steps of the church-door, resolving to wait the appointed time for his kinsman. A few moments were consumed in philosophical speculations upon the species of man who had just left him; but having settled this point shrewdly, rationally, and satisfactorily, he was compelled to look elsewhere for his amusement. And first he threw his eyes along the street. It was of more respectable appearance than most of those into which he had wandered, and the moon, creating, like the imaginative power, a beautiful strangeness in familiar objects, gave something of romance to a scene that might not have possessed it in the light of day. The irregular and often quaint architecture of the houses, some of whose roofs were broken into numerous little peaks, while others ascended, steep and narrow, into a single point, and others again were square; the pure snow-white of some of their complexions, the aged darkness of others, and the thousand sparklings, reflected from bright substances in the walls of many; these matters engaged Robin's attention for a while, and then began to grow wearisome. Next he endeavored to define the forms of distant objects, starting away, with almost ghostly indistinctness, just as his eye appeared to grasp them, and finally he took a minute survey of an edifice which stood on the opposite side of the street, directly in front of the church-door, where he was stationed. It was a large, square mansion, distinguished from its neighbors by a balcony, which rested on tall pillars, and by an elaborate Gothic window, communicating therewith.

``Perhaps this is the very house I have been seeking,'' thought Robin.

Then he strove to speed away the time, by listening to a murmur which swept continually along the street, yet was scarcely audible, except to an unaccustomed ear like his; it was a low, dull, dreamy sound, compounded of many noises, each of which was at too great a distance to be separately heard. Robin marvelled at this snore of a sleeping town, and marvelled more whenever its continuity was broken by now and then a distant shout, apparently loud where it originated. But altogether it was a sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake off its drowsy influence, Robin arose, and climbed a window-frame, that he might view the interior of the church. There the moonbeams came trembling in, and fell down upon the deserted pews, and extended along the quiet aisles. A fainter yet more awful radiance was hovering around the pulpit, and one solitary ray had dared to rest upon the open page of the great Bible. Had nature, in that deep hour, become a worshipper in the house which man had builded? Or was that heavenly light the visible sanctity of the place, -- visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the walls? The scene made Robin's heart shiver with a sensation of loneliness stronger than he had ever felt in the remotest depths of his native woods; so he turned away and sat down again before the door. There were graves around the church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded into Robin's breast. What if the object of his search, which had been so often and so strangely thwarted, were all the time mouldering in his shroud? What if his kinsman should glide through yonder gate, and nod and smile to him in dimly passing by?

``Oh that any breathing thing were here with me!'' said Robin.

Recalling his thoughts from this uncomfortable track, he sent them over forest, hill, and stream, and attempted to imagine how that evening of ambiguity and weariness had been spent by his father's household. He pictured them assembled at the door, beneath the tree, the great old tree, which had been spared for its huge twisted trunk and venerable shade, when a thousand leafy brethren fell. There, at the going down of the summer sun, it was his father's custom to perform domestic worship that the neighbors might come and join with him like brothers of the family, and that the wayfaring man might pause to drink at that fountain, and keep his heart pure by freshening the memory of home. Robin distinguished the seat of every individual of the little audience; he saw the good man in the midst, holding the Scriptures in the golden light that fell from the western clouds; he beheld him close the book and all rise up to pray. He heard the old thanksgivings for daily mercies, the old supplications for their continuance to which he had so often listened in weariness, but which were now among his dear remembrances. He perceived the slight inequality of his father's voice when he came to speak of the absent one; he noted how his mother turned her face to the broad and knotted trunk; how his elder brother scorned, because the beard was rough upon his upper lip; to permit his features to be moved; how the younger sister drew down a low hanging branch before her eyes; and how the little one of all, whose sports had hitherto broken the decorum of the scene, understood the prayer for her playmate, and burst into clamorous grief. Then he saw them go in at the door; and when Robin would have entered also, the latch tinkled into its place, and he was excluded from his home.

``Am I here, or there?'' cried Robin, starting; for all at once, when his thoughts had become visible and audible in a dream, the long, wide, solitary street shone out before him.

He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon the large edifice which he had surveyed before. But still his mind kept vibrating between fancy and reality; by turns, the pillars of the balcony lengthened into the tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to human figures, settled again into their true shape and size, and then commenced a new succession of changes. For a single moment, when he deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that a visage -- one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as his kinsman's -- was looking towards him from the Gothic window. A deeper sleep wrestled with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the sound of footsteps along the opposite pavement. Robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a man passing at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish, and lamentable cry.

``Hallo, friend! must I wait here all night for my kinsman, Major Molineux?''

The sleeping echoes awoke, and answered the voice; and the passenger, barely able to discern a figure sitting in the oblique shade of the steeple, traversed the street to obtain a nearer view. He was himself a gentleman in his prime, of open, intelligent, cheerful, and altogether pre-possessing countenance. Perceiving a country youth, apparently homeless and without friends, he accosted him in a tone of real kindness, which had become strange to Robin's ears.

``Well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?'' inquired he. ``Can I be of service to you in any way?''

``I am afraid not, sir,'' replied Robin, despondingly; ``yet I shall take it kindly, if you'll answer me a single question. I've been searching, half the night, for one Major Molineux, now, sir, is there really such a person in these parts, or am I dreaming?''

``Major Molineux! The name is not altogether strange to me,'' said the gentleman, smiling. ``Have you any objection to telling me the nature of your business with him?''

Then Robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on a small salary, at a long distance back in the country, and that he and Major Molineux were brothers' children. The Major, having inherited riches, and acquired civil and military rank, had visited his cousin, in great pomp, a year or two before; had manifested much interest in Robin and an elder brother, and, being childless himself, had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment of one of them in life. The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm which his father cultivated in the interval of sacred duties; it was therefore determined that Robin should profit by his kinsman's generous intentions, especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possess other necessary endowments.

``For I have the name of being a shrewd youth,'' observed Robin, in this part of his story.

``I doubt not you deserve it,'' replied his new friend, good-naturedly; ``but pray proceed.''

``Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you see,'' continued Robin, drawing himself up to his full height, ``I thought it high time to begin in the world. So my mother and sister put me in handsome trim, and my father gave me half the remnant of his last year's salary, and five days ago I started for this place, to pay the Major a visit. But, would you believe it, sir! I crossed the ferry a little after dark, and have yet found nobody that would show me the way to his dwelling; only, an hour or two since, I was told to wait here, and Major Molineux would pass by.''

``Can you describe the man who told you this?'' inquired the gentleman.

``Oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir,'' replied Robin, ``with two great bumps on his forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes; and, what struck me as the strangest, his face was of two different colors. Do you happen to know such a man, sir?''

``Not intimately,'' answered the stranger, ``but I chanced to meet him a little time previous to your stopping me. I believe you may trust his word, and that the Major will very shortly pass through this street. In the mean time, as I have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting, I will sit down here upon the steps and bear you company.''

He seated himself accordingly, and soon engaged his companion in animated discourse. It was but of brief continuance, however, for a noise of shouting, which had long been remotely audible, drew so much nearer that Robin inquired its cause.

``What may be the meaning of this uproar?'' asked he. ``Truly, if your town be always as noisy, I shall find little sleep while I am an inhabitant.''

``Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous fellows abroad to-night,'' replied the gentleman. ``You must not expect all the stillness of your native woods here in our streets. But the watch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and'' --

``Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day,'' interrupted Robin recollecting his own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. ``But, dear sir, if I may trust my ears, an army of watchmen would never make head against such a multitude of rioters. There were at least a thousand voices went up to make that one shout.''

``May not a man have several voices, Robin, as well as two complexions? said his friend.

``Perhaps a man may; but Heaven forbid that a woman should!'' responded the shrewd youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the Major's housekeeper.

The sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so evident and continual, that Robin's curiosity was strongly excited. In addition to the shouts, he heard frequent bursts from many instruments of discord, and a wild and confused laughter filled up the intervals. Robin rose from the steps, and looked wistfully towards a point whither people seemed to be hastening

``Surely some prodigious merry-making is going on,'' exclaimed he ``I have laughed very little since I left home, sir, and should be sorry to lose an opportunity. Shall we step round the corner by that darkish house and take our share of the fun?''

``Sit down again, sit down, good Robin,'' replied the gentleman, laying his hand on the skirt of the gray coat. ``You forget that we must wait here for your kinsman; and there is reason to believe that he will pass by, in the course of a very few moments.''

The near approach of the uproar had now disturbed the neighborhood; windows flew open on all sides; and many heads, in the attire of the pillow, and confused by sleep suddenly broken, were protruded to the gaze of whoever had leisure to observe them. Eager voices hailed each other from house to house, all demanding the explanation, which not a soul could give. Half-dressed men hurried towards the unknown commotion stumbling as they went over the stone steps that thrust themselves into the narrow foot-walk. The shouts, the laughter, and the tuneless bray the antipodes of music, came onwards with increasing din, till scattered individuals, and then denser bodies, began to appear round a corner at the distance of a hundred yards

``Will you recognize your kinsman, if he passes in this crowd?'' inquired the gentleman

``Indeed, I can't warrant it, sir; but I'll take my stand here, and keep a bright lookout,'' answered Robin, descending to the outer edge.

A mighty stream of people now emptied into the street, and came rollmg slowly towards the church. A single horseman wheeled the corner in the midst of them, and close behind him came a band of fearful wind-instruments, sending forth a fresher discord now that no intervening buildings kept it from the ear. Then a redder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a dense multitude of torches shone along the street, concealing, by their glare, whatever object they illuminated. The single horseman, clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn sword, rode onward as the leader, and, by his fierce and variegated countenance, appeared like war personified; the red of one cheek was an emblem of fire and sword; the blackness of the other betokened the mourning that attends them. In his train were wild figures in the Indian dress, and many fantastic shapes without a model, giving the whole march a visionary air, as if a dream had broken forth from some feverish brain, and were sweeping visibly through the midnight streets. A mass of people, inactive, except as applauding spectators, hemmed the procession in; and several women ran along the sidewalk, piercing the confusion of heavier sounds with their shrill voices of mirth or terror.

``The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me,'' muttered Robin, with an indefinite but an uncomfortable idea that he was himself to bear a part in the pageantry.

The leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon the country youth, as the steed went slowly by. When Robin had freed his eyes from those fiery ones, the musicians were passing before him, and the torches were close at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the latter formed a veil which he could not penetrate. The rattling of wheels over the stones sometimes found its way to his ear, and confused traces of a human form appeared at intervals, and then melted into the vivid light. A moment more, and the leader thundered a command to halt: the trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held their peace; the shouts and laughter of the people died away, and there remained only a universal hum, allied to silence. Right before Robin's eyes was an uncovered cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon shone out like day, and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, Major Molineux!

He was an elderly man, of large and majestic person, and strong, square features, betokening a steady soul; but steady as it was, his enemies had found means to shake it. His face was pale as death, and far more ghastly; the broad forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his eyebrows formed one grizzled line; his eyes were red and wild, and the foam hung white upon his quivering lip. His whole frame was agitated by a quick and continual tremor, which his pride strove to quell, even in those circumstances of overwhelming humiliation. But perhaps the bitterest pang of all was when his eyes met those of Robin; for he evidently knew him on the instant, as the youth stood witnessing the foul disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. They stared at each other in silence, and Robin's knees shook, and his hair bristled, with a mixture of pity and terror. Soon, however, a bewildering excitement began to seize upon his mind; the preceding adventures of the night, the unexpected appearance of the crowd, the torches, the confused din and the hush that followed, the spectre of his kinsman reviled by that great multitude, -- all this, and, more than all, a perception of tremendous ridicule in the whole scene, affected him with a sort of mental inebriety. At that moment a voice of sluggish merriment saluted Robin's ears; he turned instinctively, and just behind the corner of the church stood the lantern-bearer, rubbing his eyes, and drowsily enjoying the lad's amazement. Then he heard a peal of laughter like the ringing of silvery bells; a woman twitched his arm, a saucy eye met his, and he saw the lady of the scarlet petticoat. A sharp, dry cachinnation appealed to his memory, and, standing on tiptoe in the crowd, with his white apron over his head, he beheld the courteous little innkeeper. And lastly, there sailed over the heads of the multitude a great, broad laugh, broken in the midst by two sepulchral hems; thus, ``Haw, haw, haw, -- hem, hem, -- haw, haw, haw, haw!''

The sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and thither Robin turned his eyes. In front of the Gothic window stood the old citizen, wrapped in a wide gown, his gray periwig exchanged for a nightcap, which was thrust back from his forehead, and his silk stockings hanging about his legs. He supported himself on his polished cane in a fit of convulsive merriment, which manifested itself on his solemn old features like a funny inscription on a tombstone. Then Robin seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests of the inn, and of all who had made sport of him that night. The contagion was spreading among the multitude, when all at once, it seized upon Robin, and he sent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the street, -- every man shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin's shout was the loudest there. The cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, as the congregated mirth went roaring up the sky! The Man in the Moon heard the far bellow. ``Oho,'' quoth he, ``the old earth is frolicsome to-night!''

When there was a momentary calm in that tempestuous sea of sound, the leader gave the sign, the procession resumed its march. On they went, like fiends that throng in mockery around some dead potentate, mighty no more, but majestic still in his agony. On they went, in counterfeited pomp, in senseless uproar, in frenzied merriment, trampling all on an old man's heart. On swept the tumult, and left a silent street behind.

. . . . . . . . . . .

``Well, Robin, are you dreaming?'' inquired the gentleman, laying his hand on the youth's shoulder.

Robin started, and withdrew his arm from the stone post to which he had instinctively clung, as the living stream rolled by him. His cheek was somewhat pale, and his eye not quite as lively as in the earlier part of the evening.

``Will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?'' said he, after a moment's pause.

``You have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?'' observed his companion, with a smile.

``Why, yes, sir,'' replied Robin, rather dryly. ``Thanks to you, and to my other friends, I have at last met my kinsman, and he will scarce desire to see my face again. I begin to grow weary of a town life, sir. Will you show me the way to the ferry?''

``No, my good friend Robin, -- not to-night, at least,'' said the gentleman. ``Some few days hence, if you wish it, I will speed you on your journey. Or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as you are a shrewd youth, you may rise in the world without the help of your kinsman, Major Molineux.''

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: One Poem by Julia Guez

Julie Curtiss, “After the Storm” (2017), acrylic and oil on canvas, 40 inches x 32 inches (image courtesy the artist and 106 Green)

Unable To Find What I Was Formerly Sure Was There

  This is my body.

  Greenery where before there was amnion,

pearl, pollen and salt.

  Not that there hasn’t also been wonder.

And the effect of many suns setting at once.

A pall we begin by

  pretending not to notice.

  The first of many deaths,

a martyring:

  Anything to bring cantering

back from what river

crossing cold first

  a mare-like plodding sound,

  then something more hopeful.

The terrain we travel

  lanternlessly and, yes, afraid

won’t cohere much longer.

Beyond any semblance of a tree-line

  beleaguered by the same thought,

  the swale and copse have begun

to bend

  birdlessly

abandoning the fallows’

odd interval until pine and juniper disappear

  completely.

  And sheer, the land mostly tectonic now

has risen to the level of my hands, forcing

  a final genuflection of sorts.

Ambivalences (and there were some

whose only safe passage had to have been

  a violent one),

  unmoored

like so many forgotten trades

  littering the inlet with hulls.

The saddest wicker paint peeling

nets and phlegm

  sound of that last anchor borne

  aloft hand over hand, dangling,

the ferryman aware of what this might mean.

  Practice telling the story as if

this part’s already happened—

the quickening through tissue and bone,

  bloodied,

  lowering into the bulge of that last

hold. Like a chute – some say,

  a tunnel or a toboggan.

The doctor’s gown even greener than before

they swarm the buxom Equatorial one—

  head bent, body curled—

  a creaturely sound

from the vast, void-like and watery

  opening out, the throat

a conduit for this

otherworldly force like a glacier

  calving

  inside the more

obsolete sound of a trireme

  that’ll always be

circumnavigating

that glacier, gloved

  hands holding my own

  heels high for the pelvissing

plosive

  head, shoulders, hip, knees

feet and cord

that voice never not

  in my ear and soon another,

  voices

so large in their beautiful Latin,

  how could they accept

being refracted so small

in another grammar?

  The science of a single pin

  piercing

languagelessly through the newest

  triad—

a foaling not unlike any other—

diaphanous, indestructible

  tether

  composed like them of eros,

dust, algebra and fire.

    *   *   *

Julia Guez’s poems, reviews and translations have recently appeared in POETRY, the Guardian, Boston Review, PEN Poetry Series, BOMBLog, the Brooklyn Rail and Public Pool. She teaches creative writing at Rutgers University and works as a poetry reviewer for Publishers Weekly. Guez lives in Brooklyn and online @G_U_E_Z.

  Readers are encouraged to submit 3–5 poems as a PDF to Wendy Xu for consideration at poetry@hyperallergic.com.

The post One Poem by Julia Guez appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[muzzleroars]

Hello!

Since i'm always having weird dreams i'm curious if risen v1 has them too

Like at first when it tells Gabriel he thinks "oh it dreams now" and doesn't think much of it but when it tells him about it it's the most absurd, crazy thing ever, and that's how it dreams, no normal stuff comes from the weird angel machine haha.

Also my cat Charlie says hi.

OH for sure, although gabriel didn't even know what it was talking about at first when it kept referring to them as "automated simulations". weird as some of them might be though, he likes to have v1 recount them as he sees just what occupies most of its thoughts - he certainly features a lot in its dreams, but v2 and the ferryman are there often as well, as is something like the earthmover (i like to think v1's equivalent of the "failing your final" dreams is it losing against the earthmover lol) he's also sometimes amused by what v1 itself considers to be "strange" dreams, as they're usually the ones gabriel would rate as far more mundane - it stood outside of a gas station all night long, waiting for it to open so it could get something to eat, only to immediately wake up when it remembered it has no mouth!!! it tells each one in the most vivid detail, after which it likes to have gabriel tell it about his own dreams. it becomes something of a morning ritual for them, something they both greatly look forward to, although gabe can swear sometimes v1's dreams just sound like it was up all night playing in the cybergrind.....