A/N: It's been a very long time since I've put anything on here, but I've had this idea in my mind for awhile, so why not? I can't promise speedy updates (if anyone cares to know), but I've got most of the plot worked out. I'm no history buff, so there may be inaccuracies. If you see any you'd like to point out- please, go right ahead. There is also a possibility that this story might wander into the rated 'M' section later on, so keep that in mind.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians.
Georgia
The year is 1842, and the air smells like hot peaches and tobacco smoke.
The Georgia sun bakes her skin like a roasting hog. She's informed her parents that the South is no place for a fair-skinned redhead (which includes her father as well as her), but they don't seem to care. Her father is a man of substance, as he likes to say. His reach extends throughout the state, and he has influence in every single slaughterhouse and peach farm south of the Mason-Dixon Line. That's why he's so "substantial", but he's also known to be a substantially pigheaded idiot.
That's just how Rachel likes referring to him.
Rachel Elizabeth Dare, the heiress to the Dare legacy, could really care less about anything her family has accomplished in the past hundred years. All the luxurious living and the hundreds of acres of land mean absolutely nothing to her. There's a million other things she'd rather be doing than getting gussied up in tight corsets and frivolous dresses and having to act a damn fool all the time. All of the people she's forced to associate with must be the epitome of perfection and are hand-picked by her parents. Her parents demand only the best of her, and even though she resents it to high heaven, she delivers.
That's why on the Lord's Day, she's shooting daggers at her mother across the church. May Dare enjoys being the precise image of a Southern Bell. She dons her Sunday best and a bonnet Rachel finds downright ridiculous. Rachel had once attempted to count the amount of frilly things her mother kept around the house. She'd gotten to sixty before her father asked her what she was doing and she'd had to stop and go sit on the front porch like a good, obedient daughter.
Rachel had been politely forced into a pew with William Solace, a bright young man with dirty blond hair and unnaturally blue eyes who'd been damn near the center of attention... for her mother. Being eighteen already, Mrs. Dare, on several occasions, had nudged her in Will's direction with a few "What a nice young gentleman!"-s and "My goodness, already in college?"-s. Rachel, in the face of prospective marriage had decided, quite rashly, that any man her mother approved of was immediately and permanently out of the question.
"Miss Dare, would you mind passing me that Bible?"
Rachel blinks, suddenly aware that Will is speaking to her. "Oh," she says dumbly and reaches over to recover the unused book. "Sorry."
"Thank you, miss." Will smiles as she hands him the book. "You didn't seem to be using it."
He says this politely, but she picks up on the note of disapproval in his voice. As if his subconscious is saying, 'I'll whip this woman into shape.' which immediately reminds her why she doesn't like Will. And why she never will. It's normal for women to be subjective to their husbands, and any other men, for that matter. But Rachel detests the idea of waiting on a man hand and foot, even if he is her husband. She's always wanted to be an independent woman, but there's always been a little voice in the back of her mind telling her to realize that it will never happen.
She glances lazily at the preacher, who is standing directly in a ray of sunshine so it almost looks as if God Himself is shining down upon him. It adds to the effect.
"...and the Lord said unto His children..."
It takes all of her willpower to stay awake for the rest of the sermon, but she manages with a grudging smile to Will as he helps her off of the uncomfortable pew and into the bright sunlight. As the congregation files out, she notices a few of her better acquaintances, just a stone's throw away. If only Will would stop suffocating her for five seconds, she'd be able to escape.
Escape to what? Her mind nags, reminding her that all ten or so of her real friends are either slaves or in another county altogether.
"You didn't seem to be interested in the sermon." Will notices, ever so helpfully once they're outside, walking down the dirt path that leads to the church. Rachel doesn't exactly want Will to be near her let alone walk her home, which is what he is currently insisting on doing.
"I suppose not." she keeps her answers short to save the infuriating conversation.
Will nods but she knows he doesn't understand. "I find the Lord's work enthralling. I'm sure you do as well; we just happen to have an elderly preacher."
She cringes for a split second. What about her tone of voice does he not understand? How much of an idiot must he be to not notice just how completely uninterested she is in every single syllable that has had the gall to make its way out of his mouth? She doesn't justify his words with another response, simply nodding.
Unfortunately shutting her mouth is not enough for him to shut his. After at least five minutes of his infernal rambling, she picks up on something he says. "Perhaps your father would allow me the pleasure of escorting you to the gala at the Beauregard's?"
Her father.
Of course the pigheaded idiot wouldn't have a problem with this oh-so perfect specimen of a young gentleman dancing with his daughter. Never mind how desperately Rachel wants to get away from this man. A voice in her head is screaming at her to start making her own damn decisions about her own damn life. If she's the town failure then so be it. If her parents disown her, then she'd welcome the change with open arms. She'd much rather be galavanting around the country with a band of rogues than spend another damned moment in the good 'ol South.
"You'll have to speak to him." this is her standard response when people ask her about her father. This time, she allows all emotion to be absent from her voice, some false hope that he'll understand that she doesn't want to be near him.
They walk in a lovely silence. Without Will following her like a puppy, the day might actually take a turn for the better. But he continues to insist on walking all of two inches away from her.
"Does your maid still make her famous peach cobbler?"
Again, it takes all of Rachel's strength not to give Will a slap he won't soon forget. It's the Southern way to refer to maids and field hands like they're some kind of lowly worm. Rachel absolutely detests it, and when Will mentions her friend in this manner...
"Abilene's hands don't work the way they used to." she remarks, and it's true. Her poor friend, who toiled in the Dare estate all her life, now sits in the kitchen, washing clothes and dishes all day. It's no way to live, and she'd told her father so on several occasions. Unfortunately, the pigheaded idiot doesn't think the way she does, and neither does Will.
"You should sell her off. Probably get more done around the house."
She clenches her fists and her jaw, half-heartedly praying that when she punches him (because she knows she will), no one will be around to see it.
"You know, we had a good slave once. A mighty fine one." he begins, his tone that of a pompous idiot. He continues on some idiotic story about how many sacks of feed this poor soul could heft, and how far he could run and she's pretty much ready to slap him. "...he ran off, though; about two summers ago, I'd presume."
"Good." she grumbles under her breath.
Thankfully, Will doesn't hear her, and he continues to talk about his multitude of slaves and farmhands the entire way back to the Dare estate. It's an awful walk back, and every few seconds, Rachel has to remind herself that no- she's not allowed to wring his scrawny little chicken neck, and yes- killing is illegal in the oppressively hot state of Georgia.
"...that one got quite a number of lashes-" he cuts off for a wonderful second. "Ah, here we are. I'll have a word with your father."
He opens the door for her, which she should find to be a wonderfully chivalrous gesture, but since it's Will, it is most certainly not.
The Dares have a lovely house. The tall, white ceilings tower over a foyer fit for a king. The Persian carpets are actually from Persia, and the paintings of Rachel's ancestors span every room and hallway. The chairs and couches are so elegant, the Queen of England might be ashamed to sit in them. Their unfortunate housekeepers and butlers keep the mansion spotless, right down to the fifteenth century Swedish vase on the giant bureau in her parent's room. All of her mother's frilly things can be found at least every two feet, and she's not exactly sure how her father had accumulated so many animal heads, seeing as he'd never hunted once in his life, but they are on display all around. Anyone would be jealous to live on the estate.
Rachel absolutely hates it.
Her parents speak about their estate and all of their belongings like it's the most uninteresting subject they've ever discussed. They ride in their overly expensive buggies with their overly expensive clothes, chins high enough to break their million-dollar necks. Maybe it's the fact that she just resents every little action her parents involve themselves in. Maybe they're actually just awful people. She likes to think the latter.
Will walks off, presumably toward her father's study, where he'll essentially make an offer on her independence. As much as the prospect of having to attend the Beauregard's gala with Will sickens her, his absence is probably the best thing that's happened all day. She lets out a sigh when he's gone and closes her eyes, trying to shove any residual anger back into the recesses of her mind.
"Miss Dare?" a frail voice calls.
Rachel opens her eyes, and there's Abilene, leaning against the archway to the kitchen. She smiles at the old woman, "Hello Abilene, how-" she stops, noticing that under her apron, it looks like the maid is clutching her left wrist. "Is something wrong?"
She manages the most pained smile Rachel's ever seen on a person. Her stomach churns. "I'm alright, Miss Dare, I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. What are you hiding under that apron?" she adds a little of her father into her voice. She almost cringes at how easy it is to imitate him.
Abilene shakes her head as if there's nothing to worry about. "Nothin' Miss Dare, nothin'. I'll be fixin' ta cook up supper soon." she makes the mistake of pulling her hand free to make some gesture. Her eyes widen and she quickly stuffs it back under her apron.
Rachel's already seen, though, rushing to her side. "Abilene, what happened?" Rachel cries and carefully pulls her hand out. The old woman winces, the deep lines in her face becoming more pronounced.
"Weren't nothin' you be concernin' yerself with, Miss Dare."
"Well, I'll be concerning myself with it now!" Rachel yelps, frantic. "What happened?"
Abilene looks like a cornered rat, her gaze flitting to the stairs- that lead to her father's study.
Her father.
It's never been more obvious how much of a damned idiot her father is than now. The gaping wound on her poor old friend's palm is a fine testament to that fact.
Anger and hate well up in her throat. "I'll be right back." she growls, glaring up at the stairs.
"Please Miss Dare, please don't!" her voice is a frantic whisper. "He be fixin' to do it again if you be gettin' mad with him!"
Rachel grinds her teeth. There's a knife on the counter that glints dangerously. Unfortunately, though, Abilene is right. However much she'd like to show her father just what she thinks of him, not risking her friend's safety is a more important matter.
Her murderous gaze softens. Anger will have to take a backseat for now. "Come on Abilene," Rachel sighs, grabbing the old woman's good hand. "let's get you patched up."
Rachel leads Abilene to the washroom, still not over what her father has done. Abilene protests and tries to pull her hand away, but eventually she gives in because she knows that Rachel Dare's resolve is the only good thing she's inherited from her father.
She cleans out Abilene's wound carefully, feeling increasingly pained for the old woman as she winces. Rachel's no doctor, but she knows how to patch a wound up. Years ago, she was quite accident-prone, and all the maids would scold her before fixing her up. Abilene was never one to cure her, but her food would fix any ailment that bandages couldn't. The maids and farmhands were Rachel's real parents- her family. They took better care of her than her biological parents, and she'd always loved it that way.
"You been better ta' me than mah own boy." Abilene murmurs as Rachel wraps her hand up, tying the cloth in a firm knot.
The comment catches her off-guard. She blinks, glancing sharply at Abilene. "Your boy?"
Abilene's smile is sad, and maybe a little hopeful. "Mah boy..." she trails off, suddenly lost in her memories.
Rachel had never once heard of Abilene's son. The old maid had been with the family since as long as Rachel could remember. The thought had never even crossed her mind that she'd had a life- a son, even, before the Dare estate. She immediately felt like a fool for never giving her old friend's life any forethought. What kind of a friend did that?
"How old was he?"
Abilene seemed to understand the unasked portion of the question: "...when you were sold." "Four." she says. "Came here three weeks later."
There's a pang in Rachel's heart. This poor old woman, who'd spent almost all of her life working- no, slaving for her asinine family, had a son of her own, who could have been anywhere, doing anything. Southern hospitality be damned, there was something wrong with the picture as a whole.
"Do you have any idea where he could be?" Rachel inquires, feeling increasingly worse for Abilene.
She shakes her head slowly, adjusting her bandage. There's always been a certain sadness that Rachel had always associated with the woman, and she'd readily assumed it was because of her enslavement. All of the other slaves had a kind of sorrow all their own. But Abilene's was different, deeper-rooted, almost. She couldn't believe in all the years she'd known the old housemaid, she'd never known just why her sad eyes drooped the way they did, why her gait always seemed slanted, like the weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders.
Rachel ached to help. Anger and resentment boiled up in the pit of her stomach, threatening to pour out in the form of harsh words and curses at her father and all the other "gentlemen" she'd encountered. What good would it do, though? She couldn't get through to the pigheaded idiots if she tried.
Suddenly Abilene's eyes widen, and, shoving Rachel out of the washroom, she picks up the scrub brush from the wall and begins worrying herself with the wash tub.
Rachel understands immediately why as she hears the footsteps from the kitchen. Abilene's other senses have been dulled from years of work, but miraculously, her hearing is keen as ever. She smiles again at the maid once more before throwing her lady-like facade on and sauntering into the kitchen.
"Ah, Miss Dare!"
Her nails dig into the palms of her hands, under the countertop where Will can't see. "Hello again, Mr. Solace."
"I've just had a word with your father. I'll be seeing you at the gala!" Will smiles the kind of smile that makes not smacking him across the face very difficult. "I'll send for you, miss, don't worry about a thing."
"Why thank you Mr. Solace." she intones, not even attempting to weasel any false emotion into her voice. "I will see you then."
Will nods happily, completely unaware of her complete apathy. Either that, or he's choosing to ignore it. "Church was informative today, if I do say so myself."
You do. She muses, but keeps her mouth shut- a feat that's becoming increasingly difficult.
"If I recollect correctly, I do believe I have some prior business to attend to." Will tips his hat to her. "So I will be making your acquaintance at another time."
Rachel just nods, hoping he'll leave sooner rather than later. But he's already reached out for her hand, pulling it to his mouth to kiss. She resists the urge to vomit when he smiles against the back of her hand and glances up at her like some kind of sap. There cannot be enough soap and water in the entire world for her hand. She might have to entertain the option of cutting it off. She gulps down the bile and flashes the worst excuse for a smile as she can muster, and finally, he lets go of her hand. "Have a nice day, Miss Dare."
He leaves finally, whistling like an imbecile all the way.
Rachel sighs in relief, slumping against the kitchen counter. Finally she's rid of that man, although not for good. She'd have to deal with his presence at the Beauregard's gala, if not every day until then. It was April twenty-second, and the gala was the second week of June. The very thought of dealing with Will for just under two months sickens her.
"Rachel!" a voice bellows from upstairs.
It's her father, and after Will's irritable nature, speaking to this pigheaded idiot is not high on her 'to-do' list. But he'd persist, so she shuffles upstairs.
The parlor door is ajar, and as she pushes it open, it creaks loudly. "Yes, daddy?" she says, trying desperately not to sound condescending.
Her father spins around in his large leather chair. "Com'mere so I can see you right."
She obeys, although every fiber of her being tells her not to.
He seems to size her up like a head of cattle. It's not an uncommon occurrence. "He's a fine young man, that Will. Knows where he's off to in life."
She sneers, feeling the anger rise up in her throat. "I suppose." she murmurs through gritted teeth.
He's not paying attention, just puffing his tobacco, staring off out the window as if his thoughts are the only things that matter in the world. "A fine man..." he trails off. Suddenly, as if shocked by lightning, he jolts up in his seat, clapping his hands. "Ah! I've hired an Italian to work the fields where that one Jim used to."
Rachel swallows the biting words she wants so desperately to use. "Yes?"
He rises from his chair, only a measly inch or two taller than his eighteen year old daughter. "I'll need you to keep watch over him. Not sure how I can trust Italians."
"Keep watch, daddy?"
Her father nods. "He'll be fixin' to arrive in an hour. Meet the caravan outside the house, and tell the leader that the Italian's ours."
Wonderful. Another poor soul to add to their collection. "Do you know what he looks like, daddy?"
"Should be the only Italian on there. War criminal or something." he takes a long drag from his tobacco pipe. "He'll be a good hauler- or, aha! I could start some guard work for the property! Now that's something new."
"Yes, daddy."
He nods to himself, completely lost in thought. She hates it when he stares off like this, as if his own thoughts are a thousand times more important than whoever he's asked into the room. Unfortunately, it's a rather effective business tactic, and she finds herself using it when trying to... get her way. It makes people uncomfortable, makes it seem like there's something mysterious and unreadable about whoever's using it. Not that she enjoys being mysterious and unreadable. Well, not all the time.
"That all?" she asks pointedly.
He blinks, doing a sort of collective spasm like he's just been woken from a deep sleep. "Uh- yes, darlin', just be out waitin' for that caravan when it comes 'round. Want to make a good impression."
And show off your irritated daughter. She thinks, but doesn't speak.
She leaves him in much the same way as she found him; looking out on the fields, contemplating the fates of the hundreds of souls that he's condemned.
The caravan arrives an hour later, as promised. At least ten horse-drawn cage carts, each toting either supplies or slaves. She's seen caravans like this one, glanced over the men, caked in dirt and blood, and wished she could unlock the cages and set them free. But they'd be safer in a pit of lions than the good 'ol South.
"Miss Dare, I presume!"
There's a man with a bowler hat, leaning off the side of the front cart, his hand extended in greeting. His brown beard is neatly trimmed, mustache unfortunately not covering his mossy green smile. He hops off as the cart comes to a stop, strutting over to her like some sort of overgrown bird.
"Davis Prescott, at your service!" he tips his hat, showing off his balding head, and bows deeply. "I'm sure your father has informed you of our transaction. Ah, where might he be?"
"He's asked me to preform the sale."
"Ah, well, I'd be more comfortable with-"
"I am more than capable of buying this man from you." she interrupts, pulling the bills from her satchel.
His eyes widen at the money, and he moistens his lips eagerly, something Rachel finds absolutely revolting because his mustache gets in the way. "I think everything is in order, then- BILL! DAN! GET THE DAMN CAGE OPEN!"
She's a little startled at his sudden change of voice, and so are the two men a few carts back. They're haggard and exhausted-looking, but they scramble to get the cart cage open.
"Now about the cost..." Prescott says, his hands inching towards the cash in hand.
She pulls it away from him, trying out one of her father's more effective techniques- intimidation. "I will need a bill of sale as well as a look at the man. I will not buy a man who does not meet the exact specifications my father was given two weeks ago in Savannah. Do not try to swindle me, Mister Prescott."
"I- uh, swindle?" he motions frantically at the two haggard looking men, and they push a frail old man back into the cart. "Never would I dream of such a thing, Miss Dare!"
"Good. I believe you'd agreed on seven hundred dollars for an eighteen year old Italian. That man you were releasing did not either eighteen or Italian, Mister Prescott."
He opens and closes his mouth like a fish before clearing his throat. "I am sorry, my workers are not as mentally sound as you or I." He taps hi forehead and shows off that mossy smile again, now looking rather worried.
The two men come around the third cart, now with another man in tow.
His skin is dark- olive colored, maybe. That's the first thing she notices- she doesn't exactly see a wide spectrum of skin tones in the South. He's obviously not white, that much is clear. His disposition is slanted, as if he's been carrying all of his burdens on one shoulder. He reminds her of Abilene, in a way, but he looks strong, his biceps are defined, as well as his forearms, and there's scars all over them. His wrists are bound together with a scrap of old cloth.
One of Prescott's workers grabs his torn white shirt and pulls him forward, shoving him. The look Prescott gives the poor man is filled with hatred and distaste, and Rachel rethinks the notion she had to smack him across the face.
"Here he is Miss. Gave us a lot of trouble back in Charleston." Prescott says and slaps the poor man's back so hard Rachel can almost hear his teeth rattling.
She looks over the man. He doesn't speak, just stares her, straight in the eyes with the empty look of a haunted man. She has to repress the cold shiver that almost overcomes her. "Now, this is the man my father agreed upon." she says, breaking eye contact. The intensity of his gaze is too much. "Where is the bill of sale? I will not leave you without it."
Prescott reaches in his suit pocket. He hands a slip of yellowed paper to her. It crinkles as she opens it.
"To be worked until death.
This prisoner of War has now and henceforth the title of "slave".
Eighteen years of age; given the name Nico di Angelo.
Sold to The Dare Estate for seven hundred dollars."
She looks up again at the man whose life she'll be purchasing, which is a mistake, because he's still glaring at her with that same haunted look. Only eighteen and forced to a life of servitude. There's something hidden behind his eyes, something very… different. She's seen all sorts of looks in the eyes of the slaves that work on her family's estate. Anything from filled with tears to completely apathetic. He's quite strange in his look, his demeanor, and it's almost intriguing.
"This all seems to be in order, Mister Prescott. Here you are," she hands him the seven hundred dollars, which he eagerly receives. "Good day."
Prescott tips his hat again and hauls all kinds of ass getting his caravan out of the estate.
Once he's gone, Rachel sighs, letting the intimidating facade fall. "Oh good lord, I despise doing that." she turns to the man - Nico - and smiles. "I'm sorry I had to do that. It looks like those idiots roughed you up quite a bit."
He doesn't speak, just stares.
"Is this what you do? Stare?"
Nothing.
"I'll take that as a yes. Either way, I'm Rachel Elizabeth Dare. I'd rather you not call me 'Miss Dare', but most of our... attendants do." She doesn't exactly like using the word 'slave'. She motions towards the fields. "Unfortunately, you'll be working out there all day. The field hands are very nice, though, and if you have questions, old Cyrus is the one to help you. He'll be out in the field house."
Again, his answer is silence.
Well, this is turning out to be irritating, she muses.
"I suppose I'll walk you out, then."
She undoes the knot keeping his wrists together and begins the trek out to the field house. The entire way, he remains silent, looking straight ahead with those cold hazel eyes, as if he's heading for the gallows. Maybe he had been in this position before- a slave. She pushes the thought from her mind. It's bad enough this poor man now has to work for her family; she doesn't even want to think about what he might have had to go through before.
"Here it is."
The field house is essentially an unimpressive little shack, filled to the brim with beds and tools. Her father is perfectly fine spending a hundred dollars on a new suit, but he can't be bothered to build living quarters separate from the tool shed.
"Why hello Miss Dare!"
"Cyrus! How are you today?"
The old man hobbles out of the door, holding on to his walking stick for support. The poor old man has to be at least eighty, although Rachel has never asked him (not that he would care to keep track), his hands are gnarled from years in the fields and, his dark skin is leathery and scarred. He smiles at her every time he sees her, but the smile never reaches his eyes. "Fine, fine. Who's this boy come here, nah?" he motions at Nico with his stick.
"This is Nico, he'll be working the fields with you."
"Hmm. We ain't had no Spanish here."
"He's Italian."
"Italian?" he gasps, pronouncing it 'eye-talian'. "Nah, that's different! You speak English, boy?"
"I haven't been able to get a word out of him. Maybe you will."
"Ah, he be talkin' up a storm, no time 'tall." he motions Nico into the field house. "Come on in, we gots ta get ya set up. Thank ya Miss Dare!"
"Until next time, Cyrus." she says, and watches as Nico ambles into the shack, Cyrus hobbling along behind him.
She makes her way back to the house, but even though it's a sunny day, she feels cold. Something about that boy doesn't sit right.
She tries desperately to dismiss it, but even so; she doesn't sleep that night.
A/N: Thanks for the read! Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.