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phykios · 4 months

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If I Were A Blackbird, part 13 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

It had been two years, and still the words were burned in her mind:

Wisdom's daughter walks alone,

The Mark of Athena burns through Rome.

She had had the first part on a piece of paper, crumpled and worn for two years, as she held it in anxious hands and tried to figure out what it all meant.

May Castellan had said the second part to her, whispered it in her sing-songy voice the first time Percy had introduced her. "The mark of Athena burns through Rome." Then Luke had handed her the second part, a furtive message from a secret oracle disguised as a note from his mother.

To his credit, as a mortal, there was no way he could have foreseen how it would have made her lose her mind.

Before she had met May Castellan, all she had had to guide her in her quest had been an old, dusty legend, scattered across extant manuscripts all over the world. It had taken years to piece them together, carving out time between her classwork and her family duties to pop into some of the world’s biggest libraries to poke around their archives. Sure, obscure texts by Greek and Latin authors didn’t necessarily fit into her thesis on the perils of weaponized philanthropy, but was the Vatican Apostolic Library really going to turn down a request from a princess, even if said request wasn’t really related to theological history either?

No, they weren’t. And so, piece by piece, she reconstructed the story: long ago, as the Romans swept across the Greek world, something had been stolen from her mother. Something huge, and incredibly important. It was taken, and it was hidden away, somewhere in Rome.

Now, every few months, Annabeth found herself in Italy, trying desperately to find her mother's mark, and what it was supposed to be burning. And failing, each time.

She had combed every inch of this city that she was allowed to, several that she wasn't, and several more which would have gotten her into hot water, princess or no. But it wasn't in the Colosseum, and it wasn't in the Pantheon. It wasn't in any of the relatively newer places, like the Trevi Fountain (yuck, Poseidon) or the Vatican (yuck, Catholicism). She had walked up and down the Appian Way, descended into the buried tomb of Cestius, and even snuck into the Farnesina after dark (yuck, fascist architecture)–and still, nothing.

She was running out of places to check, even armed with her hat.

Rather than let her most recent failures get her down, however, she decided to take advantage of her surroundings, grab some gelato, and settle down at a cafe on the banks of the Tiber River.

She’d ditched Hans at her hotel. He probably knew she was gone by now, he wasn’t stupid. But she’d been crisscrossing the city so much, he probably wasn’t on the way to waylay her just yet.

She had on a Yankees hat and big sunglasses. And though her public profile had raised quite a bit in the last several years, between her father’s ascension and her very public romance, she wasn’t super worried. Without Percy being the hot one, or too many jewels on her person, or a sash or whatever, she wasn’t likely to be spotted.

The sun was bright, and would have blinded her, were it not for the shadow of the Fabrician Bridge blunting its intensity. As the only bridge in Rome built by a son of Athena, it was also the only bridge which had survived intact to the modern period. She always loved coming here after a long, unfruitful search–it felt like the single place she could be comfortable in Rome, a little Greek oasis in the middle of a harsh, Roman landscape.

There was a nice breeze off the river, gently fluttering the leaves on the trees of the Tiber Island, playing with the ends of her curls. She’d been tossing around the idea of cutting her hair again, Percy had really liked playing with the bob she’d had for several months last year. She hadn’t though, because–not to get ahead of herself–she was pretty sure she was going to be having a wedding in the next year, and so she should probably hold off until afterwards.

On most days, to her mind, it was just shy of an inevitability. She sometimes got worried, got bogged down by what ifs and that big scary secret. But she was pretty damn sure she was marrying Percy Jackson.

And she had ideas about what her hair would look like. And her dress. What tiara she’d wear. What flowers she’d choose.

Where they’d go on their honeymoon.

Gods, she wished he was here.

It was so easy, as she sat by the Tiber, to pretend that he was. That instead of combing the city looking for a monster, they could eat pizza and gelato, see the sights, and just bask in each other. They could explore the city like they were Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. But with a happier ending. And with no deception.

Soon. Soon she would lay all her cards on the table. And soon it would be alright.

So lost in her wonderful daydream, it took her a split second to notice the Vespa which had pulled up alongside her table. It was an old-fashioned model, baby blue, bright even against the perfect blue Italian sky. On the scooter was a couple: the driver, handsome, with a gray suit, and his partner, a petite woman with a sharp bob and thick, dark eyebrows.

“You’re here early,” said the man, in his deep voice.

Annabeth blinked, mouth hanging open.

Had she accidentally manifested her daydreams? Uh, again?

Sensing her thoughts, the woman laughed. “No, dear, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken us for someone else. My name is Rhea Silvia, mother of Rome.”

Oh gods. A god.

“And this is my husband–”

“Tiberinus,” said Gregory Peck, reaching out his hand.

“God of the Tiber?” she guessed, gingerly shaking it. Oh gods. Two gods.

“Indeed. And we know who you are. Yet another child of Athena, seeking the highest honor she can bestow.”

She stiffened. As carefully as she could, she slipped her hand closer to her knife, holstered beneath her shirt. “How do you know who I am?”

But Audrey–uh, Rhea–just smiled at her, that perfect, movie star mouth gracefully curving upwards, eyes sparkling. “Well,” she said, gesturing towards the view of the bridge. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Annabeth successfully pushed down her blush.

“Fear not, child, we mean you no harm today. We’re merely curious, is all.”

“...About what?”

“Well, like my husband said, you’re here early. Or possibly late. It’s hard to keep these things straight, sometimes.”

Annabeth frowned. “Early… for what?”

They tittered at her, not unkindly, but Annabeth still felt her face heat up. “If you have to ask,” said Tiberinus, “then you really are too early.”

“And alone,” Rhea added. “Where is your champion?”

“My champion?” She really hated being on the back foot.

“Yes, dear, your champion.” Rhea smiled again, and this time it was patronizing. “Perhaps you should come back later. Maybe… in a year or so?”

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, centering herself before she flew off the handle and attacked the pair of gods for being deliberately obtuse. If she lost her cool every time a god annoyed her, she would have been vaporized a long time ago. “I’m sorry,” she said, as evenly as she could muster, “I’m not sure I understand. What am I supposed to be early for?”

“Or late for,” Tiberinus pointed out. Annabeth did her best to grind her teeth as quietly as possible.

“Late, early, whichever it is,” said Rhea, waving an elegant hand, “now is clearly not the right time. No champion, no documents–you’ll just have to come back.”

“Great,” she sighed. “I’ll just pencil in a bimonthly trip to Rome, then. Helen will love that.”

The two gods peered at her, unmovingly. Clearly sarcasm was not a useful tool with these guys.

Biting back another sigh, she plastered on her best princess smile–polite, accommodating, and just a little bit vacuous. “Okay. I promise that I will come back to Rome.”

“With your champion!” Rhea chirped.

Annabeth nodded, face straining. “With my champion. Which is, uh, who, again?”

“Why, your friend with the sea-blood!” she said, as though that cleared everything up. “He will be a great boon to you in the coming years. Keep him close, dear, and keep him ready.”

Sea-blood. Her friend with the sea-blood. Who could that be?

Wait–they had said–“You’ve met other children of Athena before?”

“Well, of course!” Tiberinus nodded, like it was no big deal. “Her chosen are all drawn to this place, naturally. But you,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “you have certainly come the closest to your prize. I can see what your mother sees in you.”

Her mouth dropped open, a fire brewing in her belly.

Tiberinus smiled at her, the same slanted grin, full of trouble, that had completely entranced her when she was thirteen. And again at twenty-five. “Well,” he said. “Until next time, wisdom’s daughter.”

He revved the engine of his scooter, and Rhea settled back into her seat, wrapping her arms about his waist. With a dainty laugh, she wiggled her fingers at Annabeth with all of Audrey’s perfect grace but none of her charm, and the two gods sped off, following the length of the river Tiber, until they passed the Fabrician Bridge and rounded the corner, out of Annabeth’s sight.

Now out of danger, she collapsed into her seat, running her hands over her face. Her heart suddenly started racing, delayed adrenaline coursing through her body.

You’d think after years of randomly running into gods, she’d be used to the feelings of terror by now.

At least they had been nice. Or, if not nice, then not overtly hostile.

And they had even been kind of helpful, in their own, annoying way.

She was supposed to be here, but there were a few things she needed first before she came back. Documents, whatever the hell that meant. And a champion. Her “friend with the sea-blood.”

Maybe they meant Hans? A bodyguard could sort of maybe be the modern version of a champion. And he was a legacy of Njord, so technically, he did have sea-blood. Kind of. A little bit. It wasn’t exact, but it did fit him, from a certain point of view, and maybe even well enough to satisfy Tiberinus and Rhea’s conditions.

Her hands slipped off her face, and her mind began to wander again.

“Sea-blood.” Honestly, she had no idea what that meant. But for whatever reason, it made her think of Percy. He spent so much time in the water, he might as well have ocean in his veins anyway.

She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. Percy wasn’t her champion, she just missed him, and that was why she was thinking about him.

Gods, she hated Rome. The gods that were just different enough to make the sameness rendered alien. Dismissing of Athena as the warrior she was. And then the ancient empire got itself subsumed by Christianity.

She wondered whatever became of the statue they stole from her mother. She glanced around. She knew enough about archaeology to know that Rome, like most ancient cities, was built on top of itself. Could there really be a glowing gold statue of Athena, somewhere beneath the modern city?

From her pocket, her phone buzzed, bringing her back to the real world. To her scheduled appearances and her professional obligations. To the next problem she had to deal with.

But still, there was some light at the end of the tunnel. She now had more answers for her quest than she had before. And, in just over a month, she was going back to the Olympics.

***

Panting, Percy sat down on the stone stairs with a solid thud, dropping his head to his knees, just barely keeping himself from sitting on the plastic bag which contained his offering. Sweat poured from his forehead, his hair sticking to his ears and neck, and his chest heaved as he panted, his lungs sucking in as much air as his body could possibly handle.

Athens had everything–incredible views, delicious food, more ancient ruins than you could shake a stick at, and hills. So. Many. Damn. Hills. The entire city undulated, rippling beneath the weight of its history, and he felt it in every godsdamned step up to the top of this godsdamned hill. Which was on top of another godsdamned hill!

He was an Olympic athlete, for fucks’ sake! He was in peak physical condition! He shouldn’t be getting his ass kicked by a stupid mountain!

Next to him, a Greek woman breezed past him up the steps as she chatted to someone on her phone, effortlessly ascending the mountain in her four-inch stilettos, a designer bag perched delicately on her arm, her white skirt flapping gracefully in the afternoon breeze.

With a groan, he shoved himself up from his seat, wiped his forehead with his shirt, and continued moving upwards.

He should have just cut his losses and taken the stupid cable car to the top of Lycabettus. But then Hera would probably be mad that he hadn’t done it the “traditional way” or some shit, and he wanted Hera on his side right now.

Eventually, finally, he crossed the final step, and he staggered towards the wall, bending over at the waist as he gripped the stone lip. Tourists milled around him, their voices drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears as he struggled to regain his composure. Again–he was an Olympian. Twice over. Literally. This was pathetic.

Closing his eyes, he held his breath, suppressing the instant cough that tried to burst through. It was a trick that Chiron had taught him when he was a kid–he just had to slow his heartbeat, and his breathing would follow. His buddy Jason had told him he did a similar trick to calm down after a sprint. It was nice to know that the technique worked equally well for both mortals and demigods. And after a while, his breathing did slow, and his heart stopped trying to explode out of his chest. However, that just meant that he was ever more acutely aware of his stomach, tight with nerves.

And this wasn’t even the last stop on his little pre-games tour.

Slipping around the crowds of tourists, he made his way over to the little white church at the top of the hill, dodging selfie sticks and stuffed backpacks, until he reached a short, black-iron gate. Stopping quickly to scratch the ears of the tabby cat who lounged in front, he slipped through the gate, making his way through the slightly overgrown garden, until he reached the mouth of a cave, hidden from mortal eyes.

He was surprised neither Nico nor Hazel hadn’t known about the shrine. Underground was generally their area of expertise, especially Hazel, but Percy had only heard about this place from Luke, who had heard it from one of his half-siblings, who had wanted to marry his girl there. Presumably, said girl was also a demigod, because who else would want to get married at an ancient shrine to Hera?

Not Percy, anyway. Besides, he had a feeling that his wedding, whenever it was, would be held in a certain cathedral in a certain Nordic city.

Still, it probably wouldn’t hurt to put in an offering to the goddess of marriage.

Despite the size of the cave, the shrine was fairly small. Presumably it had been much bigger in ancient times. Encircled by columns in various states of decay, in the center of the chamber, an eternal flame still flickered, resting atop an unblemished table made of ivory and gold. Behind, the chryselephantine cult statue of Hera stood, as tall and imperious as always. (Percy had met her once, when he was tasked with rescuing a sacred bird. As the child of a broken marriage vow, Percy got the sense that he wasn’t her favorite person.)

From the plastic bag, he withdrew a red, paper box, honey already leaking out from the bottom. Resisting the urge to lick his fingers, he opened the lid, revealing twelve sticky dough balls from the best loukoumades place in Athens. And he would know. He’d eaten plenty of them.

There really was no script for this sort of thing, so Percy just decided to speak from the heart. “Lady Hera,” he said, presenting the box, “I come to ask for your blessing for my upcoming wedding.”

The fire seemed to respond to the food, the smoke almost grasping for it with blurry, spectral fingers.

Perhaps he was jumping the gun a little bit. He hadn’t even asked Annabeth yet. But he might not get another chance to hike back up the hill before training began, and he wouldn’t be able to rest until after his race. “I’m going to ask her to marry me after my race,” he said, making his oath before the shrine of the goddess, “and I would be most grateful for your blessing when the time comes.”

The statue said nothing, looking down her nose at him, but when he tossed in the box of sweets, the fire rose up, a cozy, burnt orange, the pops and hisses of melting sugar almost playful, filling the cave with the warm scent of cinnamon and honey.

Well, that was about as much answer as he could probably have expected.

Without another word, he bowed to the shrine, then took his leave, edging his way out through the overgrown garden, and the crowd of tourists surrounding the church. Picking his way down the mountain path, he checked his watch. It was later in the day than he would have liked, but not so late that he wouldn’t make it in time for dinner with the Americans who had already arrived for the games. The Greeks did prefer to eat late, after all, and jet lag was kicking all of their collective asses.

Two metro stations, a tram, and a ten minute walk later, Percy found himself at his final stop–the Hellenic Maritime Museum. The long, curved, building was nestled beneath a highway, facing one of the many harbors of Piraeus, its courtyard partly shadowed by the direction of the afternoon sun. Gratefully, Percy slipped off his sunglasses, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new, less blinding light. Between each evenly-spaced column–intercolumniation, whispered the Annabeth who lived in his brain, and Percy smiled to himself–was a cannon or a gun or some other piece of modern ship equipment, pointed squarely at the smattering of tourists as they rambled along the edge of the marina.

Inside, the space was blessedly sparse, especially after the cramped, overcrowded Acropolis. The bored port officer at reception waved him past as he flashed his old student ID at him, never once looking up from his phone.

It was a nice little museum, although Percy couldn’t help but laugh as he rounded the corner and was immediately greeted by a replica of the Artemision Bronze. Two thousand years of wrongful identification, and his father still couldn’t let that one go. Maybe if Poseidon actually had the bronze trident, like he claimed, he should arrange for it to be discovered, and then they could clear this whole mess up, and settle the debate over the statue’s identity once and for all. Until then, however, the god of the sea would have to content himself with a sacrifice from a son who sought his favor.

Poseidon’s had been tricky. Zeus, to whom the Olympics were dedicated, got a sacrifice of the best souvlaki in Athens, burned behind some scaffolding in his unfinished temple. Hera, patroness of marriage, similarly got loukoumades from the best and oldest shop in Plaka, delivered to her at the top of the mountain. Athena, as goddess of the city and battle strategy, got a brand new Yale sweatshirt, which would hopefully flatter her wisdom-related sensibilities enough to grant him victory. Hopefully, too, she would be impressed at how he managed to dodge the security guards to sneak into the Parthenon to do the deed.

Ultimately, it was Estelle who came up with the perfect gift for his dad, because his little sister was a genius.

So there Percy was, a box of salt water taffy from the Montauk Salt Cave stuffed into his backpack, wandering through the deserted maritime museum, looking for his father’s shrine. It hadn’t been by the scaled down model of a trireme. It hadn’t been by the portrait of Percy’s two-centuries-older-half-sister, Laskarina Bouboulina. And it hadn’t been in the tiny, unmanned gift shop. Percy had even looked in the bathroom behind the check-out counter.

Frowning, he doubled back, peering behind every ship model, peeking around every corner, investigating every patch of exposed wall for some kind of sign, preferably one that said “Secret Shrine Here.” So engrossed was he in his quest, that he squarely bumped into another tourist who had wandered into the museum, who had been admiring the bronze statue. “Signomi,” Percy blurted, and then, hedging his bets that the man probably spoke English, based on his Hawaiian shirt, puka shell necklace, and sandals, said instead, “Sorry.”

“It is quite alright, Percy,” came a deep, stony voice.

He froze. “...Father,” he replied, carefully. Risking a glance behind him, he saw that the port officer was nowhere to be found. Hopefully the guy was taking a smoke break or something, and that his dad hadn’t vaporized him.

Poseidon never turned his gaze from the statue, his stare intense enough to burn a hole through it. “I trust your journey was uncomplicated?”

Percy shrugged. “More or less.” Zeus had let him live once more after trespassing through his domain, so that was nice.

His father nodded, slowly turning his head. “And you are prepared for the games, yes?”

Percy sighed. There it was. “Yeah, dad. I'm ready.”

He had met his godly father a few times over the years, which he understood to be very, very rare. According to Chiron, you could really only count on them showing up if they needed you to bring glory to their name. For Luke, it was retrieving a golden apple. For Nico, it was tracking down whoever had stolen the sword of Hades. And for Percy, it was winning gold at the Olympics.

His father hadn’t been upset at his display four years ago… but he certainly hadn’t been happy about it.

“Then why were you wasting your time with my sister, Akraie?”

“Who is–?” Of the heights, his brain helpfully supplied, then added Hera, dumbass. Oh. “You… saw that?”

He frowned, lines etching his face like an ancient cliffside, carved by water. “You think I am not always watching you? That I have not watched your movements with great pride?”

A warm thrill went through him, and he slung off his backpack, rummaging through it for the box of taffy to try and hide just how pleased that made him feel. “Well, if you’re worried about feeling left out, I got you something, too–”

“Tell me why you made a sacrifice to her.”

It was Percy’s turn to frown as he looked back up at his father. “I mean, I also made offerings to Zeus and Athena–”

“You asked her for her blessing for marriage, no? To your companion, Annabeth?”

The warm feeling turned to ice in an instant. “How do you know about her?”

“It is as I said. I am always watching you.”

Suddenly that was a lot less comforting than it was a second ago.

“I do not like her.”

“Your sister?”

“Your princess.”

Percy straightened. “Excuse me?”

“She is a distraction,” said Poseidon, grimly. “A liability. Many a great hero has been led astray by a woman at his moment of triumph.”

“It’s just the Olympics,” Percy protested. “It’s not like the fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

“And then there’s her background. What are you doing, cavorting with our enemy, boy?”

He gripped the strap of his backpack, knuckles turning white. “Don’t talk about her like that.” She was nothing of the sort. She was kind, brilliant, beautiful, funny, and made him feel every inch the hero Poseidon wanted him to be. And what the hell did he mean by their “enemy”? The opposing team?

Swift as a tsunami, Poseidon stepped towards him. Percy was a tall guy, about as tall as his father normally when he decided to swing by, but now he was forced to look up slightly. Gone were the Hawaiian shirt, the puka shells, the worn leather sandals, and in their place was a richly decorated sea-green robe, a crown of celery, and a stern stare. “Theseus was led to kill his issue on the false words of Queen Phaedra. Bellerophon’s union with Philonoe stoked his ego so high, it could only be matched by his fall from the heavens. I will not,” he said slowly, like a crashing of rocks, “see the same fame for you, my favored son.”

Percy swallowed, an unidentifiable pit in the core of his being, gritty and irritating as an oyster.

Like the king that he was, Poseidon held out his hand. When Percy could only stare dumbly at it, the god said, “Your offering?”

“Oh,” he started, snapping back to movement. “Uh. Right.”

Suddenly, though, he didn’t exactly want to go through with it. But it would be rude not to. So, with a little reluctance, he handed over the box, and valiantly kept his smart mouth in check.

Their business concluded, Poseidon nodded, turning away. “Glory to you, my son,” he intoned, dissolving into the air like mist. “And heed my warnings.”

And then he was alone.

“Heed my warnings,” Percy snarked to himself, slinging his backpack on to his shoulder. “Bleh bleh bleh.”

Mood soured, he made his way to the bus stop, sunglasses and frown firmly on his face.

His father was wrong. Annabeth was not a distraction.

She was his inspiration. And he would win that gold, no matter what.

#my fic #pjo fic #percabeth #pjo #princess sailor au #it's a christmas miracle!

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kiyfra · 3 months

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My latest fanfic for Fear and Hunger: Termina is complete! It can be read here or on AO3.

There was a celebratory air in the train cabin and the small group of survivors talked animatedly amongst themselves as that cursed town gradually faded from sight. They talked about the first things they were going to do when they got back and their plans for the future, all of them in high spirits.

The relief and joy of escaping Termina with their lives was only slightly dampened by the knowledge of how many of them never returned. Half of the initial fourteen contestants were lost to the horrors of Prehevil; still a higher survivor count than was assumed possible.

Samarie had resigned herself to her short life being cut even shorter, but something happened after that girl with the glasses, the Oldegårdian mechanic and the yellow mage left for the museum. Whatever they did, it somehow ended the festival and everyone knew it. The voice at the back of their heads insisting they had to kill, the guilt and regrets growing bigger until they were overwhelming; all of it dissipated with the fog. Gradually the remaining contestants made their way back to the train, now in perfect working order, and left for the next station.

The sound of the rail-tracks was a peaceful background noise to the celebration as Samarie remained hidden within the shadows at a corner of the cabin. She tuned out the unwanted voices and thoughts to focus on the only person there that really mattered, the girl in the collared blouse and pink skirt whose hair fell in loose curls.

The brilliant occultist from the Vatican who Samarie could recall the opinion of every book she stayed up late to read, every step of her makeup routine and what she thought about in her most private moments with perfect clarity. Ever since she first felt her similar yearning for freedom after moving past the upbringing and people that were only holding her back, Samarie understood she was in love and belonged to her completely. Those dark and lonely rituals became profound when their thoughts were intertwined before the eyes of Sylvian and she longed for Marina to know about the intimate moments they shared.

For hands belonging to someone else and fingers that weren’t long and spindly. For another person’s voice in her ear and the feel of damp skin, like that of an insect that just wriggled out of its cocoon. The air in the train car felt too hot to Samarie and her breathing became heavy and ragged. She could sneak off to another cabin by herself; it wasn’t like anyone was paying her any mind.

The sound of glasses clinking in a toast brought her back to the present. Marina’s cheeks were pink from laughter and the drinks the salaryman was sharing with the other passengers, a radiant smile stretching from ear to ear as she sat and talked with that boy in the army coveralls. Samarie watched her excitedly discuss a book with him they had both read and a jealousy burned deep within her gut. He couldn’t have possibly understood her on the same level she did, even if Marina told him the secret she kept hidden from everyone else. The depth of his feeling paled in comparison to hers and his small, hesitant smile seemed too innocent for the lewd thoughts typical of teenage boys she knew were lurking within his mind.

But she couldn’t be angry that someone far less broken than her had won the occultist’s affection. It wasn’t as if she had any right to her love after what she’d done; the kindness Marina showed her was already more than she deserved. The priest’s daughter found her in that dark realm of boarded walls and mounds of veiny clay, crying her eyes out and struggling to breathe with partially dried blood on her hands.

That nasty and despicable man was a plague on his daughter’s mind and the source of every ugly bit of her self doubt, but when did Samarie decide murder was the only answer? She didn’t board that train to Prehevil with a plan to end his life. The festival’s insistence on violence convinced her she wanted him dead and she started to believe that insistence was her own voice. So she made her way to the church with a knife in hand and planned to kill a man in cold blood.

Marina should have hated her after she walked in on her disastrous confrontation with Father Domek. Instead she sat with her and calmly talked her through the crushing panic squeezing her chest until her hysterical crying slowed and eventually stopped. She couldn’t act like a kicked puppy rather than the coward and murderer she really was and refused to leave, only for Marina to firmly tell her it didn’t matter and insist she return to the train with the others.

When she came back to check up on her, Samarie tried to clarify why she did it with her awkward stuttering voice. She felt compelled to finally confess her feelings; how she felt they shared a bond, how she wanted Marina to be the meaning in her life and how she knew she hated her father. Samarie didn’t need to read her mind to understand the disgust written plainly on her face, the occultist’s words careful and measured as she navigated her declarations of love and pining. Marina only brought her back out of the same empathy she would have for any other human being, or perhaps Samarie was just pathetic enough to tug at her heartstrings despite what she’d done.

It was doubtful the occultist would end up partaking in the festival, even if she deserved to win more than any of them. She’d stand a good chance of winning if she joined the slaughter like Per’kele wanted, but it was likely Marina would wait out the three day time limit and suffer whatever fate the moon god had in store for them. They could die together on the same day or the black haired girl could become a stepping stone on her path to escape. Samarie would be content with either outcome, so she sat on the train and waited to see if the occultist got desperate enough to board with murderous intent. Instead the train was now filled with the voices of survivors finally heading home.

...

Good for them.

Some unimportant bickering between the doctor and the journalist came to an end and the sharp dressed man walked over to the two teens.

“Do you two know where you’re going when we reach the next station?” he asked.

The boy in the coveralls looked startled, like he was still unused to that kind of cordiality.

“...No, not really.”

“Well, I’d offer to take you back to Vatican City with me,” Marina spoke up. “But I doubt the nuns would be thrilled if I tried to keep you in my room.”

She frowned at that and Samarie listened in on her thoughts like she had done countless times.

“Am I really just going to go back to my studies like nothing happened? I’d rather shoot myself than sit through another lecture on the old gods and rituals after all this.”

Samarie didn’t know what the priests at the Ninth Circle would say or do if she returned, but where else could she go? She had no money or place to stay and would just be some crazed street urchin raving about gods and occult conspiracies. The thought of returning to the basilica with it’s ornate visage hiding the decrepit lower floors filled her with a sickly dread. She could look forward to spending the rest of her life drained of blood on ritual circles, half conscious and imagining herself as a caterpillar that would one day metamorphose into a hairy moth, reborn from its own fluids.

When Samarie spent the last of her stolen money on that train ticket to follow the occultist, she thought she could finally shed her old useless skin and emerge as the person she was meant to be; someone befitting of the radiating soul. Of course she’d follow Marina wherever she went, but Samarie desperately hoped she’d never see that place again.

“I’ll wait until I get my inheritance then think of what I’m going to do when I skip town. Huh. I guess that makes us both orphans now.”

The doctor took a long drag from his cigarette before he spoke again.

“There are plenty of guest rooms at the manor for you to stay as long as you need,” he addressed the ex-soldier.

“Really? Are you sure it’s okay if I stay with you?”

His eyes were wide with disbelief at the offer; it sounded too good to be true.

“It’s no problem at all. But if you want to live at the manor long term, I have one condition.” A plume of blueish smoke lazily drifted to the ceiling of the cabin.

“You have to be serious about getting clean. There are people that can help you and I’m certainly not short on any funds required for their services, but you need to put in the effort.”

The doctor’s proposal sounded exceedingly generous and Samarie didn’t trust that his intentions were benign, scanning his mind for some sinister motivation.

“I’m under no illusion of how difficult this is going to be, but it’s a damn miracle any of us are still alive, so please don’t throw your life away. Besides, I need some reason not to take the cat’s offer and a responsibility is as good as any.

...Maybe I should stay in touch with some of these people.”

The rest of his thoughts were a tangled web of treatment plans and legal documentation to discuss later and all of it came with an undercurrent of caring that was alien to Samarie.

“It’s unlikely the military would follow his trail past Prehevil, especially if they find the body of that doppelgänger. But I’ve got enough lawyers and politicians in my pocket if it comes down to that. Add in whatever child soldier expose piece Karin plans on writing and going after him wouldn’t be worth the headache. Still, I wonder if he’d be open to the idea of changing his name?”

There was a pragmatism to ensuring each other’s safety when they were traipsing around the streets of Prehevil, but Samarie didn’t expect the doctor to go to such lengths for someone he met just a few days ago. Flitting through his mind, she read that he saw himself in a boy who thought his life was over before it even really began and she was overcome with a different kind of jealousy.

Both of them spent their lives being used and lied to by people more powerful than them. Children that were considered disposable and put in front of the evils and horrors of the world until it destroyed their bodies and minds. There was no one to look out for her; the only person that came close was Marina and now she hated her. Samarie just wished she could have done something right for once in her pathetic life and managed to make her reason for living happy.

“...I’ll do my best,” the boy said resolutely.

The doctor clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good man.”

“Hey, congratulations on getting adopted,” Marina said half seriously. “I’ll be sure to visit when I get the chance.”

“So he’s going to live in Rondon? I wonder if I could find an apartment there for myself? It seems busy enough and there aren’t priests wandering around everywhere like Vatican. Sounds a lot better than Prehevil, that’s for sure. I’m glad we’re leaving that dump behind for good.”

An idea struck Samarie.

The trio were busy exchanging contact information and she silently made her way to the door to slip away undetected. No one would have noticed her leaving were it not for the older gentleman sitting right by the door to the next cabin. Samarie was usually very good at going about her business without anyone seeing her, but this man must have had better situational awareness than most as he glanced up from the pages of his book at the sound of the door opening. The man felt no need to pry into things that weren’t any of his business and resumed reading.

There were only two small windows in the dingy compartment and specks of dust danced in the small bit of light pouring through. The darker cabin contained too many suitcases filled with random crap that couldn’t possibly have belonged to the initial passengers, ranging from bottles of vodka to dirty toilet paper to pieces of armour. Thought slightly claustrophobic, this section of the train car was cut off from the hubbub of the other passengers and carved into the centre of the floor was an unused perfection circle. Taking a piece of chalk, Samarie drew two simple intersecting lines and a startlingly loud sound tore a bloody gash open into the living, breathing fabric of the world.

She only hesitated for a moment to be certain there wasn’t anyone coming to investigate before she stepped through the blood portal. Cold darkness enveloped her until it took her to her destination, the creaky boarded floors of the restricted upper section of Prehevil’s bookstore. Samarie walked down the stairs and ducked under the rope into the narrow store lined with book shelves and cluttered tables. The surfaces were stacked with books that hadn’t been sorted or put away and were dotted with wax candles to provide light; a necessity now there was no electricity for the lamps. There were several chairs for reading and the dark flooring would have given the building a cozy atmosphere, were it not for the mangled remains of a bobby sitting in the corner. It looked like the store had a selection of recently published books and several of the titles caught her interest, but that wasn’t what she came here for and Samarie ducked out into the cobblestone alleyway. Her destination wasn’t far.

The streets were quiet and devoid of hostile presences. Lifeless bodies littered the moon torched town, some human, most monsters the other contestants had cleared out on their own expeditions. Rher’s influence could no longer be felt in Prehevil and even the poorest sixth sense could have told the difference. There was no constant awareness of the time, no animated remorse lurking inside them trying to force its way out, and no green moonlight crafting horrors to torment lost souls such as themselves. All that was left was a disgusting mess, like the aftermath of a party waiting to be cleaned up now all of the guests had gone home.

Samarie made her way past debris towards the residences near the church and apartment buildings gave way to nicer looking multi-floor homes. Nice by Prehevil standards anyways. Even with some ornamentation, they still looked dreary and depressing, all beige, brown and grey. It was nothing like the beautiful architecture of Vatican City whose wealthy knew how to do opulence and grandeur. She was looking for one building in particular hidden within the dull visage and she soon came to the front steps of her destination. It didn’t stand out from the rest of the generically nice buildings because Alll-mer forbid the upper class like anything with some personality. The uninspiring housing wasn’t some attempt at humility either; just the best of the worst despising anything nonconformist.

This was Father Domek’s house.

Samarie experimentally tested the door and it was locked, just as she expected. She could have searched nearby to see if he kept a spare key hidden, but she was past the need for subtlety. All the ugly feelings of rage and despair the priests never let her express any other way were concentrated into a single point and with a simple arm movement, she cast Hurting. A small vortex of black and red manifested where door met frame and the mechanism burst apart, the knob clattering to the ground. The door swung open easily into the Domek household and Samarie stepped inside.

There was still no electricity, but there were enough windows and plenty of daylight hours left for illumination. Pale sunlight trickled into a simply furnished living room with a fireplace sitting to the left of the front hall and a staircase led to the upper floor. Samarie decided to check upstairs first, mindful of her intrusion and keeping her footsteps as light as possible. A habit she maintained even when there was no one around to care.

The hallway was lined with doors to several rooms and tasteful console tables adorned with vases and other decorations. A few landscape paintings were hung on the wall, but most striking was an eerie painting of a grim faced man whose eyes seemed to follow Samarie wherever she stood. The painting of a dark priest was high enough upon the wall that it could always look down its nose in scorn and judgement at those below. With the ire and quiet menace it emanated, Samarie could have believed it was meant to be Father Domek himself. But the face was too angular and proportions too far off, leading her to conclude is was the dark priest before him, his father. Ignoring the nasty man in the portrait, she opened the closest door. Her objective could likely be found in one of the bedrooms.

The first room she looked into contained a smaller bed with dark oak dressers and bookshelves against the cream coloured walls. A toy chest at the foot of the bed indicated this was a child’s bedroom, albeit one that hadn’t been used in years. The vanity was covered with containers of long expired makeup, various brushes, and other beauty products; the number and variety a bit odd for the suggested age of their owner. They must have been someone who put a great deal of care into their appearance if they used all of those products at a young age and the unusual concern was a reminder this was Marina’s childhood home.

Samarie felt giddy; she didn’t have the opportunity to visit during the festival and now here she was in the love of her life’s bedroom. She lost track of time examining the contents and connecting every stray thought the occultist had about home to something tangible and real. Everything from her tutors’ assigned reading and coursework to toys she had growing up were part of her essence and Samarie had the privilege of bathing in it.

She opened a wardrobe with only a few articles of clothing hung up; anything that Marina was particularly fond of would have been brought with her when she left to study at the Vatican years ago. The clothes still remaining were too small to fit her anymore, having been bought for a child rather than a teenager. Looking at the wardrobe, Samarie doubted these clothes would have ever fit herself; she was a good head taller than Marina and the black haired girl had always been rather gangly. Before she could stop herself, she wondered what it would feel like to wear Marina’s clothes. The notion of being completely embraced by the fabric and scent of such a marvellous person was doing wonderful things to her head and she impishly decided to store that idea away for a future fantasy.

With her survey of the room complete, she sat down on the bed and the springs creaked loudly from the weight. Samarie found herself disappointed; there was plenty of memorabilia worth taking, but she had something specific in mind that she was certain would have been here. She was tempted to take a nap and pretend she was finally in her lover’s arms like all the times she had gone to sleep after a Sylvian ritual, cradling her pillow and hoping Marina would visit in her dreams. It would be better than that because this time they were finally sharing a bed with only time keeping them separate. Knowing her goddess laid here, even if it was years ago, felt shockingly intimate and she could practically hear Marina’s quiet breathing she spent long nights memorizing the pattern of. Unfortunately, Samarie couldn’t stay long; the other passengers might notice she was gone so she reluctantly left to continue her search of the house.

The next room was a study of sorts containing a formal looking reading desk and shelves filled with books of occult literature and dissertations on theology. A crucifix hung prominently on the wall and statuettes dedicated to various Old Gods sat upon a table with enough space to comfortably kneel in prayer before them. Two ritual circles were carved into the hardwood floor for worship, one perfect and one asymmetric.

Samarie had expected something far more sinister, but everything here was fairly typical of a priest’s study. Looking through his desk didn’t produce much in the way of useful information, just boring documents concerning the administrative side of the church and orphanage. It was possible Father Domek destroyed anything incriminating before he died. In fact, she was certain of it. The horror and abuse taking place in those institutions were obvious to anyone that took a cursory glance past the front entrances and there was no way their cruelties didn’t leave behind a paper trail. She saw the vile things that man thought and she saw the devastation he caused in his daughter. She saw the lives he ruined in the face of that jittery, scarred boy the occultist took a liking to. Samarie told herself she did Marina and the world a favour by getting rid of him as she left the study.

The last room of note was another bedroom, this one overwhelmingly dull. In contrast to the inviting warm tones of Marina’s room, the bedroom was dominated by blueish and greenish greys and functional wooden furniture. Separate twin beds rested perpendicular to each other atop a finely woven rug and only a crack of light made its way through the gap between the heavy drapes. This must have been Father Domek and his late wife’s room. A vanity was propped up in the corner for the missus’s use and the shelves were filled with more theological literature by a priest that didn’t have any hobbies or interests outside of the church and the Old Gods. He really was a joyless man who resented people for not being as miserable as he was. A man that was dead because of her.

Her presence started to feel like an intrusion, like the portrait in the hallway was a witness to her attempt at grave robbery. It wasn’t as if she respected either dark priest or valued their opinions, but Samarie still felt self-conscious of the scorn from such powerful and authoritative figures. They were the kind of people that expected deference and could easily turn someone’s life into a living hell if not given. Her voice had sounded so small in that echoey church, despite what she was capable of and how far she was willing to go.

The guilt started to prickle under her skin and she tried to find anything in the sterile bedroom that would humanize him. Everything was immaculately tidy with anything that would have been used on a daily basis put away, like its owner didn’t expect to come back. The bedroom seemed too impersonal, a mere illusion that someone lived here.

He was truly gone.

Samarie tried to tell herself that he deserved it and Marina was happier now that he wasn’t around to ruin her life. But she remembered the way she visibly recoiled from her confessions back at the train, how she filtered her pitying and creeped out thoughts to be as diplomatic as possible and Samarie didn’t understand what she was missing.

Upon a thorough investigation, she found several papers with solid, formal handwriting in a drawer on one of the nightstands; a collection of half-finished letters addressed to Marina. It had been a letter from her father that spurred her to visiting Prehevil and Samarie vividly recalled her feelings of anger and anguish when she decided to travel back to her hometown, though she hadn’t read it herself. By the look of it, these were earlier drafts of the fateful letter informing the occultist her mother had died, all of them cold and emotionally distant. There were changes in the wording and emphasis but what was consistent was the cruel message that they were dead to each other.

Father Domek had planned to completely cut her out of his life and make sure she had no ties to Prehevil, the priesthood, or him. Samarie killed a man and completely alienated Marina for no reason and the realization hit her like a truck. The crushing anxiety from the church and its distorted copy on the other side of the sigil returned, gripping her heart and squeezing the air out her lungs. No wonder the occultist hated her after she did something so unhinged and monstrous.

Samarie clutched her hair and screwed her eyes shut as she doubled over, fighting back the waves of panic washing over her. Marina wasn’t there to bring her out of it this time and she didn’t deserve any more kindness from the occultist. It didn’t matter that Father Domek had done horrible things and could have never left Prehevil; Samarie would forever be a murderer. An irrevocably tainted lunatic that ruined even the slightest chance she might have had with Marina or a shot at a worthwhile life.

Crazy, crazy!

She thought back to that misshapen pillar of flesh the priest had become, how there was no going back for either of them and how they had both sealed their fates to that twisted realm. Their lives, minds and bodies had been forfeited to the Old Gods long before either of them could have understood what was being demanded of them. Did Father Domek stop caring what happened to him too? If he bound his soul to the church like that pillar would suggest, then he had already been dead, possibly for months.

Samarie found that her breathing came a little easier, even if the guilt still coiled in her guts and crawled along her skin in a way that made her doubt a confessional could absolve her. Maybe Marina could never forgive her, but she was finally free and that was worth celebrating. Free from her father, free from the festival, and free from ignorant, small minded Prehevil. Both of them could walk away. The pressure in her head and lungs eased up and the hysterical grief gradually passed like every other time. It returned to a baseline as her despair faded into a more manageable background of acceptance and melancholy.

Samarie didn’t find what she was looking for in the bedroom, which didn’t surprise her. This whole visit was starting to feel like a waste of time and she was starting to doubt it was even here. Maybe she should just give up and head back to the train, chalk the whole thing up to yet another failure in the life of Samarie.

Though she hadn’t really explored downstairs yet and she supposed it couldn’t hurt to give it a cursory look. Quietly tapping down the stairs, the dark haired girl rounded a corner and entered the living room with its cozy fireplace and dead radio. It was easy to imagine Marina as a child playing in front of Mrs. Domek, perhaps with friends over, while music played on the radio and Father Domek was ignoring his family in his study.

Samarie wondered what would become of this place and by extension all of Prehevil now that the festival was over. The investigation and cleanup would be a long, ghastly process and it was almost impossible to imagine anyone willingly living here afterwards. Maybe decades or centuries would pass as the mausoleum of a town decayed, finally torn down when the soil didn’t feel so tainted, when everyone in it had long been forgotten. When every life of quiet desperation was lost to history with only the God of Fear and Hunger to remember them.

Several chairs were arranged around a dining room table with a neatly pressed tablecloth with the black and white tiles of the kitchen in view. Samarie was about to walk past for an obligatory sweep of the last part of the house when she did a double take and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Sitting innocuously on top of a cabinet filled with expensive tableware was a framed photograph of a woman with light coloured hair that fell in curls below her shoulders. She was in her Sunday best wearing a dress with a simple pattern and had a broad smile Samarie couldn’t determine the sincerity of. With a rounded nose and wide eyes beneath delicate eyebrows, the woman looked like an older version of Marina and must have been her mother.

It was perfect and Samarie could hardly believe how quickly her luck turned around. She gingerly removed the photograph and hurried back to the bookstore with the portrait in hand, ready to return to the train with her souvenir.

———————————

The train finally reached its stop at the mostly empty station, only a few lamps illuminating the platform after the sky had gone dark hours ago. No one noticed the absence of any train personnel as the passengers filed out or paid any mind to their bloodied and disheveled clothes. There was no real way to explain their situation and the apathy was welcomed.

It was a moonless night and the survivors dispersed, some trying to find a pay phone and others continuing on foot to the nearest town. Marina exited the station and reluctantly walked into the foreboding darkness that seemed like it could harbour any kind of monstrosity. And after the horrors they all witnessed in Prehevil, they knew it could. There were unspeakable things lurking just beyond the veil of everyday life, things humans weren’t meant to see or understand. Dark streets and alleyways were known for common street thugs, but fearing something that mundane now seemed quaint.

Marina half expected something from Prehevil to shamble towards her out of the dark and kept startling at vague shapes out of the corners of her eyes. She tried telling herself she was just being paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something watching her. The occultist stole a glance back over her shoulder and her heart nearly stopped at the sight of a tall figure with pale, sallow skin and empty eyes.

Inky shadows turned into a black dress as her eyes began to make sense of the shapes and the figure became recognizable as the girl from the train.

“Marina... wait,” Samarie pleaded.

The hammering of her heart had slowed down when she realized it wasn’t some monster following her, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to be worried about.

“What’s up?”

Her response was casual on the surface, but she was keeping an eye on the girl while taking stock of her surroundings. Not in a way that indicated an immediate fear for her safety, but one that considered Samarie an unknown factor, a situation to be navigated carefully. She didn’t want Marina to be afraid of her or feel so ill at ease, but she had no one to blame but herself. Maybe now she could change that.

“Um...hi,” she started. “I hope you’re doing well.”

The occultist made some noncommittal sound and waited for her to go on. Samarie couldn’t think of how to formulate what she was thinking and was already starting to get nervous and sweaty. She wished she could just directly share her thoughts rather than awkwardly try to force them into words.

“About what happened back there. You wanted your father out of your life...I know you hated him, but...”

You loved your mother, didn’t you?

Marina took a deep breath and paused before speaking to avoid sounding too frustrated.

“You know, he was probably the only person that really understood what was going on in Prehevil. There was more to it than just the festival. I went back because I had questions for him and now I’ll never get any answers.”

“God, this whole trip was pointless. Father, did you really kill her? I guess I’ll never know what happened to her...”

“I know! That’s why... I-I wanted to do something for you.” Samarie blurted out.

None of this was coming out right and the exchange was testing the occultist’s patience, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. Why couldn’t she just open her mouth and say words that actually meant something? It was time to finish this conversation before she could dig herself any deeper.

“H-here!”

She thrust the portrait out face down and Marina took it with confusion. Turning it over, she saw what the photograph depicted and her eyes widened with surprise.

“I thought you might want something to remember her by,” Samarie explained. “You... look a lot like her.”

Marina’s thoughts were a turbulent wave of emotions all directed at different people and hopelessly tangled together.

Sadness, determination, pity, frustration...

...gratitude.

She only said, “Thank you,” as she tucked the portrait under her arm.

Samarie stammered out some response and quickly turned around to run away before she could see her reaction. She didn’t look back to see if Marina made any move to stop her or ask any follow up questions, her heart hammering as her mind raced through their encounter. The pressure was too overwhelming to handle and she couldn’t stand the idea of Marina seeing her spluttering like an idiot and sweating like a pervert. She had messed up so much worse than she thought and Marina’s opinion of her was notpositive.

But it wasn’t hatred either.

More importantly, Samarie had finally done it. She did something that made her chosen purpose in life happy and the feeling burned strongly in her chest. Was it possible that she still had a chance and the occultist could return the affections that consumed so much of her heart and mind?

Absolutely not. Just look at her; a gaunt skeleton of a person with stringy hair and dark circles around her eyes like bruises. Blue veins visible through pale skin and cheek pudge that looked swollen against sharp jaw bones with an unsightly drooping nose that made her want to peel her own face off. A scattershot, dysfunctional, crazed wreck and a murderer that could barely string a coherent sentence together. The radiating soul that couldn’t manage the one thing she was meant to do, what the Ninth Circle had trained and prepared her for. Learning that the priests planned on her being a failure didn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, her body falling apart was all the more painful with the knowledge of how pointless it all was. Samarie had always been pitiable but never lovable, didn’t she know that already?

Even so, she couldn’t help but hold onto the false hope that for so long had been her only lifeline, the tether keeping her from falling into an inescapable pit of despair. Those feelings were the only thing she had to offer and even if Marina could never feel the same way, Samarie would do whatever she asked of her and would treasure every bit of happiness she managed to bring her. After doing this small thing for her light, her meaning, Samarie finally felt that it was all worth it.

#Fear and hunger #Fear and hunger Marina #Fear and Hunger Samarie #Samarina #fear and hunger termina #marina domek #samarie

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