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theimaginesyouneveraskedfor · 7 years

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Unchained

Imagine your first night working at the local brothel and your first client ever is Dwalin.

-this turned out a lot longer than I thought it would, so please, enjoy-

--mentions of self-harm and depression--

You had not been born fortunate. Truly, if one were to describe your lot, they would struggle to find a word tragic enough to do so. Before you were old enough to talk, your mother had been taken away by a winter plague and your father, who made sporadic attempts to live up to that title, could not be bothered. The most he could find in his miserly heart was to sell you to the nearest vendor for a purse of silver and a meal to see him through his abandonment of his only child.

You looked around the dark chamber, lit only by a scattering of candles and a single oil lamp. The hearth was yet to be sparked; the dame, Eda, had told you it would need to be stoked before your first visitor. Reluctant to do anything but wallow in self-pity, you merely stared at the wall and thought of all that had led you here. From the moment you had heard your mother had passed to the chink of coins as you had been sold into service several times over. You should have known it would come to this.

You traced the scar along your collar bone, exposed by the low neckline of your new garb, a thin keloid rippled the flesh. That was a mark of the first time you had tried to flee your life as little more than a slave and head hunters had found you before you could reach the next town. There were more, from head hunters and those who claimed to own you. Then there were those which you had left, in those moments when you could hardly stand to exist. Times like that very instant.

Your younger years had been simple, you had become a companion for a wealthy human child, Layni, but when you had grown old enough for labour, you had been once more exchanged. This time you worked in a forge for a dwarrow named Elwid, burning yourself on the foreign tools until you could do the most basic of metalwork. When a male apprentice had been found, you had been sold again as a field hand to an elf called Lewyn, your skin browning beneath the infallible sun and your hands callousing from the heat and sweat.

From there, you had been chosen to work as a housemaid, once more in a wealthy estate owned by the son of Men. You had lived among all races and finally returned to your native kith and kin in the Blue Mountains. It was not as you had imagined your return, all those years dreaming of breaking free of your captivity and going home to reclaim your blood right. You had been dragged here in chains, caged like a wild animal, spirited in the dark through the back door of a brothel.

“Wash yourself,” The mistress, Eda, had ordered as she tossed a rag at you and a basin of tepid water, “Scrub yourself well. When you finish, change out of those horrid clothes,” She pushed a pile of dyed fabric towards you, “Tayna will be in to show you your chamber.”

It was your early training in manners that tempted you to thank her but you caught yourself from the habit, glowering at her back as she left you. You did not move until the ashen-haired Tayna had arrived and done the work for you as you numbly let her scrub and dress you. She also painted your lips and cheeks, lined your eyes, and plaited your hair. She issued you careful instructions and friendly advice, but you did not hear her. There was nothing you could do to make it easier.

When Tayna had left you, dispirited by your lack of response, you slumped into one of the two chairs which flanked a small round table and sighed. Your heart raced and yet it felt entirely too still. If you could disconnect, block out everything around you, it would go quickly. All you had to do was lay there and pray that whoever walked through that door was not cruel. Close your eyes and count as you had when you were a child and at the mercy of the master’s strap.

A knock sounded from the other side of the door, the ominous rapping fraying all semblance of calm within you. You gulped and stood shakily, watching the door open as Eda walked in with skirts swaying and a dark, thick figure shadowed her. “Y/N,” She sang tartly, “You have a visitor.”

She crossed to you and took your hand, trying to pull you closer, leaning in to whisper sharply in your ear, “Make sure to get a tip.” She swirled around and traipsed past the stranger, a dwarf hidden in the dearth of light, before slipping through the door and shutting it with a terse clasp.

You stood silently, frozen with fear and dismay, the dwarf not so much as looking at you, his eyes searching around guiltily. His bald head was tattooed and reflected the low amber light, his grey blue eyes illuminated by the dull glow. He was thickly-muscled and tall for his kind, and he resonated a grim demeanour.

“Um,” You mumbled as you looked around, his obvious strength only stirring your fear, “I’ll…feed the fire.”

It was unlikely that he had heard you at all as he remained still and you scurried over to the hearth, stacking the logs before reaching for flint. You struck the flame on the first try and cursed your innate skill. You had hoped to delay for as long as possible and you could hear the dwarf moving behind you. You turned, standing slowly, as you watched him sit on the foot of the bed, your heart beating erratically.

The silence remained as you hesitated to move from the warmth of the building fire and you wiped your sweaty palms across your skirts. For the first time, he looked at you; taking in your scarlet dress which dragged across the floor and the bodice which exposed more than you would have liked. You tried to urge yourself forward but you merely wavered on your feet.

“I can’t do this,” He stood just as his weight settled on the bed, “Look,” He turned on you, a sudden energy coursing through him, “I didn’t come here to…you know. I’m just…I don’t know why I came here.”

Your breath was trapped in your chest and you were sure you had made up the words in your head.

“You’re very pretty and…I didn’t want to scare you but I can see it in your eyes,” He looked down and sighed heavily, “That’s the only reaction I ever get. Fear, disgust…”

“Sir,” You ventured meekly, suddenly overcome with sympathy, “It’s not like that,” You didn’t know why you were explaining yourself, why you didn’t just let him leave, “I…I’ve never done this before either. This is my first night and you’re my first…visitor? I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of the nights to come.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” He brushed his rough hand over his inked forehead, “I know what I am. I’m pathetic enough to come here and think I could feel something by—you know.” He shrugged and kept his eyes down, “I’ll pay. Make sure the boss isn’t mad with you.”

“I’m not lying,” You insisted and stepped forward, trying to look into his face, “Really. I don’t really want to do all that other stuff but…we can talk, perhaps? Or you talk and I listen?”

He looked up at you, his eyes searching your expression for some joke. He chewed his lip as he considered you, pushing back his shoulders. “Really?” He asked quietly, “I’m not very good with words.”

“Neither am I,” You tilted your head, emboldened by the relief of his cowardice, “But it would save me time before another visitor shows up.”

He looked around the room again as he thought and nodded, turning back to you with a forced smile. “Should we sit?” He gestured to the chairs beside the table.

“Um, yes,” You accepted and kicked yourself into action, taking the same chair you had sat in before as he slowly lowered himself into the other, “I’m, uh, Y/N.”

“Oh, uh, Dwalin,” He offered his own introduction as if he was surprised at your interest; you were willing to do anything to prolong the inevitable, “Mahal, do I really need pay for words with a dwarrowdam? How pitiful.”

You could tell he was humiliated, that some deep insecurity had drawn him to the brothel and he had seemed honest when he claimed it to be a singular visit. You swallowed back the nerves still stewing in your stomach and forced a smile of your own. You reached out over the table slowly, carefully, and touched his arm.

“If it helps, I am usually only talked to when I have a chore to do,” You realized how lowly you sounded but you had always been rather good at it, “And look at me. Not exactly a proper dwarrowdam.”

“Is it true?” He wondered as his gaze fixed on you, “Am I your…first?”

“Yes, and I wish with all my soul you’d be my last,” You hung your head as your predicament sunk in once more, “Sorry…”

“What did you do before?” He continued as if you weren’t a whore, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Huh, aren’t I supposed to be asking you these questions?” You scoffed darkly and clasped your hands together.

“I’m boring,” He assured you abashedly, “Please, I want to know.”

“I was maid, for some time, but dwarrow servants aren’t highly prized,” You explained, “You must know that we’ve not much hope as it…”

“You did something else before that?”

“I’ve been a companion, a smith’s assistant, a field hand--”

“You’ve worked a forge?” He interjected curiously, perking up in his seat.

“For a few years,” You admitted, “Again, I was replaced.”

“Did you like it? Better than this place?” His interest concerned you as he looked intently across the table, “Or at all, really?”

“Not that it matters, but yes, I did,” You felt tears pricking in your eyes and sniffed them back, “As little as I did, it was nice.”

“Can you forge a knife?” His eyes twinkled as he lifted a thick brow.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” You stuttered, “It hardly matters now.”

“Would you work for me?” He choked out through his excitement, “I have a forge just inside town.”

“If I said yes, it wouldn’t make a difference,” You shook your head and frowned mournfully, “It’s not my choice.”

“No, but it can be,” He stood suddenly, a different dwarf than the one who had entered.

His shoulders were no longer slumped, he had determination in his posture, and a growl upon his face. He passed your chair as you stood and marched for the door as you kept on his heels, trying not to trip over your own feet. He stomped down the corridor to the front desk and you kept behind him, confused at what he intended.

“You,” He pointed to Eda who appeared insulted by the sharp gesture, “A purse of silver. She’s mine for good.”

Eda squinted between you and Dwalin as you tried to hide behind him, “Well, what tricks does this one know that she’s worth all that?”

“Purse of silver,” He repeated, each syllable enunciated for effect, “Deal?”

“She’d get more than that in a night,” Eda rolled her eyes.

“I’ll give you a full purse now and one in another month,” He countered nonchalantly, “I know you’re full of it but I’ll play your games.”

“Two weeks,” She declared.

“Three,” Dwalin punctuated the affair and Eda held out her hand.

“Three,” She smiled and he shook her hand so roughly that she winced, pulling the purse from his waist and dropping it on the counter, “You have ten minutes to clear the room,” She spoke to around Dwalin’s shoulder, “A roof is worth a lot in places like these.”

Without another word, you pushed Dwalin past the front desk, nothing left in the chamber which you would claim as your own. All you had ever owned was the locket hidden in the folds of your corset that your mother had left you on her deathbed. The gruff dwarf led you to the door, holding it for you as if you weren’t dressed as a prostitute and led you out into the night. For the first time in nearly all your life, you felt hope.

You realized as you had left the brothel and Dwalin had helped you up onto the back of a short-legged mule that he had traveled far for his failed sojourn. He forwent riding behind you and instead led the beast on foot as if afraid of touching you.

The main streets of Ered Luin, far from the backstreets where the whorehouse was hidden, were cobbled and quaint. You felt a sense of familiarity though you had not seen them since before you had developed a memory. It comforted you to know that your mother had walked these roads and that this had been her home, at least for those years after the Mountain had fallen.

Despite the wear of days of travel and the exhaustion of your stress, you took in every foot of the town and tried to hold onto it. Dwalin’s home was small but more welcoming than any you had been in since your mother had died. Dwalin tied the mule to a post and lit the lantern which hung just outside the small house, leading you up the cobbled walkway.

The thick walnut door opened to a cozy interior, one unexpected for a dwarf whom seemed so icy. A handwoven blanket was draped across the back of a single sofa and a cushioned chair stood beside the round hearth. Logs were stacked just beside the fireplace and a small table sat beside the chair, a single book upon it’s surface. A traditional dwarven rug was laid out below the furniture across the scuffed wooden floor and small kitchen stood just beyond a broad, open doorway.

“It’s not much,” He demurred as he set the lantern down and lit a candle with the flame and several others around the room, “But it will have to do for now.”

You stood in the doorway and looked around. It was more than enough, you smiled despite yourself, and snapped out of your thoughts to find your host staring at you.

“You can come in,” He lack the tone for for the welcome intended but you stepped forward and closed the door behind you, “I’ll put clean linen on the bed and you can take that. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, please,” You raised your hands pleadingly, “Please, you’ve done enough.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned about being a host, it’s that I take the couch,” He insisted and crossed his arms, “Dis made sure of that, at least.”

“Whoever this Dis is…don’t worry about her,” You waved away his obstinate words “I can’t take your bed. The sofa is more than what I usually get.”

“Hmmp,” He grimaced at you but you could see him accept that he would make little progress with you, “Fine. You can use the blanket that’s there and I’ll get you a pillow and…” He looked around himself and turned back to you, his eyes darting up and down your figure before he colouored and tore his eyes away, “And something to wear…my clothes might be a bit big but we’ll figure out something better tomorrow.”

“Am I really going to work at your forge?” You ventured through his rambling, “What are you going to tell people when they ask about the prostitute apprentice?”

“I don’t have to tell them anything,” He grumbled, “Besides, no one needs to know what you’ve done before.”

“They might guess,” You shrugged and kicked a toe into the carpet, “You know…” You glanced around the room as it finally seeped into your mind. In only an hour, everything had changed, “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever done for someone,” He returned tritely, “Count yourself lucky…and don’t tell anyone else. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“I could have guessed,” You chuckled, an ill-used gesture, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell everyone you work me till I’m numb…and I’m sure you will.”

“So long as you’re a good worker, you’ll do just fine,” He assured as he turned his attention to the hearth, crouching to place a log within, “I’ll get this fire going and then we’ll get you set up for the night. You hungry?”

“No, I’m much too tired to eat,” You replied as you scratched the nape of your neck, watching him as he built a fire, “Thank you. Truly, you cannot know how much I mean that.”

Dwalin wriggled as if shaking off your gratuity, as if unused to it, and stood from his work, brushing his hands off on his pants. Awkwardly, he bowed his head and hurried out of the room without another word and you waited patiently for him to return, hopefully with the clothes he had promised.

At first, working at the forge was exhilarating and you were ecstatic to be anywhere but a field or a brothel. Then Dwalin had carried through on his promise and was just as demanding as any boss you had ever worked for. To gauge your skill, he had you craft him a knife and upon inspection, he had you remake it, showing you how to thin the edge.

Content with your work, he invited you to observe his own work as he shaped a sword at his anvil. You could not help but admire his deft hands and the sweat of his toil as he focused on the metal. He looked almost tranquil as he folded the silver over and over and his final product showed every ounce of care he had put into it. You smiled at the blade as he held it up humbly before you, explaining the process a final time.

You were so concerned with impressing Dwalin and holding onto your position, that you paid little heed to the other dwarves at the forge. Several others worked in proximity to you and had sent curious glances your way without explanation from your mentor. It was only as Dwalin declared the day over that you noticed the other smiths.

A dark-haired dwarf neared, clapping Dwalin’s shoulder as he peeked at you from the corner of his eye, “Dwalin, I didn’t know you were to have a new apprentice.”

“Mmm, you could say I didn’t either,” Dwalin wiped the sweat from his brow, “This is Y/N and she needed a job and I needed a hand.”

“I haven’t seen her before, when did she arrive?” The dwarf looked you over with his sharp blue eyes.

“Last night. I wasn’t expecting her so soon but…it’s not so bad,” Dwalin glanced at you dully, “Y/N, this is Thorin.”

“Thorin?” You had spent your life on an unstable road but you had not failed to hear the king’s name, “Oakenshield?”

“Thorin is just fine,” Dwalin elbowed you, “A king in a smith’s apron.”

“Dwalin,” Thorin squinted at the bald-dwarf, “You are oddly poetic sometimes. It can be rather chilling.”

You thought back to the book beside the hearth which you had dared to peruse the night before after Dwalin had retired. It was a small tome of stories; tragic, comedic, romantic, suspenseful. Your host had not seemed one for reading but the pages were well worn and you could tell he did not hold onto anything he did not have a use for.

“Anyways, Dis has been on my back all week,” Thorin continued casually, “Well, her boys mostly. I keep telling them you’re busy but--”

“Another training session?” Dwalin nodded as he set his tools neatly beside his anvil, “They’re due for one, I suppose.” He eyed you as he thought; you were already getting in his way, “We should have time for that.”

“Great,” Thorin smiled and exhaled in relief, “I might get some time to myself for once. You don’t mind if I sit this one out, do you?”

“Of course not, I could handle your nephews with one hand tied,” Dwalin boasted and removed his leather apron, rolling down the sodden sleeves of his tunic, “Send ‘em over in about an hour.”

“Thanks,” Thorin gave Dwalin another pat on his back before turning away, “I owe you.”

“You say that every time, you donkey,” Dwalin grumbled after him and Thorin responded with a low chuckle, “Well,” Dwalin turned to you, gesturing you to lead the way out of the stolid forge, “We’ll just have to work around it. You’re welcome to join. Don’t know how well you hold a sword but it’s never to late to learn.”

“Maybe I’ll just watch,” You offered, fiddling with the hems of your oversized cuffs, “I’ll at least take care of dinner.”

“No, you won’t,” He gave you sidelong look, “I told you, I’m your host and--”

“You’ve done more than enough. Please, I can’t just claim your couch and offer nothing in return.”

“Hmm,” He considered as he rubbed the side of his large nose, your stubbornness wearing on him, “Fine. I’ll let you cook…I’ve a few things to get sorted before my trainees show as it is. You remember how to get back?”

“Um, yes, I think so,” You nodded as you peered down the cobbled street, “I should be alright.”

“Good,” He stopped and turned to you, “Go on ahead and I’ll be there shortly,” He was still awkward around you and his eyes rarely focused on your for more than a few seconds, “Uh, alright.”

Dwalin clapped his hands and awkwardly pivoted on his heel, walking past you down a side street as you stared after him curiously. You had seen the veneer he wore when among those who knew him; stoic, unbending, intimidating. Yet, when it was just the two of you, he let his mask falter and you could not but admire those facets he hid away in shame. You thought back to what he had said about the brothel, realizing that his intent had never been perverse. Insecurity could be oppressive and in his way, Dwalin was a slave just like you.

Dwalin returned home shortly after yourself, a parcel of brown paper under his arm as you watched him through the kitchen window. There was a small shed near the back of his yard and he slipped inside, returning with a set of wooden practice swords. When you had been a companion to Layni, she had loved to play with her older brother’s play swords. The memory sobered you as you blindly peeled potatoes, thinking of how that little girl had likely lived a full life and died years ago.

Dwalin removed his tunic, his undershirt stained with sweat, his tattooed arms brawny and covered with dwarven fur. He stretched his legs and shoulders and began to parry with the air with one of the wooden swords. His movements were disciplined and sharp; you could imagine a foe facing him and the impact of his blows. If only you were that strong.

You finished cutting up the potatoes and set off to gather water from the well you had seen on your way from the forge. You lugged the heavy bucket in through the front door, careful not to slosh water over the side as you lifted it onto the counter. The simple task of cooking was calming amongst the chaos of the last few days and let your mind float away.

Turning back to the window, two young dwarrows approached Dwalin through the open gate and japed in words you could not hear. You watched the furrow of Dwalin’s brow as the two youths visibly irritated him and he tossed each of them a wooden sword; the dark-haired one failing to catch his. You were inclined to chortle at the lack of grace but you would be no better in a similar position.

The sound of the wooden blades clashing sounded soon after as you went about your work, the kitchen growing warmer and sweat began to bead all over your body. You rolled up your sleeves as you cooked and glanced periodically through the window. You found Dwalin facing off against the duo as you plated the slabs of pork and spiced potatoes, trying to muster the courage to go out.

You pushed through the back door, pulling down your cuffs to hide the scars on your arms as you did. The melee continued but was ended swiftly by Dwalin as he batted his partners’ swords down decisively. “Right, I smell dinner,” He announced and bowed his head to you, wiping away more sweat with the back of his hand, “You, two. Practice. I can tell when you’ve been loafing around.”

“We’re not that bad,” The blond dwarrow panted, “You’re just a hard-ass.”

“Pardon?” Dwalin tilted his head wryly and the youth cowered, “Y/N,” He turned back to you, “These are Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili,” He gestured first to the blond and then the brunette, “I’m sure you witnessed some of their ridiculous sparring this evening.”

“Oi!” The blonde one sounded more insulted than he looked, “You’re the apprentice?” He wondered as his blue eyes rested on you, “Thorin was telling us this old ox had finally found himself a hand.”

“I am,” You admitted meekly, wondering if that was what you were.

“You two should be going home,” Dwalin deflected any further questions, “Your mother will be waiting.”

“You’re starting to sound just like her,” Kili murmured, retreating under the glare he received in return, “I mean, of course. We’ll just be on our way.”

“Yes, we will,” Fili took his brother’s sword and handed it along with his own over to Dwalin, “Can we come back next week?”

“Two days,” Dwalin ordered gruffly, “You need the practice. Now off with you before I change my mind.”

The brothers grinned at each other with amusement over Dwalin’s chagrin, issuing an intermingled farewell before escaping through the gate. You watched them go with a grin and turned back to Dwalin as he cradled the swords under one arm. “I’ve just got to put these away,” He stated stiffly, “I’ll see you inside?”

“Um, alright,” You watched him hesitate before finally turning away and you did the same, every interaction more awkward than the last.

You set the plates on the small table in the room just beside the kitchen, assuming it was meant to be a dining chamber. You sat on a chair, folding your hands before your dish as you waited patiently for Dwalin. He appeared as quickly as he promised with the brown parcel under his arm once more and stopped short before the table.

“Ah, before we eat,” He took the package out and held it towards you, “This is for you.”

“What?” You stared at the paper held closed by a single piece of twine, “Oh, please, I can’t. Not without recompense, and I haven’t anything to my name.”

“I’ll take it out of your pay,” He shrugged and dropped it in your lap, “End of the week, we’ll tally that up.”

“Pay?” You grimaced in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“Apprentices don’t get much but it’ll be enough coin to warm your pocket,” He sat across from you, “Perhaps one day, you’ll work your way to your own anvil and before long, you’ll be on your own two feet.”

“My own?” You wondered, the concept foreign, “I’ve never…”

“I didn’t buy you, Y/N,” He intoned, “You don’t owe me anything. Now, open it.”

You swallowed, your mind spinning at the idea that you could one day be your own person, and you unknotted the twine carefully. The paper fell open, revealing a stack of wool and linen. Three tunics and a pair of trousers, some underclothes, stocking, pristinely packaged. Your mouth fell open as you looked up as Dwalin and all you could do was shake your head.

“You need em, lass,” The nickname sent a tingle through you; it was the first time he spoke to you as he did to others, “You can’t be looking like a tramp wearing my burlap.”

“I…” You breathed as you fought the emotion rising in your throat, “Thank you, Dwalin.”

“Not at all,” He waved away your words and took the double-tined fork from beside his plate, “This dinner,” He inhaled the scent ravenously, “Is more than enough to make us even.”

He picked his knife up and cut into the gristly meat, popping it in his mouth with a delighted moan as he focused on his plate. You wrapped the clothing back up and set the parcel below your chair, your own hunger stirring within. You ate in contented silence, your mind flurrying as you tried to rein in your thoughts. You were not free just yet.

Your work at the forge consumed most of your days and slowly you and Dwalin fell into an unspoken arrangement. You were his apprentice at the anvil and in your time off, you cooked and cleaned out of pure habit, and the silence became less tense by the day. He trained with the Durins three times a week and you enjoyed the peace of watching them. It was as close to ‘normal’ as you had ever been, even if it was rather unusual.

One night, the sky set slowly as Fili and Kili set off with a whistled farewell and laughter trailing after them. You were sitting on the single step of the back door as Dwalin watched the dwarrows leave with a glint in his eyes. He turned to you, his face sparking as if he had not known you were there. He looked to the wooden swords and back to you, his mouth slanting.

“Want to try?” He held out a hilt to you, “I’ll take it easy on you.”

“I don’t know,” You looked away evasively, “I haven’t held a sword outside the forge since I was a child.”

“Then you can only get better,” He tossed a sword at you and to your own surprise, you caught it as you stood swiftly, “Already off to a good start.”

“Sure,” You scoffed and examined the wooden blade, “Anyone can hold a sword.”

“You can’t spend all your time doing housework,” He threw the extra sword to the side, “I don’t expect you to be battle-ready, but it is good exercise.”

“And you? Hasn’t anyone told you that you can’t spend all your time with swords and axes,” You teased, your own gall shocking even you.

“I sleep,” He japed and his chuckle startled you, “Go on, raise your sword,” He got into a fighting stance, “Like so.”

You mimicked his position and your cheeks burned, embarrassment rising as you felt like an utter novice. He smiled with approval and bowed his head. “We’ll start simple. Parries.” He flicked his sword, “Just copy my motion.”

You did as he instructed, the movement coming easier than you expected and he watched as he guided you. He looked satisfied with your work and only lowered his blade to show you how to hold your shoulders. You were sweating as he announced that you would move onto blocking and you exhaled heavily, pulling your damp tunic away from your skin.

Leaning your sword against your leg, you wiped your hands on your tunic and chewed your lip. It would be much better if you removed your tunic as Dwalin did and sparred in your undershirt. The recollection, however, of the scars which lined your arms and back, discouraged you. Instead, you merely pulled at the hem anxiously and sighed.

“It’s only going to get worse,” He mused as he offered you a cup of water from the bucket he kept near, “I promise, I won’t peek. I’ve had that chance.”

Once more, his humour caught you off guard and you mulled over his words. Taking the cup, you gulped back the water and handed it back. As he turned away to take a drink for himself, you succumbed to the itchiness of the wool and peeled it over your head. You dropped it into the grass and took up your sword once more, shying away as Dwalin looked back to you.

He blanched as he did, noticing the scars at once, and while he must have noticed the scar along your collar bone when you first met, he looked appalled by them. You winced and glanced away with embarrassment, searching for the shirt you had just disposed over. Kneeling to pick it up, you set aside your sword as Dwalin appeared beside you, crouching as he touched a scar along your wrist.

“Please, I’m sorry,” He uttered softly, “I didn’t mean to gape.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” You tried to shrug him away, “I’ll put it back on.”

“Y/N,” He clasped onto the tunic, “Please, I don’t care about your scars,” He pulled it away and tossed it over his shoulder, “Look at me,” He ordered but not unkindly, “Do I look like one to judge? We all have scars. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Once a slave, always a slave,” You stood and crossed your arms, “As much I try, I’ll never be free. I’ll always be marked as what I am.”

“No dwarf is a slave,” He declared as he rose, staying close as he spoke, “Those people who did that to you, they were monsters. You don’t deserve that. You’re not something which can be owned, you are a person.”

“It wasn’t just others,” You looked down at the scar he had touched, “Sometimes, we hurt ourselves in hopes that it will ease the pain others cannot see.”

“Y/N,” Dwalin neared, placing a hand on your shoulder, and one on your chin to make you look up, “You’re free. You don’t have to stay here. You don’t have to stay with me. You can take your money and go. Whenever you please.”

“But…” You swallowed as you searched his face; the thought of leaving seemed daunting. Never before had you wanted to stay, “I have no where to go…and I don’t want to go.”

“Then stay,” He offered quietly, “For as long as you like. But I won’t make you. Ever.”

“You don’t have to,” You touched his hand, removing it from your chin as you held it tightly in yours, admiring the tattoos across his knuckles, “I want to.”

His cheeks coloured at your words and he looked away bashfully and you admired his profile, your chest filling with unfamiliar emotion.

“Dwalin,” You breathed, “Thank you,” Your voice was strained as you held back tears, “For everything. I had nothing and you gave me all. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be--”

“No, please, you’ve done enough,” He looked back to you as his own eyes sparkled, “More than you know. That night, when you said you would listen…when you looked at me like I wasn’t some beast. That was all I ever wanted.”

“But you’re not a beast,” You insisted, squeezing his hand, “You are the kindest person I’ve ever met. If only you would let others see that, you might begin to see it yourself.”

Dwalin swallowed as the teardrops wavered in the corners of his eyes and he searched you for some sign of dishonesty. Your eyes blurred and you sniffed back your emotion, taking Dwalin’s other hand in yours.

“I see it, every time I look at you,” You smiled as you looked up at him affectionately, “I always have.” You stood on your toes, releasing his hand to touch his cheek, running your fingers across his rough skin, “I always will.”

Dwalin’s eyes widened as you pressed your lips to his unthinkingly and you closed your eyes as you felt him soften against you. His hand gripped yours and he shakily cradled your chin with his other, returning your kiss as his shock seeped away. He pulled his lips from yours, gazing down at you with wonder, his mouth slowly curving with pure joy.

He let go of you, only to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close, your head against his chest as you listened to the beating of his heart. You hugged him back, nestling into his warmth as you felt his chin graze the top of your head. You closed your eyes, lingering in the peace you had sought for so long. Free, at last.

#one shot #fic #dwalin #the hobbit #imagine #self-harm

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bornfromscarletcords · 6 years

Text

Of Heaven And Earth: The Lost Empire

Some consider death and love to be the antithesis of one another. Sure they have their feuds and differences, just like anyone, but in many ways they are far similar than not. You could say it goes along the lines of only those closest to you can encourage such aggravation and growth, and to those especially harmonized few in many ways your greatest rival and truest friend is never far from that space within. Though the two, Love and Death, are not necessarily constrained by each other in the sense that they do have a degree of autonomy from each other. One might never see Death in a story of Love and vice versa. However their are those special and truly miraculous occurrences when one can clearly observe just how effortlessly one visage flows into another. We could discuss the nature of twins, doppelgangers, and the ghoulish nature of consuming another’s existence, but let’s simply start with, there were two very funny brothers.

Marcellus-

The Son of Jupiter felt like he was born bowed by pressure. His disposition ran along the lines of the exhausted, perplexed, and generally uncomfortable. He did not consider himself to be especially mean or brutish in nature, but that didn’t stop people from clearing out of his way with worried faces or, looking to him with angry glares whenever a child started crying or something important was missing. His company usually assured him that it had more to do with strange relations people have with authority. They tend to dislike how much they need but still look to it as a solution to many of their discomforts. The sense Marcellus got was that they wanted him to solve the problem and less that he was the fault of it, on some level he liked the latter conclusion less.

Marcellus wasn’t much of a politician and he’d done as much climbing through the ranks as he would have liked two elevations back. You could say that his plight lay in his “responsible manner of bearing” as his “favorite” senator liked to say. Priscilla was a Daughter Of Bacchus and Marcellus was sure that the blood of his Divine “Brother” was the cause of her extremely peculiar yet savy insight into the social structures around her. Marcellus always got a bit of a shiver when she’d sort of fade out, staring at a conversation a couple of paces away as if she was drinking in the their most ludicrous ideas and figuring out how to ferment them into the wine of civil enlightenment. Madness was her speciality, which is probably why she liked Marcellus so much. She claimed it was because of their familial relation, but he’d seen her freeze out those of closer lineage before.

Aside from a somewhat strange spark in the eye, Marcellus didn’t notice too much of a physical resemblance between them. His skin was dark like night, or onyx, and his hair was shaggy and wooly. Priscilla’s skin was more olivine, a softer more floral hue that could occasionally don a strange forest green if the twilight hours were in the depths of their recollections. Her hair was wild and frizzy like ferns and vines, though it seemed to work for her in that “I’m a rolling boulder of civil reform” type of way. Many of the boys, and well, the girls seemed to believe she was more than pretty enough.

Marcellus was a centurion of the fifth Cohort, though Priscillia assured him that if he wasn’t careful he might get promoted again. The idea made him consider taking the blame for some of those missing items just so that he might fall back to rock bottom again, where it was safe. He assured anyone who asked that his military career had been one accident after another at best. Most believed he was joking, while others told him not to undersell himself. And maybe he was joking, humor didn’t necessarily make a thing less true in Marcellus’ eyes. He couldn’t deny the peculiar set of circumstances that seemed to catapult him from one brush with ruin to the next, like some strange play of cosmic finances, with his existence as the bargaining chips. More often than not he ended up “better” than how he’d started, but it was a fine and brutal line, and there was a danger in letting legends consume personal reality. He had lost many things to get where he was, many of which he’d gladly exchange his titles for to get back. He had never met anything more powerful than a true friend gained and taken away, and so many of his friends were gone from him; their corpses haunted his dreams while others harmed him further with wasted envy or a designed distance.

The ones who’d stayed, who’d survived gave him the most amount of hope, and few could radiate casual hope like Alex. Alex was something like his second, his right hand so to speak. He was a Son of Vulcan, and seem to all but exude his lineage. He was curt to those he disliked, slightly less so to those he did with somewhat barbarian humor. His work was his one true love and that love shined through. His smithery was always steaming with the smell of burning mettles, oils and the buzzing of strange devices. He’d won numerous medals for his fine craft-manship, but Marcellus had seen more than a few smelted down into the framework of a stray shield or gladius. He wasn’t sure if the smith had done it on purpose or in simple absentminded practicality, resources were resources after all. Marcellus settled that it was a fair bit of both and worried that if he didn’t soften up his disposition his friend much just rework him into a fine suit of armor while he was sleeping. “Busy” was Alex’s usual greeting when Marcellus made his rounds to his forge, which was more like a mechanical hut than not. Most didn’t speak to him in this manner but he was pretty sure Alex would’ve dismissed the Emperor himself if he got between him and his tools. Marcellus would’ve vouched for this right so to speak, if only so that they could get executed together. Death was like the ultimate demotion right, it was the underworld after all. He was pretty sure Alex’s ghost would’ve just came back as a mechanical octopus or something. He’d say something like “Thozzzzeeee flimsy man hands were completely uzzzzelezzzzz, look how much work I can accomplish now, total upgrade.”

Typically Marcellus didn’t bother speaking at all, just sort of made his way into the hut, snatched some snacks from his strange horde of appetizing treats and became one with the furniture until his friend returned from whatever phantom machine realm he drifted into to pry out his miracles.

Alex chopped his hair brutally short, he’d looked something like a barbarian lord when he’d first joined the legion, a wild mane of curls sweeping down his back. It was only after a few instances of burned or mechanically tangled hair that he admitted, it might have been trying to destroy him. Well he wasn’t one to suffer rivals for long and so his black forest of latin american fibers came crashing down. Alex and Marcellus had similar Moorish roots. Their heritage had traveled space and time from the iberian peninsula, though it seemed the latter’s family had forgotten themselves along the way, because they claimed African American, as opposed to Alex’s Afro-Cuban insistence.

Alex was typically of a more smouldering bronze complexion, though with enough sunlight, or his time in the forge, he could come out darker than Marcellus, though, one never knew if he hadn’t just been covered in the soot of an explosion gone terribly wrong. Though with Alex, it could just have easily gone terribly right.

If Marcellus ever became terribly bothersome to his friends mad scientist tendencies, he’d be confronted with the infamous “why don’t you go get a girlfriend or something”. Alex wielded these words with the same deadly and crushing accuracy he used with his battleaxe. Marcellus would be felled in a heart beat, or two depending on the day. Is spirit abandoning him to crawl along the earth where the world was more graceful and worthy as opposed to the wretch he’d been reduced to.

Marcellus wouldn’t bother arguing with Alex, he’d just be fueling his own pyre. Instead he’d ponder semantics, as if funny phrasing could move him out of Cupid’s deadly scopes. “Well, technically,” he might muse “he had friends who were girls,” but these fragile ideas were still only internal deceptions for in truth, Marcellus’ romantic dilemmas were the stuff of giants.

Marcellus was easy enough on the eyes, though good looks only went so far in the legion, strength and positioning were much more prized traits. He was sure there was a dirty joke or two in there somewhere but far be it for him to drift even further into the Love God’s territory.

No it wasn’t a matter of not being able to find romance, it was the romance that had already found him which was making shiver in fear at night, glance over his shoulder nervously, and eat with strong walls at his back. Marcellus was stuck between an earthquake and an inferno.

His “Mujeres” as Alex was fond of calling them, were Brianna Daughter of Pluto, and Marisol Daughter of Mars but more commonly known as Mistress of Wrath, Bringer of Tears, Scourge of The Lazy, Dread of The Despairing, And Salvation of Large Scary Tigers. The last bit was of Alex’s design and there was a story to it that was more than funny.

When Marcellus had gone to the legion he’d been thirteen, with a memory that was more hazy fugue than fact, a fear in his heart that could drown a mountain, and a peculiar lacking in auditory communication. Brianna had been with him through most of his journey, and that journey westward had left them each other’s protectors many times over. Brianna moved like she’d been born from a reader’s digest of Bodyguards Confidential. Many times over she stated herself as his, self proclaimed mind you, Handmaiden. If Alex was his right hand, Brianna was his left hand. Her people skills were lacking and or non existent, and society seemed to confuse her with the simplest of social norms, but she had a peculiar knowledge of how to “un-alive” things. Like anything, as if life insulted her biology. Marcellus was pretty sure she was a terminator in disguise.

Brianna had a tendency to slip into shadows and his dreams though that had more to do with Marcellus murky urges. She looked every bit some princess of the dark continent, her hair was typically straight and precise in something of a sharp bowl cut which Marcellus found extremely charming. He’d seen it curly though, and he had to remark that many of her features could be drawn into beautiful question, as more often than not, she seemed to all but bend around his needs and desires. The most disconcerting part was that she didn’t seem to notice, as if it was just her instinct. More often than not she had a curved slenderness with cocoa skin and a reserved yet endearing expression, at least in Marcellus’ eyes. Alex claimed like if his sister fused with a dragon and the dragon lost.

Trying to get Brianna to give him space would have been like trying explain flying to a wolf. On the one hand it was terribly reassuring to know that there was someone who’d never see him as some weird set of titles and fragile symbols. With that said it was also intensely disturbing that he was pretty sure she’d kill anything in her path if she so much as felt something had jeopardized their bond, but more relevantly his proximity to her scary cobra woman stare. He didn’t doubt that he was somewhere in that broad list of killable things as he was pretty sure she’d find him just as appealing in death, actually she might have preferred him that way.

Speaking scary women, Marisol was hunting him down like a leopard who’d found a juicy squirrell. He was not sure what he’d done to earn or suffer her attention but he was sure that somewhere in her internal war machine processors his data had set of alarm after alarm. Marisol was the type of person who couldn’t tell whether she wanted choke someone or cuddle with them. How convenient. Well as it was, Marcellus looked especially chokeable. She was one of his fellow Centurions, though she led the second cohort, which was known for its...enthusiasm.

She seemed to expect a degree of groveling from him. Admiration, no problem, respect, no doubt, but Marsellus wasn’t of the groveling disposition. Bootlickers were too likely to be promoted. His resistance was no doubt perplexing; Marisol was the shimmering blaze of a military’s might, she all but exuded impirical dominance like she was more armor and banners than girl. Alex claimed she was “Una Senorita Muy Caliente”, and grudgingly Marcellus had to agree. Out of her arms, Marisol simmered with panther grace and sultry rhythms. She wasn’t especially beautiful, not in the way society imagined such things at least, but she was fit and interesting and oh so primally magnetic. His mouth said Marisol but his heart knew her form as Sexy Jungle Woman. Woof.

For all the grief she gave him, she seemed to honestly view him as a worthy colleague in the, it’ll be a little sad if I had to chop off your head after I become Empress, sort of way, or in the equally disturbing , you’d look good in chains sort of way. Whether he was chained in a dungeon or across her bed in these oddly likely futures he was not sure, and he imagined that to her there would not be much of a difference. Alex was pretty sure much of her disagreeable nature came from her “lighter shades”, as he was pretty sure her latin american roots were more anglo than africano. With all this said, she was efficient, competent, and dutiful, so very roman, so very legionnaire.

His existence would be so much simpler if one of the two would just kill each other so that he could become the winner’s trophy love object. Alas conflicts of the heart were rarely simple or cleanly resolved, it was love after all, not geometry. When he could he tried to keep Brianna busy in the financing quarter, she had a knack for tracking the flow of money, as if she were a heart and it her blood. It kept the cohorts budget crisp and clean and decreased the likelihood of Marisol’s inevitable ambushes, what she called “friendly chats”, from ending in bloodshed.

Sarena-

Sarena eyed Alex from her tree perch. The first time they’d met she’d handed him some tablet detailing some achievement some heroes had made in some time long gone, it had been a sign of goodwill as she wished to heal some of the discomfort between their cohorts. Alex had, in the course of some distracted minutes reforged the tablet into a bronzed rose. He seemed surprised by his work, but he gave the rose to her nonetheless. It was from this moment that Sarena had claimed him.

A thousand heroes could toil in the underworld if it meant she’d get a rose for each of their trials. His crude distance, his oh so robotic stare, the way he’d shuffle her about his workshop as if she were yet another one of his prized tools to be implemented in his smith’s process. It was too much for her to handle. Some days she’d lose hours wondering what it’d be like to be his hammer, the trench of water he cooled the metal in, or even just a little sculpture of herself that could watch him while he was sleeping.

Sarena was a Daughter of Venus. Her heritage was a hodge podge of racial indifference, but primarily she claimed the vietnamese of the majority of her father’s favored family members. She had long dark hair usually pulled back in a ponytail, almond shaped eyes, a mole near her nose, and something like a track runner’s physique. She wasn’t exactly sure what it meant to be a child of the love goddess, she couldn’t shoot thunderbolts or sway the tides of war. She had a general knack for knowing which top would look good on who, but she wouldn’t exactly say she was an expert. She supposed that she could sense affection, in a manner of speaking, like in-fared vision but with like cuddles and fuzzy warm feelings. She was good at relationship advice, but that wasn’t really always about love, at least not how she always imagined it. Keeping two friends from fighting over the last pizza bagel, or a superior from berating their subordinate wasn’t really love, was it?

Alex claimed she smelled good, like cookies, brownies and other tasty treats. She wasn’t sure what that was about, from what she could tell she smelled like soap, and sweat, but maybe it was one of her abilities or something. It wasn’t super strength, she supposed, but smelling “good enough to eat,” wasn’t so bad if it was Alex’s nose.

She was pretty sure he was playing hard to get, which is why him commenting on her delectableness made her flustered and have to question her existence. Like what was the meaning of existence, and why do baby alligators ride in their mother’s mouth? Is it safer there, was it more comfortable? She didn’t know, and oh how she lamented her lostness.

She contented herself with her spy work, documenting his habits, minding his inventory when he wasn’t looking because she knew how much he his somewhat hazardous order. She had made her own copy of his key because she knew he wouldn’t mind, and well, if he did, he wouldn’t when one day they retired together and marched away on an adventure through the countryside, just the two of them. Just the two, she’d make sure of it.

Sarena wasn’t much interested in marriage, it had never done her father much good, all four times, and she was pretty sure it’s basis had more to do with feudal alliances, and sheep populations. Sarena had no sheep and no castles to speak of so, she supposed it just wasn’t for her kind. Alex didn’t so much as avoid her as simply not see her, it seemed he had a keen knack for forgetting to notice those not directly pertaining to his immediate projects. She wondered if it was a blessing of the Vulcan, because she’d seen senators and centurions alike cowed by his bowed muttering which seemed to beam him a three galaxies and a half away. Perhaps they believed him too crazy, or too inhuman. Sarena asked him about it eventually and he laughed.

“I wish,” he said, “pops isn’t exactly giving with his divine knowledge. I tried to build something that would repel unwanted company, but it mostly just gave them an extreme craving for burritos. I mean, technically it did work, if there was a burrito stand nearby, but the gods are not so merciful.” He said chomping on a floured wrap of grinded meat cheese, beans, lettuce and guacamole. He saw her perplexed expression and must have mistaken it for a hungry look as he sort of shoved the thing in her face. She took a huge chomp. It was delicious.

She came to the conclusion that his distance had more to do with his inability/complete lack of interest in social interactions with organics. She wanted to tell him that she’d happily become a robot if it would help him talk to her, but it seemed it was made unnecessary. She hadn’t been able to find him for almost a week, which was saying something because she was pretty sure she could see his soul residue or something, it made tracking him in her sleep, a favorite Sarena pastime, oh so much more simpler. She assumed he was working on some huge project, and was slithering around seeing if she could get the jump on whoever would hand him his medal or his cease and desist notice, (there had been more than a few minny catastrophes as a result of his more unstable works. Alex didn’t call them failures, just unexpected opportunities). When nothing was in the wind, she slunk back to her den one saddened little Love Child. Oddly enough, her sorrow was in vain.

Alex was in her quarters, and as she felt heat rising in places only Alex could inspire, with his roguish charm and short stocky nature. He was covered in soot, and grease, and other bodily fluids, but he might as well have been a honeyed turkey on thanksgiving.

“Take me I’m yours.” Sarena whispered, all but collapsing on the door, hearts in her eyes and coiling love nectar in her voice. The action seemed to have a strange effect on Alex because his usual copper skin was as red as a lover’s campfire. He seemed to have lost his bearing as he swooned a little and started fidgeting with his devices.

“Yes well, wallah” Alex said, clearing his throat and drawing her attention to the large tarped shape in the middle of her room. He took off the sheet, and their, in all her glory, a geared, metal plated, doe eyed replica of Sarena herself.

Sarena was pretty sure she’d died and been reincarnated as her mother’s heavenly assistant because too many of her dreams were coming through, in fact all she need to make the night beyond perfect were some jumper cables, a watermelon and some furry underwear.

“I also brought a watermelon.” Alex said looking a little worried; he did care. Mecha Sarena was decked out in turquoise, ruby, and gold. She moved inhumanely precise yet graceful actions, and seemed to regard them both with a type of warm wonder.

“I figured it would help with all your work if you had like a second hand or something, so I went one better, a second body. It’s like armor.” Alex said marveling at his work. Sarena had a funny feeling Marcellus would have many interesting things to say about that last comment.

“She looks so real, how’d you get it so, precise.” Sarena said. Alex shuffled around a little.

“Well, I took, some, um measurements while you were a little distracted, nothing too invasive, at least I hope not. I had a little trouble with the face, you’re so indescribable, so I just went with some mixture of the most beautiful people I knew. Her nose is Aretha Franklin’s.” Alex seemed slightly oblivious to the fact that he had just sent her heart beating into lightspeed, there was so much heat, she was sure if her lil’ body could handle it.

“Can she speak?” Sarena asked.

“Well, we’ve been using morse code and binary systems so far, too much human chatter drives me a little mad.” He said laughing like an archvillain. Sarena imagined him applying all manner of tapes and ties to cover her mouth, it was better than heaven.

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” She said a little breathless.

“No doubt, she’s really smart, give her a couple weeks and I’m sure she’ll be chatting you up no problem.” He said, than he looked at his device, and his eyes started gleaming with that smith’s aura. “And check this out.” He caressed the back of the Mecha-Sarena’s neck, as if the place could get any hotter. The mecha began to shrink fold and rearrange and in moments, human shape was replaced by an equally graceful and beautiful creature. The Mecha-Sarena became a Mecha-She-Wolf. The creature made its way over to the daughter of love and pressed her oddly realistic mechanical fur fibers against her palm. Had they just become best friends.

“She’s amazing.”

“You know me, the modern miracle worker.” Alex said striking a pose just for her. She bet he believed it to be goofy and unimpressive, but her eyes saw her champion made flesh. “Hey why are you looking at…” Was as far as he got before she pounced on him. He was her squirrel and her serpentine grip would brook no escape.

They were both in for a surprise because as it happened The Daughter of Venus discovered a strange ability in that moment. It was like all that heat in her reignited, passed into him, exploded, and then poured back over her. She felt like they were made of light and kindness. Like they were every run through the park, every sand castle, every ounce of laughter, relief and longing like every rose that had ever bloomed. They had folded and refolded through each other like pure ecstasy, like pure beauty, like pure flame, like pure love.

Time loss much of its meaning in that moment because they could have spent an eternity coiled about each other, disheveled, a little childish and so thoroughly belonging to one another. She was pretty happy.

Harold-

Harold, Son of Ceres, observed Marisol and Sarena marching, in small procession, on the way to the senate house. For a moment he was worried Marisol might finally be acting on her, political purge, ideas which she assured everyone was a joke, but Harold never doubted a Child of Mars’ urge for bloodshed. He was relieved when Sarena’s quick, crisp and kind tone of voice clarified the issue.

“You won’t win him flaunting other boys in his face.” Sarena said.

“Why shouldn’t I, he drags around that underworld ghoul everywhere he goes.”

“Brianna is really sweet, in a scary way I admit, but you should give her more credit. Their bond, I don’t know, it doesn’t feel limited to more conventional ideas.” Sarena said.

“Are you trying to say I’m uncultured.” Marisol said, like a heated lioness.

“No, in fact your understanding of social quirks and flaws is actually astounding in many ways, but you’d find your existence more satisfying if you’d use that knowledge to help people rather than tear them to pieces.”

“I have no mercy for my enemies.” Marisol said.

“There shouldn’t be any enemies in your home camp.” Sarena said.

“You sound so naive.” Marisol said, her nose turned up and haughty. Sarena sighed.

“You know what I mean. What you’re doing would probably work for someone who had no interest in meeting the real you or who couldn’t see beyond your... barriers, deceptions? I’m not sure what you see them as, but Marcellus isn’t motivated by the typical civil drives. In fact most of the time he seems more stuck than particularly interested in rising so to speak. Power’s not going to tempt him cause he already has that. Dominating his time won’t work because Brianna’s like his murky love shadow, it really is pretty sweet.” Sarena said, she seemed to be drifting off into some warm day dream before Marisol growled her back to attention. “ Sorry, it’s just that you’re too used to breaking things down, you’ve never really had to nurture something. No offense ma’m.” Sarena said going from tender advisor to slightly embarrassed soldier in the blink of an eye. Marisol regarded her second carefully, before sighing and dropping into a demeanor Harold had never seen on her before, vulnerable.

“They never teach children of War about how not to break things, unless you know it’s a really cool cannon.” Marisol said, was that her sensitive voice? It seemed so alien, so unused.

“Well, than just see Marcellus as the coolest cannon you’ve ever found. Or like really special armor,” Sarena began. It was the armor comment that seemed to have Marisol all warm and fidgety, though Harold was just slightly more interested in when The Daughter of Venus started sounding like Alex Vulcan-Son. It was at that point he noticed the beautiful mechanical wolf padding at her side. “You don’t destroy your own armor, not intentionally...or not to make it weaker at least. You work with it , fitting into its rhythm and letting it fit into yours so that you both find strength in and through each other, you slowly and carefully discover all of its chinks and grooves and when you do find a vulnerable piece you don’t just scrap it. You work around the weakness turning it into a different kind of strength, it’s failure is yours, just like its victories, and if it falls, so do you.”

“That sounds...overly complicated.” Marisol said, looking like kitten who’d been given their first bath.

“No it’s not, it’s really simple, you just have to stop using your head all the time, and start using your heart. War and Love are about passion, defending that which you hold dear, and crushing everything that stands in the way of that emotional conquest.” Sarena said sounding scarier than the whole Mars family combined. Marisol seemed reignited and there was something like admiration in her gaze towards her companion.

“Crushing things is pretty amazing.”

“And it’s even more amazing when you’ve crushed one thing so that another could stand tall, well...tallish.” Sarena said blushing a little as her daydreams undoubtedly returned her to some hot workshop. The wolf growled in agreement.

“I’ll need, training, this territory is...unfamiliar.” Marisol said.

“Could I be your trainer?” Sarena said eyes all starry.

“I assumed that was implied.” Marisol said looking cheery yet unsteady.

“Rule number one, communication is so important, sometimes you just want to be asked.” Sarena said doing a warm innocent shuffle. Harold changed his mind, maybe they were going to destroy the senate, only the senators would gladly let them right after appointing Sarena Empress for Eternity and beyond.

“So much to learn.” Marisol said, those martial fires reigniting, she could only shy from a challenge for so long.

“When we’re done, no inch of his deepest feelings and most guarded memories will be kept from you. It’ll be like your every word slithers into his heart, chokes it a little, and than graces it with continued beating, but to the tempo you and only you decide. Never will he want to choose, so you could play like anything. Punk rock, k-pop, cher, no song will be taboo, no, scratch that, it won’t matter if it’s taboo, because he’ll be yours like an extra toe or a really comfy chair.” Sarena said drifting into a bout of maniacal laughter, which Marisol couldn’t help but join in on. Harold had never been more terrified and intrigued.

The procession past, and The Son of Ceres returned to his duties. Harold wasn’t much of a soldier, he could wield a spear just fine, and everyone had at least a little military training, but he prefered rakes and clippers to a battlefield. Fruits, and grain, and green growing things were his calling, which was why he was a part of the agricultural unit. It was a pleasing existence, he rarely felt like he needed anyone when he was with his plants. Their soft hums were always so much more soothing than the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, or the dreary droning of the senate house. Plus plants made it simple to help them which was more than he could say about people, he could always tell when one needed just a little more water, or when one pot wanted to sit next to it’s friend or not. Things got a little wierd when he started explaining just how he could feel their wants or needs, people would make fun of him for “talking” to plants. This was ironic seeing as they had no problem watching children of Apollo blow up battlements with sun fire, or children of Jupiter calling down storms, but when a Son of Ceres sprinkles a little extra seed into a dirt pile it’s time to get the pitchforks and torches.

Harold didn’t care too much, though, usually if he just waited a little while, the working rhythm would take over and he could lose himself in agricultural bliss. He chomped on some carrots and ate a couple of pomegranates which gave him uncomfortable ideas about his divine “Sister”, Proserpina and her ties to the fruit and the underworld. One of his favorite wheat stalks seemed to sense his distress and gave him a couple of pats on the cheek, and a rustle of the hair, he needed that.

Harold looked like honeyed earth, with dark warm skin, soft yet charming facial features, curly amber hair like a cornfield at sunset and a slender able build. He didn’t look like a fighter but he could handle himself if he had to, his hands were nimble and calloused from long hours of grueling work and his eyes were sun-shadowed giving him something of a tired yet knowing disposition. An accident with some runaway cattle left him favoring his left leg, but he’d long learned to work around his pains.

Priscilla, was tucked next to a grove of flowering shrubs, inhaling scents of, what he was afraid to tell her, were somewhat toxic flaura. The smell wouldn’t kill her, probably, and the reason they were left to grow with the rest was because they scared off troublesome insects and were useful in many herbal remedies/medicines. She didn’t seem worse for wear, in fact she seemed to be thriving off their scent, and the air around her seemed to shimmer with strange vibrations and colorful shapes. She looked every bit the wild nymph and he would have given a quarter of his harvest to run his hands through those manic tendrils. She fixed him with a smile and a glare that nearly had him drunk with the humors of crushed berries and lazy twilight's that never ended. From one moment to the next she was leaning on his shoulder, how’d she move that fast?

“Anything I can do for you senator?” Harold began when he could remember his name...and words.

“Just be yourself, you know, tend to this fine garden with those strong muscles, and that rough commoners charm.” She said. She was joking, mostly, sorta. He’d learned that children of Bachus had a way of being truthful and fanciful at the same time. He didn’t care though, being a commoner had never sounded so...bountiful.

“Um, yes well, I do my best ma’m.” He said inching backwards to see if she needed space, she responded by wrapping draping her arms around his neck and hugging his chest closer to hers. She scoffed, releasing a most alluring scent of hot oily sweetness.

“‘Ma’m,’ please I’m as much a public servant as you are mine.” She said, nuzzling to his neck. There was something wrong about the sentence, but wrong was looking more and more right by the second.

“Not that I mind these chats...Priscilla, it’s just that, I wonder what exactly you come here for. I’m not that interesting, and most of the harvest is still developing, won’t be much fruit for another couple of months at least.”

“Not that interesting, these blatant lies make me feel like you’re trying to get rid of me.” She said. She turned and he feared she meant to leave but instead she just flowed against him, her back resting into his pounding heart. He noticed how oddly breezy her toga was, how well the fabric touched her skin. She wrapped his hands around her waist and held them there, so he could feel warmth and softness of her flesh. He was afraid he might melt.

Priscillia’s hair smelled of jammed raisin’s and garlicked bread, and it was not an accident that he was burying his face in it’s great mass.

“Oh how you tease.” Priscilla said.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He said, and he didn’t, but logic seemed a shallow second to this shimmering that seemed to exist, between them. He leaned in a little more and hugged her a little tighter.

“So much of existence his built around this idea of knowing, so much so that people don’t always try to understand what they’ve learned. You can’t or maybe shouldn’t know everything at once, that’s just unhealthy, sometimes things need to rest, sometimes you have to not know to truly experience being.” She said sort of nibbling on his shoulder, she had tiny teeth that tickled.

“Being what?” Harold said.

“Being.” She said and it seemed the vines were humming a little louder and the flowers blooming a little brighter. The peace she brought made him want to know nothing at all

It smelled of violets.

Kyle-

Kyle was the Son of Orion. Not a god no, and as to the specifics of what exactly Orion could have been, well, your guess is as good as ours. Suffice to say he was a powerful person in an era of strange creatures and circumstances. A skilled hunter which few could rival, as well as a true scion of the forest and all things natural. We suppose you could say that like Death in many cultures Orion was something of a very strong “Idea”, and his son walked with his veil.

Kyle was all but born with a bow in hand, and a dagger handle between the teeth. A scary boy at the best of times and though he could be a bit of a jerk few people had a completely irredeemable character. You might even say that it is the one’s most questionable character which teach us the most about complexities of our own existences.

Kyle died, he knew this, his father knew this though Orion had spent more than his fair share of time in the worlds below. He’d been out tracking a caravan, a job he spent weeks studying, prepping, and training for. It was going to perfect, and he’d have gold enough to last him through most of his adolescence which was disappearing more and more by the day. The day came to finally sack the thing, and it was going off fine. Arrows of shadow and silver went flying here and there along with a couple of explosions and canisters of tear gas.

It should be said that Kyle’s targets were more along the lines of bandits than innocent noble folk just going about their business. It should also be said that Kyle would have had zero qualms about robbing the latter as well, he was humorously, even, that way. A couple of dead baddies later, and Kyle’s bank account was looking like it would be more swollen than face he’d just punched. And that’s when she showed up. She had hair that burned like a bleeding sky, sea green eyes, and was dressed like some warrior monk. Sapphire cloak with leather bindings for daggers, a sword, something that looked like a flintlock pistol except a strange blue flame seemed to say it was always ready to fire, some type of weird short-staff thing which seemed to be pouring out magic and oddly fashionable steel toed boots. Kyle would have been smitten if he had any understanding of the feeling, as it was he didn’t so mostly he just felt confused which in turn made him aggravated.

She was standing between him and the best loot, though her attention seemed to be turned more towards the other bandits, who she was dueling with, he had to admit, impeccable skill. He shot one of her attackers for reasons he couldn’t explain, though she didn’t seem to notice and as he moved in, potentially to assist her further, she stabbed him. She just swirled, as if she were a mini hurricane, as if death was her bestie, as if he were an ant. She stabbed him right through the heart. She was very pretty.

“You *****...” Kyle began but nothing he said was especially appropriate, in fact the boy was almost as good with cursing as he was with a bow. She proceeded to strike down a couple more foes, as the life more or less, poured out of him. He was pretty dissapointed, he’d been hoping to at least make it to forty, forty two even, have a string of spicy hot love affairs, get a kid, maybe a dog or apprentice instead, you know really do things up. Ball out so to speak, bathe in the riches. Well I guess he was shit out of luck.

Oddly enough Kyle fit in pretty well in the underworld, it was like a second, or maybe even fifth language to him. Don’t start any fights you can’t or won’t finish, and sow the destruction of your enemies in obscure waves, easier to avoid blame while making the regional lord’s job simpler. So it was that this phantom ghoulish once boy chopped, guiled, and burned his way to one of his father’s old haunts. They called it a temple but it was more like some bastardization of a fortress and some crash site turned cast away’s retreat. He was pretty familiar with his father’s handiwork so he managed to avoid most of the traps which probably would have rended his soul, cursed him with blindness, tossed him into some fiery lake, or plagued him with almost sickeningly cheerful showtunes until cutting off his ears seemed like a good idea.

He wasn’t in much of a rush, he was pretty dead after all, so he took his time breathing in the craftsmanship, going easy for a while in a place that was kind of half his anyway. Eventually though, he knew he had to get back to business. A couple of rituals, maps, and family weapons later and Orion managed to contact his father.

“You look like shit.” His father told him, he was not one to mince words, ya know, unless he was savoring the kill.

“This place is shit.” Kyle said, his father nodded in agreement. It had been so long since Kyle had had civilized conversation.

“Pluto runs a tight ship, but if you can survive that place you can survive anywhere, mostly at least.” Orion said oiling some rifle or something.

“I’m dead, I don’t think surviving a thing anymore.” Kyle said.

“You’d be surprised, there are as many forms of existence as there are things to kill my son. Death isn’t the worst one all things considered, though I guess you might just call that ravings of an old man who’s time is done.” Orion said, Kyle felt there was a “these kids today?,” Hidden in their. Oddly enough his father didn’t really look old, he seemed more timeless, more the product of experience than time passing or stopping.

“Some girl killed me.” Kyle said.

“So go kill her back.” Orion said flippantly waving a hunting dagger about as if it were a lazer pointer in some haphazard demonstration.

“Kinda hard to do from here.” Kyle said.

“I don’t remember raising a quitter.” Orion said

“That’s not fair.” Kyle said

“Life’s not fair.” Orion said.

“I’m dead.” Kyle said.

“Neither is death, they go hand in hand like that. Look, I died, it wasn’t so bad, look at it like a family tradition or something.” Orion said.

“Is it?” Kyle said.

“I don’t know, maybe, I try not to hassle my relations too much, they’re less than agreeable.” Orion said. Kyle remembered his father as being as agreeable as a wolf in winter.

“So how do I get out.” Kyle said.

“How’d you get in?”

“Sword through the chest.” Kyle said. His father squinted at him with, his don’t be a smart-alec expression.

“I was trying to imply people sort of die how they existed. Death is a very personal thing, very close to a person’s essence. Indicative of larger patterns and all that. You could even say that it’s a very perception based phenomenon. All forms of existence are sort of constrained by their perceptions of limitations, real or imagined. The Gods, believe it or not, may have more in common with the dead than the living.” Orion said, and for a moment Kyle couldn’t help but see his father in some strange college seminar giving lessons on philosophy while holding a student in a headlock and waving a crossbow around.

“You saying I can dream my way out of here?” Kyle said. Orion was quiet for a while.

“Don’t be a pansy, I’m saying manipulate some people, play on their weakness, their desires, if there’s no way through will one into being there with fire, and grenades, and karate, and hot demon girls singing in the background. You know really make a go of it, I mean you don’t die every day, this could be your only chance to really put your stamp on it.” Orion said. Kyle marveled at how his father could make breaking out of the underworld sound like the last summer before graduation.

“I apologize if I don’t want to make dying my favored fashion.”

“You say that now but I bet you this won’t be the last time some spicy senorita has you contemplating the nether regions of the cosmos. Girls don’t stop being mean because you get older son. That may be the most important message of this whole conversation?” Orion said.

“Did you come here on purpose?” Kyle said.

“On purpose, delayed complications of a lost soul in a fickle unforgiving universe, it all looks the same after a while.” His father said.

“I’ll make you proud pop.” Kyle said. His father scoffed like an old alpha hunting with newly blooded pups.

“I’ll accept those words when you’re standing topside with a little more zeal in your voice.” Orion said.

“Can and will do sir!” Kyle said. Orion gave his son a breeze salute with his blade and their talks were over.

Kyle set to work implementing many a plot and scheming that would put machiavelli and the chicago mob to shame. A whisper hear, a threatening voice their, a couple of greased wheels and the plan seemed to all but form itself. With all that time, though he wasn’t really sure how the concept worked in the underworld, he did some investigating. He’d been trying to find out a little more about the girl who slayed him, but it seemed a familiar face spoke too much of raving haunted minds for anyone to give him extremely useful information. He didn’t mind too much though because he’d learned something nearly as interesting. Successful escapes from the underworld were rare, unless Lord Pluto was using one rat to flush out another so to speak, and usually both were recaged by the end anyway. With that said, every so often, apparently once every four or two centuries as it went, there was a really big one. Consciousness and well, hope were not the easiest things to maintain in the world of death, but some more powerful personalities only needed some time and a little motivation to recall some of their former ingenuity, like waking up from hibernation or something. It was something of the equivalent of an underworld natural disaster, which was as bad as it sounded. Well the last one happened around two decades prior, and it was a doosey. The specifics were hazy, memory with the dead was tricky business, but most seemed to know that a great many strange energy’s had been released.

“Strange how?” Kyle had asked, and he was answered with a set of flashing images, as if they were being beamed into his head or something, apparently symbols were simpler than words. He saw what looked like winged and cloaked figures diving down to what looked like armored dragons or cubes of energy, the images fought against being stuck in any specific shape for long. When he pushed for clarification he was presented with cloaks which first looked like some of the ones he’d seen the lords and watchers wearing. They were pretty much the wardens of the place. But then the cloaks shifted, becoming, not necessarily brighter, but more personal, like their “hearts” or “cores” had started beating again. Some of the symbols he recognized, they were godly, some were more complicated, but what really caught his attention, was the sapphire cloak. It spoke of the sea, of shattering earth, of Neptune and that mean...girl who’d stabbed him. He’d have called her something different but strong emotions were the easiest to trace in that place and she’d have had him sticking out like a sore thumb. He had a lead.

His father would be disappointed at how few explosions were involved in his plan, but he’d been trying to keep it as straightforward as possible. There were a couple of minor disturbances orchestrated throughout the province, paired with a much larger more concentrated one, full of clever theatrics, near the border regions. The chaos was supposed to inspire a type of immediate territorial response between prisoners and wardens alike, and it did, though Kevin almost feared it went too well as the stirring in the “fabric” of the place made him afraid Lord Pluto himself would come crashing down upon them. With calculated dissent sown Kyle and a couple others all but blended into the shadows not so much as blowing a hole through one of the guards personal portals, but sweet talking it into sort of tearing itself down momentarily of course. It was not an easy trip.

Kyle felt like he’d been blended dissolved in lava, reblended back into shape, and then scolded about his lack of contribution in the war against global warming. “Let it burn”, was Kyle’s opinion on the matter, the polar bears had never done him any favors. The escapees were tossed out onto the cold dirt like foals who’d just been birthed. It was the general consensus that at least four people were planning to kill two others if only so they wouldn’t get killed first, but oddly enough they all were too tired to really try, so instead they all just sort of crawled/hobbled their separate ways.

The first thing Kyle did was get some food, though he had to admit, he was pretty sure his taste buds would never be the same. Everything tasted like wasted dreams, and barley. From what he understood that was more of an aftereffect of the transition, his bodied need some time to adjust, but that didn’t stop him from freaking out when his reflection would randomly vanish, or his shadow would stop to watch birds feeding or something. Then there was the whole, his form actually fading into darkness thing, which seemed to be happening every five hours or so. None of this was explicitly unexpected, he’d done his research and knew the risks, but he’d been hoping he’d be some of the lucky bastards who the underworld had simply forgotten. He supposed it liked him too much. He could’ve waited to see if it settled out, but he had a feeling he was not in line for any divine leniency. So...he went to go find a werewolf.

His father had a bit of a history with werewolves, though all creatures of the wild were his to claim on the right day, so Kyle wasn’t exactly received badly by the local pack. He did have to fight a couple of mid rank members, they operated on the shoot first ask for forgiveness later policy, though the left hook to his jaw also gave him the sense of a “fighting is a pretty decent way to know a person” vibe. He didn’t so much as win as endure long enough to be deemed not completely worthless, to his credit though, they didn’t play fair. HIs father would’ve liked them.

The local packmaster, Alpha, ushered him into something like a den but Kyle had the feeling it could just as easily serve as an execution and body clean up sight. Kyle gave him the bare bones of why he needed the curse, which had the scary bastard laughing his beard off. Few people came requesting to be a werewolf, and those that did usually had less sense than a honeyed ham in tiger country. Still he’d heard of a lot of things but he’d never heard of someone trying to become less strange. Luckily enough though it seemed to inspire him to show some restraint with the youngish Kyle.

There seemed to be some debate as to what exactly was required to turn a person into a werewolf, most packs had their own rituals, and a powerful enough alpha could more or less “will” a pattern into existence. The local packmaster said that his folk bit deep and often to ensure the wolf magic was strongly cemented, which usually left the unfortunate fool on the brink of death. He went on to say that there were those occasionaly few who only required a bite or two, sometimes even a well placed claw could do it, but they were rare and didn’t always manage the change in a sustainable way. With that said, he had, in his long existence, discovered numerous spells and artifacts that could alter the flow of werewolf magic, and one of those items he did bring to bear on that day. It was a dagger that looked like silver veins running through iron. It’s hilt had two wolves howling on each side and its pommel had a wolf skull symbol at the bottom.

The packmaster said the dagger was fatal to turned wolves, and damn near like cyanide to the living, but Kyle was neither as it was, and so it might be able to fulfill its purpose. It was supposedly able to commune with the spirits of dead werewolves in order to provide guidance or ferocity in battle or daily existence, oh, and it was loaded with werewolf magic. Just by being near the thing Kyle felt like he was being eyed down and burned by the fangs of departed beasts.

“There are no guarantees but if it senses you’re worthy, should be able to further you down your path. Just keep a strong memory of what you need to accomplish and don’t be too...disrespectful.” The packmaster said as if much consideration had to be undergone just to hold the damned thing. Kyle held out his hand and the old wolf laughed again.

“No no no, The alpha’s fangs should be responsible, or at least his paws in this case.” He said, rising and placing the dagger over the Kyle’s chest. “This is gonna hurt a lot.” He continued chuckling like he’d just stumbled on a grove of sleeping deer. The blade went in and then there was darkness and agony.

Supposedly Kyle had been there for two weeks by the time he regained consciousness. He’d survived the pain but was more or less like a zombie, only capable of slurred words, howling and brutish clawing. The pack had been welcoming, well as much as a pack of werewolves could be, as he navigated their hierarchy in his deathly state. His will alone placed him somewhere in the middle of their ranks, everyone else was too good a fighter or too savvy to be taken out by a pup who could barely manage running without tumbling over his own legs. A lot of the magic was instinct, more like resetting a bone as one set of logic melted into another, but other stuff was trickier. The old and the most powerful wolves knew how to bend the rules around them like they were armored with circumstance as much as more perceivable energy. Even the simplest of territories began to look like fortresses, nothing was normal and even the most mundane of concepts seemed readily prepared to kill you. It was...not easy. Still, Kyle’s shadow stayed where it was supposed to, and the only dissapearing his body did was into his wolf form every now and then. He took another couple of weeks to really adjust to his circumstances, but then he said goodbye to his fellows, off to hunt down that blue cloaked demoness.

The packmaster had acquired a nice motorcycle for him, it was black like obsidian with red gleams like blood or fire. Kyle was more or less native american, Navajo, well, that and whatever his father counted as; star-man maybe? Who knows, the point being that with his long mane of pitch woven hair, stone like features and ghostly brick coloring, he looked like some ominous harbinger of all ends to come riding that bike through the countryside. Like a spirit of America’s deadly sins finally coming home to collect. White people must have been shivering in their satin sheets.

Brianna-

The Daughter Of Pluto, had a relatively reserved existence. She minded her own business, which mostly concerned harming those who disrespected her, anyone or thing which got between her and Marcellus (Alex Included), and managing the cohorts finances, which was more or less second nature. It was actually one of her more peculiar abilities, and while she moved and was moved by the flow of coin she sort of understood that strange little smith’s submerging into his mechanical trances. There was just something so peaceful about almost becoming your work, your task. Something about returning to your calling. Marcellus made her feel like that, not as often as she’d like but she was content enough with how things were. Better that than losing him to Marisol’s bitch face. She despised the Daughter of Mars for many reasons but one of the most recent ones was because of her connection to Sarena. Had Brianna been able or even interested in following the humors of her comrades she might have been able to more clearly remember who Marisol’s second was. Unfortunately she realized all too late that the Daughter of Venus would not likely offer her much counsel in how to sway Marcellus even further into her corner if it meant the destruction of her friend and senior officer. Brianna considered kidnapping her or something, and threatening her with severe torture, but she actually didn’t mind scion of Venus so that would have felt weird. Well Probably. She’d scared Marcellus a couple of times after tying him up in the woods and stripping him down to his undergarments. It had left her feeling filled up, fulfilled she wasn’t sure what the word was but Alex would have probably said something like “Piping Hot” or “Muy Caliente”.

With that said The Daughter Of Venus did look fairly appetizing though Brianna wasn’t sure if that had something to do with emotional attraction or more literal hunger. She had noticed her spending more time with Vulcan Son Alex, and if the gear head had taken an interest in her maybe the two concepts were not entirely separate. Speaking of Alex, She’d been monitoring Marcellus’s movement patterns and she was fairly disappointed to find that the probability of him having spent at least four extra hours in Alex’s company that week had skyrocketed twenty percent. She was almost sure she had to kill him now, maybe both of them. The idea made her all tingly inside, being able to cozy up to Marcellus’s heaving body as the underworld came to claim him.

People said she was weird but she didn’t get that. They were all weirdos too, and who knows, maybe she was just really really funny. She enjoyed her time with Marcellus when they were in battle, when Death was hunting them and they were made so finite, as if every second of their existence beside each other were eternity’s, the beginning and end of existence itself. She feared this might have been what made him distance himself from her, was she too clingy?

Marcellus was pretty strange himself so he shouldn’t have been complaining so much, he barely liked command yet there he was leading army’s half the time. She couldn’t exactly say she minded being commanded by him though, it gave her so many ideas. Sometimes she’d sneak around and watch him sleeping, or curl up next to his murky frame and hugg the shadow of his space so that he might never know she was there. He always seem to know, she could see it in that little spark of fear in his face the next morning, but that’s what she loved about him, he cared enough to remember.

Brianna had heard that the second and fifth cohorts would be marching soon, the following afternoon as it were, Apparently they wanted to have the cover of darkness as their ally. Brianna liked that, the sun wasn’t really her thing, though she didn’t mind twilight. Things became clearer for her in the depths of shadows, all the unnecessary stuff sort of faded away, icons became more realistic, more mortal, more like angels fallen.

She was assembling her tools, a surplus of blades, poisons, sedatives, explosives she’d intimidated Alex into giving her, axes, hammers, crossbows you name it. It was while she was more or less cataloguing these weapons that she felt something sneaking up behind her, she turned to intercept, planning to cleave some vermin or another, but her assailant was too quick. Brianna was a Handmaiden of the Dark World, a Daughter of The Burning Pit, killing was as much her right as it was her cherished hobby. There weren’t many things that could sneak up on her in her own territory, and fewer still that could get the jump on her after she had sensed them. She only knew of one person that crafty, quick, and crazy.

Marcellus had her pinned on the ground, arms stretched above her head, numbed and useless. He pressed his face in front of hers so that she could see how thundery they’d gotten, like the spark of death. She tried to wiggle free but he leaned into her mass, splaying her legs at such an awakward angle she doubted they’d go anywhere without his permission. She could smell the heat on him, it was a wild wolf’s scent, her favorite. He pressed his nose to her neck, and she felt like he might place place his fangs there, like they’d done in those early days before the legion, when they couldn’t tell if they were friend or foe.

Instead he licked her, up her shivering throat, and to the curve of her lips. He kept her wrists pinned with one hand while cupping her face with the other, then he assaulted his mouth with hers sending sparks through her muscles and all the way to her core which felt more like a waterfall than the the phantom she was accustomed to. Her stomach was in heated squirms while her lower regions had developed a type of feral autonomy, closing around him as if her flesh was incomplete without his.

He laughed a crazy, nervous awesome laugh like someone who’d built a nuclear reactor and used it to knock toy planes out of the sky. He caressed her cheeks, and a strange sound escaped her, half moan, half wild squeal, which only made him smile like a lunatic. She couldn’t meet his gaze after that, but when she tried to turn away he wrapped something around her mouth and flipped her over. The movement was so graceful, so well executed she’d wondered where he’d practiced it, but maybe it just came to him, like the lightning that was his birthright, or maybe it was some strange blessing from their peculiar connection, which was burning brighter in that moment than anything she’d ever seen. He bent her wrists behind her back, tying them with the same material he’d used around her mouth, taking his time to run his hands around the tender portions of her form that only he would know. Her growling, and moaning and squealing continued as if he were the musician and she his spicy guitar. There was this moment, well more like four or five, when she felt like she might explode if he continued, and then something like oozed free in a strange torrent within her and she blacked out.

“Better than accounting?” Marcellus asked her when consciousness and a degree of bodily control returned to her. She felt herself nod a little but she couldn’t exactly trust her muscles. She was in his quarters, and apparently, sort of hanging on the wall over his bed. That crazy glint in his eyes hadn’t left, and she wondered if he’d been spending too much time with Alex. She tried to speak but all she did was sort of drool a little. He licked it off her face.

“You seemed bored, and I remembered everything you said about really embracing one’s time, never holding back, grabbing one’s destiny and yanking it back by the pony-tail.” Marcellus said, those weren’t her exact words but she couldn’t argue with that barbarian zeal which was making her insides go all gooey. She felt like a marshmallow at a campfire. She wiggled a little seeing if she might be able to turn the tide, but he spotted her actions with wolfish precision. His hands went roaming along her darkness, sparking her with jolt after jolt of pleasure and something she could only describe as joy. She couldn’t tell about the last bit, she’d never had much experience with the idea. Well...it seemed he was set on fixing that.

“Sarena told me subtleties wouldn’t sway you, they’re too much like your surface, or your weapons. She said you needed force, and so force you shall receive.” Marcellus said, unable to hold back his maniacal laughter. Brianna would have to remember to thank The Daughter Of Venus, and perhaps Love itself, she was in such brutal throes of ecstasy and amour. The only thing that would make things better were those savages they’d be putting to the sword the following afternoon.

Lucy-

The Daughter of Neptune was in a bit of a bind; literally. She was tied up beside her fellow captives, many of who numbered in the legion, though there were a few civilians and members from groups and allegiances she couldn’t name off the top of her head. She felt pretty dumb, though maybe she shouldn’t have. She had gone above and beyond to prove herself to her fellow legionnaires, only taking the most dangerous missions, and giving 110 % whenever she could even if it was only to get coffee or something. No one seemed to notice, at least none of her success that is. Romans had a bit of a thing about neptune, the earth part they didn’t mind, it was the blood of the seas that thrashed in her veins with which they took offense. They had built fleets in the past but they were prone to dismantling them if their need was not demanded after a decade or so, perhaps it was superstition, perhaps it was the unruly nature of any body of water. Romans were all about discipline and uniform, and precision. The seas were chaotic at the best of times, unforgiving, and prone to great power. Perhaps she looked too much like a troublemaker in their eyes. Perhaps she should have tried less, and blended in more. She was hoping to get promoted from more than just field grunt, and the occasional spy. She was good at her tasks, shockingly good, but that seemed to make her superiors more intent on trying to prove her incompetence, rather than less. At least she hadn’t been executed yet, if enough people didn’t like you, or if your divine parent was truly unmentionable, then somehow you just had a way of ending up at the execution block. She sighed, her mane of red hair swinging about her shackled form. Her blue coat had been her pride so to speak, one of the few signs of her father’s affection that she could claim. Many people in the legion couldn’t remember meeting their godly progenitor, apparently the gods weren’t big on visiting their kids, though most agreed there had been a light or like a crack in creation before they were more or less returned to the earth. Lucy’s story had been a little different. She had spent some time in her father’s underwater kingdom, she hadn’t seen him as often as she’d like, but he had made sure she didn’t want for much, and he had made sure she was trained and well versed in sea lord logic, which was dangerous at the best of times. His form wasn’t set like human forms, in many ways it wasn’t really a form, more like a strong assumption, or range of colors that could have been, but didn’t necessarily have to be. She had seen him as huge as a building, and as simply risen as your common man. He’d had togas, and from the strangest of gladiators to the most esteemed general, though he’d always looked terrifying when he was dressed in war’s way. When his more divine children weren’t looking sometimes he’d turn into a huge ol’ leviathan and let her ride on his back around the coastline or through underwater caverns.

Things had been good and simpler under the sea, and before any jokes about mermaids and flounders were made, Lucy hadn’t been able to grow a fish tail in years. She’d spent too much time away from ocean depths. Her father had sent her away after a visit from one of the other olympians, something about her needing to be tested, something about her not belonging their. The other gods’ words, not her father’s. She wondered why her father hadn’t thrashed him then and there, but she eventually gathered the sense that demigods weren’t really supposed to be so close to their parents, at least that is what many would claim. The other members of the sea court said it was so that she could serve his image better elsewhere, but she just wanted to be with her poppa, even if she didn’t see him as much as she wanted. There was a lot of crying and locked doors, and destroyed property, many statues under the ocean depths would never look the same. Later when she asked a couple of dolphins why they hadn’t been fixed, they said, that they were the Lord of The Ocean’s greatest treasures, one of his daughter’s finest works as he told his subjects. So why did he send her away. She was miserable on land, everyone was so gross and mean. Not that everyone down below had been sweet as molasses, but at least they’d been sensible more flexible. Everyone on the dirt world just seemed so stuck.

In theory, her father was as much the God of Earth as he was the seas, though people typically restricted that to things like earthquakes or exploding volcanoes. She had created a tremor or too in some of her more pointed rages, but the land did not bend to her in the same way water currents did. It was hard, uncompromising, truly gritty. Lucy was not a weak girl but she was also not exactly a patient one, and if the earth was anything it was patient. Her father’s people had given her a map that would lead her to her new home, the Imperial Roman Legion. Lucy had little to no knowledge of humans or their societies, in many ways she was more nymph than human, still she did understand nature. She kept to forested regions because the trees reminded her of coral constructs and seaweed. The river spirits were kind to her, often keeping her company and warding away some of the nastier elements of woodland graces. She ran with wolves, chatted up hawks, and fought a bear or two before befriending them. She might have been one of the few mortals to actually claim they’d gotten a bear hug from an actually bear. It had been enlightening, and now Lucy was pretty sure her affectionate grasps were built to kill.

The Ocean princess was now a classic terrestrial vagabond. Nights were hard, she was not used to darkness without the comfort of warm waters or the lantern fish which would often stay to make sure she slept soundly. A strange and foreboding sound sent her scurrying through the woods, half asleep yet fully terrified. It had sounded big and largely toothed. She stumbled about the forested mountainside, until bad footing sent her tumbling and grunting into a forest spring. The naiads were surprised to say the least. Instinctually Lucy was relieved just to feel halfway decent water soaking into her pores, it wasn’t exactly saltwater quality, but she instantly felt more relieved, reinvigorated and ready to take on the world, from the local vicinity at least. The naiads were beautiful, though not in a human sense. More like in a accent of aquatic calm and a natural miracle type of way. Their hair ranged in color and seemed to change depending on where they were swimming, glittering as if scaled or moonstroked. Some had skin resembling fishes or serpents, while others were more furred or smooth like otters, beavers, or orcas. There movements were fluid yet enticing, as if they called you to dance with them, though Lucy new well enough the dangers of her kind. The waters were...enthusiastic, yet they were also temperamental, a river could drown you just as easily as it could ferry you to safety. It could let it’s creatures consume you just as it could allow you to consume a bit of it to quench your thirst. The beauty of the naiads seemed to display all of this to her, they were predator, wonder, and friend though not necessarily in that order or all at once. These weren’t the first water spirits she had chanced on, though they were the greatest congregation she’d seen. The others had been on their way, water spirits always seemed to be on the move towards somewhere, or too shy to talk for long. These girls didn’t seem shy, they seemed fond of touching one another and swirling around Lucy almost unaware about how thoroughly they were brushing against her person. Another oddity about water spirits, they were a little oblivious about boundaries, though to be honest, lucy didn’t mind much, she had gone a long time without feeling like she belonged, and these girls seemed to have decided she smelled right. Lucy was as comfortable clothed or naked in her element, she imagined it was like the difference of being furred or going shaved for many creatures. The naiads seemed more than comfortable with their own nubile feminine forms and looked as if they hadn’t gone a day constrained by silly fabrics. Well, when in rome.

Lucy was in the process of taking off her coat when something made her nearly jump out of her skin. It was a boy. There was a very slight disturbance in the water, so she wasn’t sure if he had jumped in or simply risen from some hidden cove at the bottom. The spring had been relatively clear so she hoped she would have seen him, but this was not her territory and she could sense a strange power off of him. She found him attractive, well in truth she thought he was the most delicious case of gorgeous she’d ever had the fortune to stumble on. She was pretty sure there were hearts in her eyes, all but raring to jump out of her skull, it would seem that this reaction was not uncommon, as the spirits giggled with their effortlessly charming movements. Lucy used to have that type of movement, before the grime and rocks made her all hard and downtrodden. The boy, or man or whatever looked like, well, a hero and not just in the, my parents a god type of way. He had a couple of scars, a hard jaw and sturdy cheeks, he had muscles from this end of the year to the next though they were hidden, barely, in a simple tunic and canvas pants. His hair was wild and shaggy, dark grey or blue like a sea world mineral, and his eyes were green just like hers. His skin was dark but in the way that he could have been from anywhere He seemed to move through the water as much as it moved him, and she could sense that, like in any pride of lions, he was more or less the king of this keep. Or perhaps really hot guardian. When he got close he sniffed her and she sniffed back, and Lucy had never been more embarrassed and peculiarly magnetized.

“We are kin, you and I, both children of that Old Man Beneath The Tide.” The delicious looking creature said. Most people’s hearts would have fallen, but well, demigods don’t necessarily exist in the realm of more human limitation. It wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven, in fact it’s origins seemed to drift more downward, but Lucy couldn’t say she’d mind ending her journey a little early with such a strong looking older brother to keep her company.

“Yes, dad sent me here to go to the romans. He says they need me or something, or that he needs me their, I can’t tell, but I hate the surface, and my feet are always aching, and it was awfully cruel of him to send away his cherished daughter.” Lucy said the waters rippling with her discomfort, The naiads had taken to leaning on the man and caressing his skin to theirs. It was pretty hot stuff, and Lucy felt slightly uncomfortable by how feverish the current around her person was getting. The man laughed a primal pleasant sound.

“Yes, sister, he is a mean ol’ man indeed, born from boiled leather I’d say. He expects us to be meaner, as it were, he sent me away when I was but fifteen. Scraggly and ignorant, and I’ll hate to admit it, but fairly spoiled. These here mountains chewed me up and spit out the stone carved man you see before you today. You could say that I am the watcher of this region, lord would be too presumptuous as the survival is the one true paramount in this place, and the wilds obey their own whims. You may call me Connor, though I have known other names, and you may call this place home though you may be called to leave it sooner than any of us would like.” He said before pulling her into his arms with just a tug of the water. He cheerfully spun her around, making huge splashes that scattered many of the naiads with humorous giggling. He seemed to mean it in as a familial fashion as possible, but Lucy had to privately admit she was getting a torrent of funny feelings.

The Daughter of Neptune spent more than a few weeks in her brother’s dominion. She saw him take the shape of wolf, bear, eagle, serpent, seal, squirrel (which was humorous to say the least though Lucy found a new respect for just how scary they could be), and any number of other creatures which frequented his domain. Vines seemed to reach out to touch him, the trees accepting his weight without so much as a sigh of discontent while the earth seemed to always show him to some cave to bed down in or a grove of plentiful game.

“So just how old are you?” Lucy asked him one day, he looked for all it mattered like a youth ripening to his adulthood like a cat to cream, but he spoke with strange rhythms, and his doting on her resembled a grizzled wolf’s humoring of a lost pup.

“I have seen the turning of a couple of centuries, years can lose their meaning when time is such an estranged relation, and the magic of belonging roots you to your own definition of the present.” He said. Yup, he was old, he sounded just like one of her father’s vassals, except much more steady and secure, more like the earth.

“Is that normal for people like us. I’ve only met gods, and nymphs and the occasional monster or two. Father’s court isn’t exactly thronging with his more mortal children.” Lucy said.

“That depends, every divine child has their blessing or too, some region of their source they can tap or hone. You could even say that we have our own gravitation, or own field of ridiculousness which sort shapes things around our truth, or ideas. For example, what does a child of love need to count the years for, love is timeless, sometimes formless, so very infinite and yet so very fragile. A child of love could be a thousand years old and twenty five at the same time. They are romantic that way, and we godly children are very much like stories that way. Prone to themes, prone to strange habits both real and imagined. To answer your question more directly, Diana and her party came through these woods when I was still trying to learn which end of the bow not to shoot myself with. I did a favor, no she wouldn’t call it that and I shouldn’t. I did her a service in her honor and for the honor of our family or clan, and in return she bestowed upon me a bit of her veil, a sort of extension of her essence. So I heal a bit faster, and old age will probably never trouble me, though I could have been ended by one of her stray arrows at any time. She can be funny that way. As for why you saw no others like in our father’s hall the reason is pretty simple, we’re too dangerous as it were. Too prone to disrupting the natural order. Humans are silly creatures at the best of times, and they don’t seem to handle the concept of divinity well, it’s why we’re so well hidden from their senses, why you can sort of fit an empire within an empire so to speak. Everyone just sort of sees what they’re going to see, see’s what they’re willing to believe, and humans are so unwilling to believe in anything truly worth existing for. Their needs so trite, their wants so boring and ignorant. They are pitiable but I don’t bother with pity, too much of that mountain air as it were. Out here, you grow stronger or you disappear, it is a simpler way to exist. Though I am curious, little one, just what age do you claim?” Connor said.

It was an odd question, or at least oddly worded though she knew many old creatures who spoke like that, as if they were a part of a rhyme but had seen too much of the script to ever truly ignore it. She didn’t really care for humans either, though she’d never really been in the company of them for more than a couple of minutes, but then again she hadn’t really spent much time with other demigods, so she wasn’t sure how the two differed. She would admit though, his point about being able to all but hide in plain sight no matter how ridiculous the circumstances was definitely heightening her fear about just how stupid they were. There were few things scarier than dumb oblivious people in large numbers, she had seen enough of her father’s sycophants to understand this concept.

“I’m 19 though I’ll be 20 soon enough.” She didn’t know if it made a difference, he seemed content with admiring her in the most docile manner possible. Then again the girl wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge.

“Hmm, so ancient already, you almost put my modest accumulation of time to shame.” He said and they both laughed a little. “Do not be in a rush to grow up little one. There is no great glory in rushing one’s existence, the important things are worth waiting for, and the rest are hardships best left to their own time. If their is a surplus of anything in this world, it is senseless cruelty and if you can, I would advise you waist as little effort drawing its attention as possible. Don’t become a utensil for fools, respect yourself and your path, annoying as it may be. You are not only the Daughter of Neptune, you belong to yourself as much as anything.” He said balancing a couple of rocks on his nose. She wondered why such a wild creature seemed so oddly level and so sadly sobered.

“How did you learn how to take the shapes of other animals?” Lucy said.

“Oh, yeah that’s not all that interesting. I saw a couple of werewolves moving through the forest one day, and I was like, ‘you guys are awesome’ and they were like ‘we know’ and I was like ‘awesome’, so we hunted a little but I didn’t like rushing into things without good advice, so I went and found diana to see what she’d say about it all. She said she wasn’t entirely sold on the whole were-creature trope because they were pretty unreasonable when enraged, and their magic tended to work more like a curse than a blessing. She said I’d lose my ‘cheerful disposition’. Hah, you probably haven’t met her but that one’s only ever two wrong words from going berserk, and I haven’t had a cheerful disposition since I was five and my pet unicorn drowned. It was a silly time don’t ask. Regardless, if I went against her advice she probably would’ve come to hunt me, and despite her somewhat abrasive-standoffishness, she’s savvy and pretty down to earth if you know get her going on the things that really interest her, just make sure she’s not aiming in your direction while you do. Point is, I knew she’d have some magic or ritual that would more or less satisfy whatever need I’d awakened. It’s hard for me to talk to her but you could say that we have a type of invisible language that works just as good. The point being she’d know what I was talking about even if I couldn’t say it because she’s that good, so of course she challenged me to ‘battle of bows’. It was pretty epic, she’s a scary girl, I was going to lose, I cheated, I won.” Connor said. Lucy was amazed at the casualness and almost endearing warmth he used when talking about the Moon Goddess. She sensed there was more than a bit of unresolved feeling their, a lot of nights of longing that would probably go unreturned and she suspected she found the reason for his brutal survivalist mentality and extremely even, if dejected views on love. Connor had more than his fun with the women of the forest, dryads, naiads, and oddly beautiful beasts, though it was hard to say if he actually loved them in particular. He had a general love for the things in his domain, and nature, and he would lay his body and spirit on the line to protect those he claimed as his, but he resembled an idea in that way. He could not have what he desired, and what he needed as a whole, so he cultivated and loved it in pieces.

“You cheated The Goddess of The Hunt?!” Lucy said.

“Oh don’t give me that look, and don’t be too naive, it doesn’t suit you,” he said but there was no malice in his voice though he feigned offense, “ I’ll have you know she cheats all the time. No one that skilled and that ridiculous could go eternity without making trouble for every sour jerk with a stick up their bum, and finding every loop in every arrow shaped hole. The girls crazy, but I’m crazier, sometimes.” He said drifting into laughter.

“She didn’t call you on it?” Lucy said.

“More like she wouldn’t, she’d just add it to my tab so to speak, there’s a long list of things she’ll be paying me back for as it were. She’s the type that has more fun doling out vengeance than whining about foul play, well, unless it’s apollo, she hates him. I will say she knows how to make a feud entertaining, so many stakes.” He said rubbing his hands together like a high roller.

“So she gave you a cloak or something and now you’re captain beastman?” Lucy said.

“No, she called a quiver to my backside ‘tradition’, well not before dipping it in some weird boar’s blood and calling me ‘uncultured swine’ so that I could stand here today, before you, in all my uncultured beastman glory.” He said, it like that arrow was the sweetest kiss he’d ever been given, and Lucy had never wanted to save this hotblooded brother of hers from that mean o’l goddesses wiles, well, you know, after she taught her how to be a super badass.

Those weeks had been the some of the most fulfilling one’s she would have topside for many years to come. She had never felt so welcomed and thoroughly loved, and when not loved, then appreciated. Her brother’s keep was like a well oiled machine of bestial prowess and hunter’s instinct. When you helped someone it mattered and you were respected, probably because their were no illusions about how fragile the line between thriving and ruin was. Connor had about as many weapons as he had tools, he seemed to be a fan of traps and strange constructs, though one of his most impressive items had to be that strange sword of his. It was like honed ocean mist, vibrant yet cooled as if it breathed sharpness. He said it was made of something called seaside-shard, and she wondered if alliteration had made it such a classy weapon. He laughed and said that it had more to do with the strange giant crabs and snails which grew the thing as their shells. It was tuned to the water and could turn the faintest amount of humidity into a rotating aquatic edge and she’d seen him use it to calm a lake in one of the more terrible storms that ran through the region. He’d allowed her to wield it one day and it nearly took of his head and her arm. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own, going from zero to seventy in five milliseconds. She was content to leave it be for the rest of eternity, somethings were just too dangerous. Connor told her that in motion it was nearly unstoppable, but that the strangest things could cause it to grow brittle or too heavy for any proper use so he had to always be vigilant with it. She was glad his near death experience by his own sister and sword didn’t stop him from training her. Connor seemed to have little interest in serving any armed forces, though to his credit he had enough on his plate as it was, still he wasn’t going to let his kin leave his lands and into the arms of strangers without knowing how to hand their butts to them, and back again. So when she finally, regrettably, so terribly grudgingly left his smoking hot company she was like a rolling boulder of competence and deadliness.

By the time Lucy made it to the legion she was a changed girl, grittier, meaner, and more like the wilds which had knighted her. Dirt smudged her cheeks and her hiking boots were scuffed to ridiculous extremes, she even wore plaid, like proper mountain woman. The earth was no easier to sway or push, but she had made her interactions with it simpler, she let it guide her instead and in doing so her experience had been all the more richer. It was too bad the legion was once again, more urban than wild, more tamed and prone to structure than bestial impulse. She was received bitterly at best, and in her mind the words “Oh, come on,” seemed to play on repeat along with a couple of curses that were best left unmentioned.

Lucy was given over to some quarter devoted to internal observation and the occasional scouting and spy endeavors, which ranged from assassination and sabotage, to traffic work. So often and so disappointingly Lucy was assigned to traffic, though after her skilled handling of a scuffle in the roman streets she was given more consideration for “thrilling” work. She was pretty sure her superiors were just trying to get her killed without having to do the deed themselves, but she didn’t mind actually having some worthy use for his skills even though no one seemed to respect them. Though, seeing as she’d gotten herself captured she doubted anyone would be too keen about handing out awards, and promotions. She’d be lucky if she wasn’t working custodial work by the time this was over, if she wasn’t dead as a doornail.

The barbarians whose trade routes she’d been sent to locate and disrupt had kept them shackled in cellars for a couple of days. They were fed, but only barely, and she strongly suspected that they’d be sold as slaves, or as food. She wasn’t sure if these were the cannibalistic type of barbarians. She heard the fighting start in the dark depths of the night. There were explosions and terrorized screams, which she prayed belonged to her captors, it went on for a while, starting and stopping every other our until explosions died down and the barbarians brought their captives out of the cellars and out before their hold to kneel in the soggy dirt while the legion approached, in force looking a little dented yet resolute and more or less as if it were just another day of hard work. It was pretty impressive to see the array of armor, and aura’s that thronged their ordered columns and rows, like watching a movie come to life or something, or, you know stride out of the halls of the underworld.

The lead centurions were up front and from their visage she knew the cohorts as the second and fifth. Marisol seemed to hum with the tide of war and she almost looked bored that the battle hadn’t been more entertaining. She seemed disinterested in the captives, but you could see that she hungered for the enemy’s submission, or end, or both. Marcellus stood beside her looking like a steel golem of gorgeous death. Lucy had always found him easier to observe than some of the other soldiers, with reasons that had everything to do with; yuummmmmm. With that said Brianna was close by so Lucy’s reptile brain told her some dreams had to be sacrificed in order to preserve one’s kneecaps. Alex was beside his commander so to speak, looking more hellish machine with all his strange additions to his armor. It was like watching a shell grow blades made of shark-teeth. She saw something that looked like a wrist claw and in two hands he carried an immense thing which could be a hammer or an axe depending on how he swung it. If marisol liked hurting people, Alex was just peculiarly good at it, like how some people just sort of know how to whistle without really being taught. Sarena wasn’t far from marisol’s side, but Lucy could see her glancing over at Alex, and it didn’t take a phd to know there were more than a few sparks firing between the two.

Marisol and Marcellus had a bit of a discussion before he stepped forward. Hand on gladius, yet looking polite enough.

“There does not need to be anymore bloodshed. Submit to the judgement of the legion, release your captives to us, and let us end this day of war without any more unnecessary evils. This has been tiring for all involved, we needn’t belabor this feud.” Marcellus said, and for all his strength and bearing, The Son of Jupiter made battle sound as boring and pointless as watching paint dry. Lucy could all but feel Marisol rolling her eyes, though she couldn’t say she wasn’t thankful that someone wanted to speed this along. She preferred not being decapitated or bound in some dark cold cell. The barbarians shouted insults and jibes, saying despicable things about roman mother’s as well as much nonsense about Romans had never seen true war, only played at it like spoiled children or something. It seemed that was Marisol’s trigger because she strode forward nearly knocking Marcellus out of the way, she drew her blade and leveled her javelin at the great mass of barbarian ‘leaders’, making sure its point passed by each of their images at least once.

“You will feel steel, and shame you useless dogs, you cowards in puny man skin. Come forward, the best of you or the worst, it will be the same. Come forward and be slain.” She said, and Lucy had to admit, that bitch was scary. If she was them she wouldn’t have fought her, and Lucy could see that the words had sank worse than any dagger into their fragile hearts. Marcellus put a firm but friendly-ish hand on her shoulder, which seemed to twist the fires in her eyes to a more complicated shape from blood lust to well, something mixed with the more traditional stuff. It was like she she had spotted her dinner and her desert, Lucy almost felt sorry for that poor manchild, he didn’t, couldn’t know what he’d just triggered.

Marcellus whispered something in her ear, and they paced back to the ranks, Marisol a little slower and stiffer, as if she had a hard time fathoming leaving a kill she’d claimed. The centurions huddled with their close council of friends and comrades. There seemed to be some bickering, with many a growl from The Daughter of Mars, and pained shrugging from the Son of Jupiter. Alex laughed, which Signaled Marcellus’ labored walk back to center stage so to speak. He had this “Why me, why always me?” expression on his face which Lucy would say was almost like his trademark.

“Your best to me. I die we leave, you keep your captives, perhaps we don’t come back, perhaps we fall on you and years when you least expect it, under circumstances far worse for yours, when Marisol is feeling less...compassionate.” Marcellus said, Lucy didn’t even have to look at the war child to know that she felt more slighted than merciful. Though she could tell she wouldn’t mind seeing her “prize” so to speak exercising his skill. Marcellus was not bad to see in combat at all, like watching a lion pounce on a water bison. “We best you, you lay down your arms, hand over the captives and your valuables before submitting to the Legions Justice.” He continued, drawing his blade and working it through the air a little, it looked simple and deadly. The barbarians were looking less than bold and their small huddle seemed to have as much enthusiasm as Marcellus when talks of promotions were in the mix.

The barbarians sent over something that looked like a giant had ate a bear. The man was easily seven feet tall, with muscles like iron, wielding something that looked more like a crude mallet than an axe. He was cloaked in animal skins. Alex whistled a humorous sound though Brianna looked a little more nervous. Marisol just sort of licked her lips, as if she could taste the bloodshed already. Marcellus eyes focused and all in a moment he seemed to shift from tired almost goofy commander to, coiled death machine. He looked every ounce the scion of that great thunderer in the heavens. The brute gave a warcry that rattled his comrades and enemies alike. Marcellus seemed to sink low, speed all but generating itself like a current around him, it reminded her of how those old duelists used to fight under the ocean.

The barbarian swung for the centurions head, and he was quick but overconfidence made him just a second to slow. Marcellus ducked under the swing, driving his blade towards his enemy’s ribs. The barbarian shifted at the last moment so the blow only glanced but Marcellus switched his grip pulling back his wrist so that a red lined was carved across his enemy’s chest. A couple inches lower and he might have gutted him, but for all his brawn, the barbarian was swift on his feet. He brought the maul around again aiming for Marcellus legs this time, but the centurion spun through and around his flank, shoving the man at the last second and sending him teetering forward off balance. Marcellus moved in, but the man recovered his balance jabbing the maul into the centurion’s stomach. Marcellus rolled back with the blow, it looked like it hurt but he managed to keep his footing. The barbarian charged him, but Lucy saw that same oddity spark around Marcellus, a type of velocity and acceleration, like a light current, so faint it was barely visible. At the last moment he spun tossing the barbarian into a wall. He sort of leapt his blade arcing down, and again the image of a lion bearing on its prey became more visible to her. The blade landed heavy on the man’s shoulder leaving a deep gouge, that oozed red. He gave as good as he got though. Swinging his maul into Marcellus side, and Lucy was sure it hurt by the way he folded around the shaft, but it seemed pain just made him angrier. The Son of Jupiter gave a roar of his own and to everyone present it felt like the sky’s my fall upon them, might tear the very air before them. Marcellus pulled the Maul’s shaft, and the barbarian came forward at terrifying speed. He landed right into the centurion’s grip, and he smashed his head into the wall. The barbarian was dazed, but he managed to land a fist to the centurion’s face. Marcellus spat out the blood, and seemed to devolve into single minded feral purpose. The current was much more visible now, almost like an armor in jagged sparks. He thrust his blade into the barbarian's stomach, and in a seen as terrifying as it was awesome, hefted him over his head and onto the ground. Many imagined that might be the end of it, but instead of making a quick end with his blade, Marcellus wrapped those terrible hands of his around the barbarian’s meaty throat rending the life from him with every pained gasp. Something was broken in the barbarians chest, maybe a rib or two because he didn’t seem to be much able to rise or fight off the centurion. He tried a punch or two, but Marcellus either ignored them or returned with three of his own before returning to his choking. If Lucy wasn’t mistaken it looked as if Brianna might have been blushing. The Daughter Of Neptune was in shivers. As the last of his enemies moments were upon him, Marcellus stopped looking into his eyes and instead fixed his death hound gaze upon the leaders, as if they were worms to be crushed underfoot.

When the man was dead, Marcellus staggered to his feet, swaying a little drunkenly, and pried his gladius from the corpse's stomach. He wiped the blood off on the fallen man’s animal skins, before sheathing it. In a matter of seconds he seemed was standing, a little winded, but more or less as if this had been a standard and casual patrol. He addressed them with such eery calm that it seemed to make the blood splattered along his armor gleam that much brighter.

“We will accept your surrender.” He said. While he’d been fighting, Lucy had been doing some work with the mud at her feet, using the moisture and a bit of the earth to wreak havoc on her chains. Her captors had been so distracted, they didn’t notice that by the end of it the bindings were barely on her. That was why when one of them reached for their bow, and another for his spear, She was on them, a lioness in her own right. Her hands found the blade at one’s hilt and ran it through the other before severing the head of its owner. No one else moved.

“Nice work. You folk, don’t do what they tried to do. If you do we will...and I can’t stress this enough, we will kill you. It will be painful.” Marcellus said. He squinted a little when he’d congratulated Lucy, and spoke to the barbarians as if he were chatting up a cashier about sunday football. He turned back to the cohorts. “Alright, so uh...good work everybody, let’s get these soldiers home.” Marcellus said, returning to the fold, he seemed to have a bit of a limp in his step, but knowing him it could just as easily have been some strange ploy to downplay his efforts. Marisol smacked his ass, giving him a real jolt of lightning, and causing Brianna’s eyes to turn into daggers. Alex laughed.

Lucy couldn’t say that she was entirely happy to be back in the borders of the empire, but she had to say it beat shackled and cold by a longshot. Her superiors were busy berating her about her carelessness, even though no one else had got such a odd reprimand, when Marisol and Marcellus stormed the meeting. Marisol shoved some type of set of orders in their face before grabbing Lucy’s Arm and pulling her out. Marcellus was close behind but not before calling them cowards with such conviction they might have melted into greeks right then and there.

“That was skilled, and fucking awesome, don’t let anybody tell you differently.” Marisol told her.

“Yes, I do dislike being skewered, I oh you more than my gratitude.” Marcellus said, sort of shaking her hand.

“You got us free, I’d say we’re even, If you hadn’t one I’d still be in those cellars.” Lucy said. Marcellus howled like a wolf in the moon’s glow.

“Had I lost, Marisol would have stormed the place and shoved javelin’s in those places where the sun don’t shine. The Daughter of Mars may seem mean...no actually she is mean, but that would never stop her from recovering what is hers. And Marisol has this funny idea that we’re all her servants.” Marcellus said ruffling her hair, in such a way that he’d have a dagger shaped hole in his palm if he were a lesser man. Marisol sneered at him, but that didn’t stop her from leaning into the touch or purring softly.

“Yes well, more to the point, you’re coming with us, one of us at least. We can’t have you wasting away with those idiots. They wouldn’t know a blessing if it shot them in the ass.” Marisol said, the image made Lucy humorously nostalgic.

“All you have to do is choose, now I don’t want to influence your judgement, as all the cohorts were made equal and we all serve with the same gusto and yadah yadah yadah...buuutttt” and it was a long but, “Some people...were just sort of made...a little better.” He said in a hushed voice which spoke of years of practice tormenting his friends and underlings. Marisol punched him in the arm before putting him in a headlock. It put him noticeably close to her more tender regions, and he did not seem at all displeased with his punishment. Lucy gave it some consideration but finally she spoke. “No offense sir, but I feel like I should be with Marisol and the second cohort.” Lucy said. Marcellus feigned tears and put on this sappy voice that had both of them smiling.

“I get it, no hard feelings, everyone’s entitled to their choices, just tell me this. Why Lucy, por que.” He said staring off into the distance like he was some spanish melodrama star.

“Well, if we’re being honest sir, you killed one man, but Marisol was going to kill them all.” Lucy said and the two centurions started laughing.

“Yes well, she’s pretty beautiful that way.” Marcellus said, making Marisol’s eyes twinkle like summer fires.

“I can see right through you you know.” She said.

“Good, stare long, stare hard and deeply, I am yours to read.” He said posing with his wrist to his forehead. Lucy had to admit, he’d make quite the roman sculpture. Well, as it was, it would seem The Daughter Of Neptune was on her way to finally finding her home.

Evangelion-

Eva was Captain Of The Praetorian Guard and outside of looking completely badass in purple armor spears and cloak, they were tasked with protecting the emperor or emporeress, esteemed members of the senate, and the empire’s most prized commanders and generals. The guard rotated every other week or so, getting stuck in too many patterns could put a lot of people in danger, from others and themselves. The former emperor had been, well, assassinated, which did not do a great service to the guards reputation, though most were pretty sure they had gotten the right killer one could never really tell with some of the plotting of the power hungry, or simply vindictive. Eva was a Daughter of Victoria, the goddess of Victory, and though some people claimed she was a little over enthusiastic about her tasks, Eva might say she just didn’t like leaving too many loose ends. People fooling themselves with parties, or empty words from puffed up pencil pushers, just rubbed her the wrong way. She was in pursuit of completion, of vindication through one’s works and labors. Any empty shell of an existence would not do, as far as she was concerned a person should be constantly striving and constantly pushing for betterment and fulfillment. It was not surprising some of her underlings gave her a wide berth, especially when a heavy case of missions was in circulation. Still most of them agreed that she was almost miraculously inspiring. One guardsman charged with guarding a senator's prized dogs, said he had never felt more valued in his life than when Eva congratulated him on a job well done, and it was just for looking after puppies.

Eva was on the tall side, and though shapely enough she had a habit of hiding some her more conventional beauty with armor and sturdy fit bearing which were beautiful in different type of way. “If they’re too afraid of a strong woman then they aren’t worth the pauldrons I put on to see them” was her general feeling on dating. She had short wavy auburn hair which burned a terrifying red in dawn or twilight

The newly appointed empress happened to be one of her best friends. Her name, Elizabeth, and She was a Daughter of Jupiter. She was popular with most people, being graceful, angelic almost with soft curves and a knowing doeful gaze. It fooled most people into believing her complacent or weak willed, but those doe eyes quickly burned into a piercing eagle’s when her prey was sighted or her traps sprung or simply if some dumb person got on her nerves just a little too much. Her hair was a wavy eletcric-blonde, like sparks in space. It had a habit of growing shorter or longer to suit her mood. Eva believed it funny, many of the male senators confused this to be the limit of her powers, as if the only thing she would allow herself from her heritage was a nuance of cosmetics. They had been apart of the same cohort in the early days, and though she often downplayed her talents, Eva had seen Liz char a combatant to death, lightning arcing from her fingertips as it cooked him in his armor. It was stunning, unbelievable even but Liz just sort of looked embarrassed afterwards as well as mildly horrified. She was slightly short, which Eva had often teased her about, playfully of course, though Liz got her back by obliging her into piggy back rides after losing a bet or in a battle of dares. Eva did her best not to underestimate the shortstuff, no matter how innocent or harmless she tried to look.

Upon her throne Elizabeth looked every much the heavenly queen, not the palm springs barbie she used to be mistaken for. Eva believed the white robes were a little much, Liz preferred the purple toga’s more reminiscent of her father, but one of her advisers had insisted on it, possibly to push some fashion trend or to encourage a degree of “untouchablness” so that future assassinations might be discouraged. The Last Emperor, a Son of Mercury named Sylvester, hadn’t been much of a fighter and so it wasn’t a surprise he’d been taken out. He’d been crafty though with a surprising knowledge of social maneuvering, enterprise, expansion and the general greasing of wheels. Liz was a thunderbolt and any fool who didn’t know it would not be long of living after making her show them the extent of her deadliness.

There were maybe three other people who were as close to Liz as Eva, one of which was her chief advisor and personal assistant. A Daughter of Apollo named Rebecca. Rebecca carried a similar aura of almost effortless divine eminence though where Liz looked like the standard of a nation Rebecca looked like its muse. Put another way Liz was the “president’s daughter” to Rebecca’s “country starlet”. Rebecca had shortish curly hair which was a sunbleached blonde. She looked slightly more approachable than Liz though from Eva’s time chatting up Alex, he was actually decent conversation when he wasn’t being an ass, he would say that Rebecca looked “vaguely less bitchy, but only like in the right light or something”. Eva assured him that they were both pretty bitchy, but as far as Eva was concerned most people tended to deserve it. The two could have been twins on most days, which was why, though only known to a select few of the guard and maybe a couple of close senators, Rebecca often served as Liz’s body double.

Eva was not entirely sure about Rebecca’s fighting experience, they had been stationed in different cohorts and Eva was more or less like a battle machine so by comparison most fighters looked like awkward penguins. She did know that Rebecca put most bards to shame, she had a natural ear for rhythm pitch and was a pretty decent story teller. Give her a harp or an electric violin, and even the stuffiest of the stuffy felt the need to cut loose and embrace their spark, so to speak. Eva had seen some scary moments around Rebecca though, moments when she looked less like nice as pie girl next store and more like atomic bomb about to ignite. She’d have some trouble explaining this to people though because her typical aura had people gravitating around her to soak up the sunshine so to speak, like she radiated warmth and happiness. Eva and her hadn’t gotten along well at first, Rebecca had been jealous of the formers familiarity with Liz, but Eva, not being one to beat around the bush, obligated her to not evade and voice her feelings directly. After that they got along fine, they were pretty good friends all things considered, though their had been a bit of tension when Rebecca explained her reasoning. Apparently she believed that Liz might have been cheating on her with Eva. To her credit Eva fully understood the difficulty of trying to limit divine logic to human standards, and seeing as most of the romans, being pseudo olympians themselves, were all sort of divinely related, certain peculiarities were bound to arise. Still it was a little strange seeing a Daughter of Zeus, shacking up with a Daughter of Apollo, and after an initial wave of confusion Eva had to admit, it was pretty hot stuff. She wondered if some strange entity of amor wasn’t yakking it up somewhere as his family flipped their switches at his more than humorous work.

Sarena had once talked to Eva about her relationship to Liz as well, suspecting there might be more than just friendship between them. Eva explained that there was but if it was love it wasn’t romantic. Liz was like her soul mate or at least one of them “her main bitch” as she had phrased it. Her day felt a little more incomplete if she didn’t see her and before they knew one another it felt like she was walking on a ghost leg or was in a body that didn’t belong to her. Liz settled something invisible inside of her. That had been a good conversation, and Eva lamented the fact that she couldn’t trade words with that Daughter of Venus more often, girl had a good head on her shoulders. Sarena said that it wasn’t as blatant but she felt something subtlety similar with Marisol, and even though she probably didn’t understand it, she suggested that many of Brianna’s feelings for Marcellus were also rooted in the nature of being a falser version of one’s self without one’s “soul mates”. It was this striking profundity which made Eva momentarily wonder if Sarena hadn’t had Sylvester assassinated so that she and Liz might grow closer and by association spread love and camaraderie throughout the empire. But then she looked at that sweet face with that endearing yet awkward bearing and convinced herself that there wasn’t an evil, yet loving, genius lurking beneath the skin. Still the idea gave her some pleasurable yet unsettling nightmares.

When Eva wasn’t on duty she often stopped by Harold’s fields, he usually had some delicious produce and bread for her, he was down to earth and helped her feel less highstrung with his very personal yet relaxed non military character. It also didn’t hurt that he and Priscilla often cooked up strange potions and smokable products which put them all flat on their butts while their souls surfed the cosmos and all the funny colors. When that was done she often found Alex who was typically developing one machine or another which could accelerate them into the next millennia, or smack them back into the stone age. It was all in how he was feeling that day. Eva was usually still reeling from whatever potion or dust she’d ingested at the fields so she had a general “wow” expression planted on her face when Alex’s very nimble fingers went about constructing or deconstructing one thing or another. Still her ability to talk wasn’t really hampered by this, her almost perverse amount of focus and determination made her fit in almost any state of deviation from the norm. They usually talked about which senators were total tools and which were sleeping with their assistants then they’d play cards or something while lamenting the dumbness of the new recruits, or trading each other for the weekly gossip. At some point they’d go over any less than regulation arms or gadgets she might need to speed up some of her investigations, and then he’d give her something overly dangerous, and she’d say it wasn’t dangerous enough, and he’d grin like a madman as if she’d just made his day and then she’d leave him to his work.

Eva didn’t often see Marcellus, apparently he was allergic to her constant drive or something. When they did meet she’d chide him about taking his position more seriously and whether he considered going beyond the call of duty as a show of commitment to the legion. Then he’d mope or grumble about something and eventually manage to throw some underling or talkative politician her way. Eva had asked Liz if she had a good relation with her swarthy half brother, and she said that they didn’t really talk much. They’d been friendly towards one another when earlier in their careers but something was off about much of their current interactions. If they were alone too long it was like a sparking engine in a room flooded with gasoline. She was pretty certain that they both cared about the other in a way even if only on a strange instinctual level, like they both knew and respected the others scent or something, but they were also “vastly different predators” as she put it. To put it simply Liz downplayed her talents to advance in the world, Marcellus did so to actually disappear in it. Humorously he failed, while she succeeded in almost equally miraculous (as well as politically advantageous) fashions. Eva rationalized it like this in her mind, Marcellus was like a wolf whereas Liz was like an eagle.

Eva was just leaving the throne room when she saw a shadow speeding in the night. Fearing yet another assassin at work, she took off after it, and though her guardsmen, well women, armor was not light, she would have put apocalyptic androids to shame with her speed and endurance. The shadow seemed to lope and leap with animal grace, and primal ferocity. Well Eva was a legionaire trained, but beyond that honored shield to the empress herself. The shadow may have been two step steps ahead of her but she had not one ounce of quit in her, though she was slightly annoyed with herself when it’s agilty allowed it to clear a wall with a couple of hops but her momentum had her bursting right through it. She hated having to cause more unnecessary work for her people. Still she noticed that it didn’t seem to have the best idea of how the terrain was structured, probably an outsider then, so she was a little less harsh with herself when she managed to position it down a dead end, before tackling it to the ground. Well it turned out to be a he, probably at least, and he was slightly younger than she was expecting.

“What the hell do they feed you, bricks? The feeble born so that their energy grows stronger in your success?” The youngish man said. He couldn’t have been much older than fifteen, though he was very fit and not unpretty. Eva and most of her peers were around their early twenties give or take a couple of years, so she couldn’t help feeling a little awkward grappling with someone who could have been one of her junior cadets, in need of protection and guidance.

“Who the hell are you? And who sent you?” Eva said. The boy had a long mane of dark hair, like it was woven with the night. He had a biker’s vest over some leather gear and seemed to be striped to heaven high and hell below with weapons and gadgets. Eva liked gadgets.

“No one sends me anywhere, I go where I please.” The boy said all but growling like a wild beast his features seemingly shifting between a human-ish visage and something more...natural...more wolfish. They were tough words from a tough kid, and it spoke of the type of upbringing he must have had though everyone answered to someone eventually even if only for a little while. She picked him up by the collar and pinned him against one of the walls. She was going for firm yet a very restrained force, but gentle for Eva could make a panther wince.

“What are you an amazon.” The boy said.

“Almost, but trading a patriarchy for a matriarchy seemed kind of convoluted, so I passed.” Eva said which was a truth and a joke. If only more people could see that turning second class citizens into first class at another’s expense was like trying to put a band aid on an emotionally broken leg. He tried to wiggle free a little but it wasn’t working.

“Fine, my name is Kyle.”

“Who do you work for.”

“Like I said, I work for myself. My dad trained me but he left me to my own devices the moment he was sure I wouldn’t be taken out by any blind codger with a peashooter.” Kyle said.

“And your father would be who, Pluto, Mars...Mors?” Eva said.

“What, no, Orion.”

“Who?” Eva said, the name sounding familiar but it didn’t send off the same internal ringing that the mentioning of Gods tended to do in her internal systems.

“He’s not a god if that’s what you’re wondering, just like a really strong guy. Like really strong.” Kyle said.

“What he has a bunch of muscles or something.” Eva said.

“What no, I mean he has like a strong heart or soul or something. Great willpower and determination. Not a god but sometimes he can be just as powerful as one, maybe more.” Kyle said, just a little bit of hero worship leaking through.

“Didn’t he like try to like kidnap the goddess Diana or something.” Eva said beginning to remember the story just a little.

“What, no. He like liked her or something maybe loved, I don’t know, feelings are difficult for him, you don’t survive as long as him by sharing your deepest impulses and ideas with just anyone.” Kyle said.

“Not even his son.” Eva said.

“Hey he may not be touchy feely all the time but he is inspiring, he tells me plenty enough.” Kyle said.

“So he liked her and what...left when he found out she wouldn’t put out?” Eva said.

“Don’t be so juvenile, he’s like one of the most patient hunters ever, no it was more complicated, I believe she considered going with him for a while but by the time anything could have evolved, he was slain or banished from her realm or something. There was like a scorpion and Apollo or something. I’m a bit fuzzy on the details he doesn’t like talking about it.” Kyle said.

“Well a love story for the ages.” Eva said, sarcasm leaking in rivers. .

“Maybe it’s just too deep for you.” Kyle said.

“I’m as deep as mountains are high.” Eva said.

“You sure you aren’t talking about a slight incline or something, maybe an ambitious hill or something.” Kyle said.

“You’re pretty mouthy kid.” Eva said.

“It’s apart of my roguish charm.” Kyle said leaking out his own brand of sarcasm delight.

“That’s good because if that charm doesn’t convince me in the next couple of seconds, that you haven’t come here to harm the empress, the empire, or my friends then you’re going to be rotting in a jail cell for a while so that you can learn some manners.” Eva said.

“I don’t got nothing to prove to you lady. But if you are so concerned, I can tell you I don’t give a rat’s butt about your empress or your empire. I came here for one person, and I’ll bet my left kneecap she ain’t no high commander or something.” Kyle said.

“And who might that be.” “Red hair, wears a blue cloak, smells like oceans and feels like an earthquake walking.” Kyle said. Eva had to give it a moment but it only took a moment before she knew exactly who he was talking about.

“Lucy?”

“Sure I guess, in my experience scoundrels have a habit of being able to claim quite a few names. I call her mean bitchy not nice girl, mind pointing me in her direction.” Kyle said.

“You don’t think that names a bit well, redundant.”

“Repetition saves lives.” Kyle said.

“You don’t seem like the saving kind.” Eva said.

“Yes well we all have our histories.” Kyle said.

“Why is it you’re looking for her again?”

“She killed me.”

“Because she was really funny and you’ve never laughed like that before or????” Eva said more than a little perplexed.

“No I mean like she killed me, killed me.” Kyle

“So what, I’m like holding a ghost right now?” Eva said feeling like maybe she should have worn gloves over her gauntlets. Kyle looked at himself too as if in his almost singleminded hunting he hadn’t really considered his condition that much.

“I mean sorta I guess, maybe more like a really good looking zombie, but that’s beside the point. She killed me, now I gotta kill her, so that we’re even.”

“That’s some rough logic, your pa teach you that.”

“Eye for an eye is common knowledge as far as I’ve heard. I thought you legionnaires were tough sauce, didn’t think you’d be so soft.” Kyle said, Eva slammed him into the wall gently and he grunted like he’d been hit with a car door.

“Sorry I didn’t hear that right, would you like to rephrase, while I’m still in good spirits?” Eva said.

“Look you guys fight monsters, I mean you know about the underworld, this shouldn’t be so surprising.”

“Surprising isn’t the exact word I’d use, more like unlikely.” Eva said.

“Why, aren’t all yall dead anyway?” Kyle said. That had Eva’s brow raised.

“What do you mean by that?”

“A couple of years ago, twenty or thirty or something, the underworld opened up, and out poured some heroes, some villains, and some grey folk a little in between, and a broken down ruin of an idea, a phantoms civilization all but revived itself overnight. Your glorious roman empire.” Kyle said.

“Bullshit.” Eva said but there was a blaring in her head which said there was something in his words. Something her mind wouldn’t let her remember at least not in its entirety though it was also something she’d always known just a little. Like a figure constantly hugging the edge of her vision no matter which way she turned.

“Why? You guys can kill dragons and summon fireballs, but you can’t believe in the dead marching.” Kyle said.

“I just don’t see how it would be possible, the empires been kicking for centuries, millennia, I mean it had to go a bit incognito when the humans began to forget it, but it was still kicking.” Eva said

“Sure maybe, but time is tricky business, and well it is more or less a palace for the gods, or maybe like a marketplace or something hard to tell. Maybe what your was saying is true but two conflicting truths don’t have to be mutually exclusive if you sort of contort your brain a little. Like seeing into one of those pictures within pictures things, or a crossword puzzle. Maybe the empire was around for as long as you said, but maybe when you guys aren’t here, when you don’t exist so to speak, that stuff just sort of freezes and waits, until something makes it start ticking, until someone believes it matters again.” Kyle said. A couple of tearlings beaded in one of Eva’s eyes, partly pain and partly the sorrow of an emotional truth conventional logic wouldn’t allow. If he was lying she might just kill him herself, again.

“Maybe your dad ain’t so dumb and brutish. You seem pretty deep kid.” Eva said

“Dumb, no but he is a bit of a caveman sometimes, it’s why the peeps love him, he’s so relatable. As for my depth, well suffice to say, it ain’t easy being this complicated, but surviving and persevering teaches you a lot about how the world feels about stuff without it having to say anything at all.” Kyle said.

“You know I still can’t let you kill Lucy. She’s like awesome.” Eva said.

“Can I at least bite her or something.” Kyle said.

“What would that do?” Eva said.

“I’m a werewolf.” Kyle said.

“Oh, that’s neat. But uh...no you can’t bite her.” Eva said.

“Well, can I at least yell at her or something, maybe break one of her hairbrushes or something.”

“You can speak about your feelings under close, very close supervision, and maybe break like one of her weapons or something. If that fails I’m not against you too sparring a little intensely. But I won’t have either of you fighting to the death, not today at least.” Eva said. Kyle looked annoyed and began slouching in that rebellious youth type of way.

“Okay but who is he again?” Lucy said.

“You dare not remember me you mean mean bitchy girl. I have feelings you know. You could at least let me kill you just a little.” Kyle said looking like he might have been tearing up.

Eva had gathered up some trusted friends. Marcellus, Priscilla, Marisol, Sarena, Alex, Harold, Brianna, and Rebecca. She would have invited Liz but as much as she wished she could be there her guardswoman instincts wouldn’t allow her to endanger the empress with a strange dangerous boy, no matter how endearingly philosophical he just happened to be. Plus Rebecca would tell her everything anyway. Eva had just filled them in on everything Kyle had told her and their pained and confused expressions said everything about how they were receiving the information.

“Well this is awkward.” Priscilla said, seemingly indecisive about whether she liked Lounging on Harold like a recliner or resting on his lap. Regardless he seemed to be very much preoccupied keeping his...fevered condition from interfering with the proceedings. He seemed to be doing a lot of breathing exercises.

“It sound right.” Brianna said.

“Of course you’d believe this nonsense your a daughter of pluto. You and death are like Lucy in a pool.”

“If you need more convincing I could make you a bit deader.” Brianna said, like a ghostly volcano. Everyone got shivers, even Marisol though it was hard to say whether she was scared or eager for the challenge, maybe both. Marcellus rubbed his head as if he might have been losing some vitality himself.

“The logic makes my head hurt a lot but, my heart says it’s not something that wouldn't happen with the gods and stuff. I could see Mars and Diana coming up with a plan like that, though it does make me feel a little like a robot or something, activated or deactivated whenever our handlers feel like partying it up in some maybe-civilization.” Sarena said, the mechanical wolf at her feet huffed a little. “Sorry girl, nothing wrong with robots, all I’m trying to say is that this place is pretty miraculous, and I know it sounds cheesy, but so are our bonds or whatever you guys see them as. Life does some great things but as much as I like living with you guys, if we were anything like who we we are now, in the before time or whatever, then dying with you guys would have been the greatest honor, as both comrades and friends, but more importantly, as my family, my loved ones and soul mates I don’t think I’d be very much alive if even a one of you was missing. It’d be like leaving a bit of my heart behind.” Sarena said, and they were all tearing up at that, Eva and Marisol had to turn away and Eva kicked herself because Marisol beat her by a couple of seconds in her action. Kyle was all but gushing tears.

“That was beautiful.” Kyle said.

“Seriously though who is this guy?” Lucy whispered to Alex who sort of shrugged.

“Should we tell everyone. I would love to see the face of those stuffy bastards when they hear they’re hellish ghouls reanimated.” Priscilla said sounding like a mad scientists rather than politician.

“Rebecca and I will speak to the empress about it. The gods are pretty weird about their secrets, a harmless message can turn into the trigger for some divine war if we aren’t careful. Plus it’s not fact or absolute though I can’t say it sounds false. Disrupting the empire with hearsay that might just bum everyone down and back into the grave doesn’t sound like a kindness. Marcellus if you would like to accompany us when we speak to Liz that would be helpful.” Eva said the last part more like an order than a suggestion.

“Uh yeah, sure that’d be fine.”

“It’s not like she’s your sister or anything.” Rebecca said sounding cross.

“Are you bestfriends with all your siblings?” Marcellus said.

“She’s your empress.” Rebecca said.

“And she was my annoying haughty family relation before that. Look we may not be arm and arm, but it’s not like we’re icebergs with each other or something. She knows I care or whatever.”

“How would you know, you don’t speak with her.” Rebecca said.

“How did this turn into a Marcelquisition?” Marcellus said.

“Just come with us, and Rebecca’s right, she could use her brother, it’s not like Jupiter is exactly warm and fuzzy with his kids, you’d be surprised what you might learn from one another if you put forth a little more effort. You need each other.” Eva said in such a way that she brooked no room for questioning her words. Marcellus slumped, defeated.

“Mind if I tag along.” Priscilla said. Eva remembered Liz being exceptionally entertained by her very unorthodox cousin. One of the few people who could make her genuinely smile.

“Of course.”

“Yes, party in the penthouse.” Priscilla said, Rebecca smiled, and Eva wondered if she hadn’t bit off more than she could chew.

“As for you two,” Eva began nodding to Kyle and Lucy. “I’ve changed my mind, you two should definitely fight.”

“Yes, you’ll be eating ghostaroni and cheese in the underworld, my rival.”

“Dude I don’t even know you, like seriously did we like go to choir together or something.” Lucy said looking sweet and tough and like a total deadly space cadet.

“What is wrong with you?” Kyle said.

“What’s wrong with you; stranger? Damn.” Lucy said.

“Quiet!” Eva said clapping her hands together making everyone stiffen to attention, though if we’re being honest, with all of Priscilla’s hot squirming, Harold was already pretty rigid. “I forgot that Lucy can be a complete dunderhead sometimes. She’s smart she’s just pretty instinctive about it like a badger, or a dolphin or something...Lucy!” Eva said, trying to get the redhaired girls attention. She seemed to be drifting off in some direction their conversation no doubt fading into mental background noise.

“Sorry there was just this really funny looking mouse or something, It was cute or whatever. Sorry I’ll pay more attention ma’m.” Lucy said. Eva rubbed her brow.

“Sometimes you have to exchange fists to really feel a person. And I’m pretty sure both of you learn best when your blood’s pumping to an enemy's rhythm. You will not kill each other, is that clear!” Eva said. Kyle grumbled to herself and Lucy was laughing to herself watching a fly buzz around. “IS THAT CLEAR!” Eva shouted.

“Yes ma’m.” They both shouted in unison, Kyle even saluted her when doing so as if the action was second nature.

“That’s what I like to hear. Romans and romans adjacent, fall out.” Eva said and they all went about their business.

Kyle was defeated by Lucy in their bout which consisted in numerous challenges from tennis, to kung fu paintball. It had been pretty close, but as it was Lucy still seemed to be the better warrior. Kyle then vowed that he would not leave her proximity until it was proven once and for all that he was the superior champion in every way, or until she died, again. To this Lucy replied with a “whatever, like who are you anyway,” Before planting a smooch on his cheek. He made a big show of trying to smudge off her “cooties or something” but his heart had been all but pumping out his chest, and from then on you could scarcely find one far from the other, they even did brunch.

#Death Love Gods Romans Hot Stuff

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