I thought it might be interesting to stray into new territory :b The usual disclaimer applies AND this story disregards 'Heroes of Olymp' (and therewith any other daugthers of a certain Titanness...)
Astral Projection and Mutual Affection
She'd expected all sorts of back-lashes. Chronic seizures from the extended period of time she'd been forced to spend under the ever sadistic wand-tip of Bellatrix LeStrange, nightmares from the people she'd watched die, aversions against specific places, panic-attacks at too loud, too abrupt noises… After all, she'd read all about PTSD, could see it happen day to day with her best friends.
Though both Ronald and Harry held up admirably she could easily pinpoint the strain it created in her friends' mental health to not be able to reach over whenever during night to check if each part of their Trio was still hale and alive – Molly strictly forbid any 'uncouth' behaviour under her roof: sharing a room a-third, after a year of doing so, it seemed, would be counted thusly. They suffered, too, from too large masses of people pushing in on them to get a good glimpse of them, to maybe shake either of their hands or even to talk to them.
After a period of more than a year doing your best to avoid being touched in any form that could become harmful – and there existed preciously few that of those that couldn't be twisted to fit a darker purpose – it still felt strange to be out in the open, showing your back to people you didn't know, couldn't count on. And Aurors were not the most trustworthy to rely on – at least not to someone who'd, for the most part, had been fighting off the Ministry in the last war.
And while, yes, she had the reoccurring nightmare about this or that (mostly Bellatrix and the Battle itself) the seizures left out completely, much to the astonishment of St Mungo's staff, able to tell that a Cruciatus-attack had taken place as well as guess a rough estimate of time (due to the fissures in her muscles) – they'd very nearly dissected her on the spot, curious about her divergence from the norm (Molly Weasley be thanked she was still in one piece); the fear of showing off too much 'back' never really left her and she could barely set foot in Hogwarts.
But the panic-attacks, a most regular occurrence for any of her friends (even Luna wasn't spared) left out completely and even the nightmares were mellow to a point where she could almost imagine that her mind had simply conjured it up – and it had never truly happened. Despite the fact that everyone, even herself, expected the drop in strength and power, expected a point of exhaustion, Hermione never stopped to be the backbone of the Golden Trio: walking as last and covering the backs of her boys one wand at the ready on each arm; camping out in the hallway with Ginny in front of their boys' room their door left open; carefully talking them down from another nightmare or panic attack.
Hermione, it appeared, only gained more momentum.
And she knew that it wasn't right – wasn't human.
Ransacking the poor left-overs of Hogwarts library left her none the wiser. Most of the Restricted Section, or what had survived the war without either discreetly making its' way into this or that private collection of a well-renowned family or going up in flames, had been appropriated by the Ministry of Magic – now even warier about suspicious texts making their way into the hands of young wizards and witches (Tom Riddle, after all, hadn't been a lot older than either of them when he'd first split his soul).
Her research came to a month-long, screeching and very dull halt about a month later, instead filled plentiful with the hearings of Death Eaters – Severus Snape's included; never mind that the man was dead… or very cleverly missing, considering that a body had never been found.
Curiously enough, it would be this man who'd turn out to be her saving grace – his true alliance revealed in the light of his demise, or rather disappearance, his apparently long-standing will would turn out to be enacted in the stead of his trial. Most of his possessions were turned over to the Ministry, most of them dark artefacts and even evidence for the 'misstep' of this or that more law-proof lordling or princess of ancient families. His money, an outrageous amount made by patents, was forwarded to Draco Malfoy, unwilling and, as attested, forced into compliance to serve a cause he neither supported nor would have chosen for himself. What the dour man considered salvageable of his books, however, in their entirety went to Hermione Jane Granger.
"Not such a doddering fool for a Gryffindor the young woman might very well know best how to treat such treasures – better, I am convinced, than certain ministry officials – to use them to their full potential."
The fact that, even in his death, her former potions professor managed to sound snarky and snide was not lost on her – and brought her a calming moment wherein everything was alright, and wherein the man himself said those words, instead of having them read out in the shaky voice of one such a wary ministry official. She was, later, too handed a personal, sealed, note from her professor, addressed to her but accorded the tired-looking Aurors the allowance to scan it before she even read it.
However the man held it too long for her comfort and so she bounced to the tips of her toes, inspecting the slip of parchment: curious.
Βρείτε τις απαντήσεις σας , όπου ποτέ δεν θα δούμε τους
έξω στη φύση, το τέλος του
το μεγάλο νησί που βλέπετε πέρα από τη λίμνηi
Admittedly her Greek was a little rusty, considering she'd learned it but had, unfortunately, had too little opportunity to use the language – even though she'd done her best to get hold of promising reading material. But if she wasn't completely off her scent than that looked promising; secretive… and promising.
If she was completely honest with herself though, she barely took her eyes of the mysterious parchment for one (very good, in her opinion) reason: it smelt like adventure. Now most of her peers would have graciously thanked Snape for the invite, maybe quite hopefully sent an Owl and never think of it again because, thank you enough adventure for a life-time sir – but Hermione Granger was cut of other wood.
What had, at first, been viewed by the witch as an impertinent halt to her fevered research could, she realized quickly, turn out to be a new turn in precisely that for the library of one Severus Snape had everything that others lacked – and more. However, even though Hermione was relatively certain to have correctly deciphered the place that Snape had directed her to, she was also well aware that, at this point, she could not leave.
It was barely September and the wounds of the war were still fresh with her friends – people that she could not abandon, no matter how strong the pull of the place tugged in her belly.
When he'd joined Camp Half-Blood, he'd largely felt settled – here, every single one of his oddities had an explanation, had a place. The dyslexia was exchanged for Ancient Greek (so much easier to read) and the ADHD for battle-readiness. His social standing literally went from zero to hero (oh mum, why the Disney films) and his family from unhappy mother with smelly companion to absent god-father (if only Grover would get that) and still beautiful mother.
Lately though his new-found security had started eroding in its' base.
He still liked it at Camp – it was the best he'd ever been treated, even when Mr D got forgetful of his name or Clarisse managed to trip him into the next-best puddle of mud (she fucking hates me, lalalala) – and he found, day by day, that he could still trust in himself, find himself capable.
But only barely.
His faith in his father, ever since Tyson had taught him a valuable lesson, had not once wavered and her relished in daily swims ere the morning rose with the creatures of his father – all sorts of fish romped about in his marine front-garden and the demi-god embraced it whole-heartedly.
Yet, he could tell as weeks passed that he started to need the calming effect his morning swims had on him – he would feel out of depth had he not taken them going as far as to forget basic steps in his weapons training and he would feel the call of the water stronger during the day until he would give in. Where before he'd never been lonely in his large house by the sea he could see that Anabeth noticed his change in behaviour and did not know what to make of it – so she gave him space.
A part of him was thankful that she did, thought it wise of her because he did not know what he would say in the confounded state he was in – but another part of him wished for her to show her head-strong side, butt through the wall that he felt he was erecting and demand that he raise his arse, use his vocal-chords and talk to her. He knew she was capable of it, had done it before more often than not, pulled him out of his funk when he had trapped himself too securely, too snugly – and the latter part didn't hold it to her kindly that she gave him space.
He opened his eyes to stare at the flora beneath him – allowing his minds to come to their conclusion in their own time, floating.
Because the thing was: he was becoming of age. He was a young man and he should be able to sort this out himself, without the help of a daughter of Athena. Quick-wits and best-friend or not, she wouldn't always be there; plus it was not her duty to sort out his troubles.
However, even knowing that and giving his best to kick his own butt, he found that he still felt queasy. As if he was a circle spasming into the form of a square at any given moment. He felt like a dead line waiting to be plugged in, switched on – and he couldn't help but wonder: why, all of a sudden? All these years and he'd never felt this desolate, this languid – as if he were living in cotton, his surroundings bleached white and his feelings dulled.
He wondered, too, what it was he was waiting for…
Hecate knew that she was one lucky woman.
Where her elders had been cut to pieces and spilt into the Tartarus, Zeus had, in her, not found a threat but a stand-in instead, and an honoured one at that. Where none of his siblings or children would lay hands on the dangerous art of true magic and witchcraft, she herself had been born and raised with it, melded and controlled it as easily as she breathed air. Certainly the means to control their realm, the Ichor and the power woven into various trinkets of the gods, to their understanding, was not magic per se rather than natural givens.
The Technically-A-Titan knew better, but had deferred from correcting her nieces and nephews.
Instead she had gratefully and humbly accepted the post as goddess of witchcraft and magic that her nephew bestowed to her and done her best to lay low. Considered one of the 'lesser gods' and not receiving a seat in Olympus should have angered her, but she found the exchange to be a fair one – Zeus and his brothers never did her wrong, or harm, instead honoured her and would share their seats with her.
While she'd, therefor, also never been included in the Heirloom-Clause, Hecate had thought it more prudent to not saunter about and bear offspring left and right. However after years and years of wandering and denying herself the simple wish of motherhood – herself and her men (and women if she were coming clean already) – she had finally given in to temptation. As she stood in front of the entrance to Olympus, taking deep, steadying breaths, she wondered if perhaps she wasn't about to condemn herself and her girl to certain death.
"It's okay." The strange boy smiled, waist-deep in the crystalline water. "They won't harm you."
She was about to ask what should harm her, but instead she looked down, finding two white sharks patiently riding the surf that rolled over the beach she was still standing on.
"How do you know?" she asked carefully, but slowly edging closer, intrigued by their big bodies; she'd never seen a Big White so close up in reality.
Green eyes smiled at her and if there would have been any glasses on his nose, she'd have thought that the stranger was Harry, given that he even had the same black hair but… but the build said something else.
"Massimo, Odessa – heel." The man called, instead of answering her outright.
And truly, like well-trained pups the sharks darted from their position – a startling moment for her – and towards the young man standing in the surf. She looked on to see what happened when the two dorsal-fins emerged from the water, circled him playfully before she realized that they were rubbing against him.
Still hesitant but slightly more confident, she strode towards the edge of the water, immersing her feet – the young man was too occupied running his hands over the large bodies of the sharks around him.
"How do you know their names?" she asked, carefully wading closer.
"I asked them of course." He smirked, eyes now back to hers.
Now that she got closer, she started to find all the differences from Harry: his hair was longer, curlier, his skin tanner, he lacked the freckles, though could measure up in the amount of scars, there was a tattoo on his right arm that looked suspiciously like 'S.P.Q.R.' which – for some reason – didn't sit right with her, and his hands were roughened – as if he were a fisherman and had lived on the sea all his life.
She didn't notice how close she'd come, standing immersed almost to her belly-button, until a rough skin tickled her thigh and she looked down to realize that one of the sharks was looking up at her, curious. "Massimo or Odessa?" she asked carefully, slowly lowering her fingers into the clear water.
"Massimo." The young man said softly kneading the back of the female shark that was now glued to his front, eyes closed in what she could only describe as bliss. "He's what they call the 'dumb and courageous'."
Hermione snorted but it got stuck in her throat when, closing the last centimetre of distance between them, the shark floated upwards towards her fingers.
She'd touched shark-skin once, in a zoo where they'd passed it around for the elementary-scholars to feel on an exhibition – but it was still different from actually feeling it.
The man chuckled softly. "Go ahead, he likes the soft fingers of women better than my coarse paws."
Hermione woke gently to the sun streaming through her window. The Burrow was yet silent and Hermione did not worry about it – soon enough, she knew doubtlessly, mayhem, of some sort, would ensue. Molly would rise from her bed, trudge down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast while humming a tune that Ginny had once identified as 'Fred's lullaby' – Hermione would go to help her, mutely. She'd tried to talk with the family about the losses, but ultimately that had not made it better; she'd stopped. Harry and Ron would the rouse from their sleep, woken by the smell of breakfast, as would George and Charlie, trained by years to be in the kitchen before there was nothing left. Ginny, too, would stand up at that time, take a quick shower ere the warm water was gone and then join her family at the breakfast table. Arthur, interestingly enough, would always be the last to join, give a kiss to the entire family, enjoy a coffee and a toast before flying off to the Ministry.
For once, she remembered, her dreams had not been about the war and she was happy to remind herself of the image of the young man – the tanned muscles and the mirth in his eyes. She smiled at the memory; today might just become a really good day.
Percy, for the first time in a long time, woke up perfectly fine. Stretching his limbs he found Tyson snoring peacefully in his cot, a book up-turned on his stomach, drooling out of the corner of his mouth.
Smiling he shook his head, but silently made towards their porch. The water underneath him was so clear that he could see to the very bottom of it while he took off his shirt – it would be cold, like every day, but oh so refreshing. Head-diving into the surf he relished at first in the feeling of being immersed in water while staying completely dry before he allowed the element to soak his scant clothing, touch his skin.
Diving lower he greeted the little fish-school right underneath his porch before making off deeper into the waters. Everything was saturated in colour today, kelp dancing in the tides, naiads flittering through their home, hermit crabs hustled over the dunes as if it were Morning Rush, all sorts of fish came to blubber happily into his direction by way of greeting – a motion that he all too happily returned – and he even found a travelling seal all too willing to fool around with him.
He felt energized in a way he hadn't in a long while when he returned to his Cabin, Tyson bustling about his part of the room to clear up his mess as much as was possible.
"Good morning, brother." He greeted him grinning and Tyson, gladly, returned the smile.
"Good morning, Percy." He smiled. "You're back early from your swim. Usually you miss breakfast."
"Time to break that streak isn't it?" he replied knowingly as he dried himself off. "Wouldn't do to have you lot worry about me becoming a hermit crab."
"Too late for that!" A new voice taunted from the entrance where he perceived Thalia, Annabeth and Grover – apparently coming to fetch Tyson for breakfast. The dark-haired woman had spoken, shaking her head at Percy. "Honestly, you can't go missing from fast that long and not have us worry whether or not that gourd of yours has finally cracked."
Playfully he shot the wet towel in her direction, pleased when she made a disgusted sound before it splatted down next to her. "You're lucky I didn't throw my trunks."
"Oh spare me!" Thalia shouted, whereas Annabeth quirked an eyebrow, arms crossing. "That's an image I would positively have never considered if you hadn't spoken of it, cousin, you berk!"
Smirking the demi-god in question shrugged before quickly vanishing behind a divider, shucking mentioned trunks discreetly and hopping into his clean clothes. He came out when he pulled the shirt over his head, looking for his shoes.
"So what's gotten you out of your shell?" Annabeth joked while she helped Tyson arrange his scrolls and papers on his desk – looking away from him.
For a moment Percy thought about talking to her about his dream: vivid and remembered to every little detail; he thought about asking her about any Goddesses she knew that would take such a form as the woman he'd seen, wondered shortly if there even was a female deity to bring calm to a troubled demi-god in their dreams, before he decided against it. Annabeth, as much as he loved her, erred on the side of caution – and dreams of gods (or rather goddesses) were rarely a good sign. Add to that the fact that they'd only decided two months ago to let their intimate relationship 'slide' in favour of keeping a close-knit friendship that strongly resembled sibling-hood – as it had previously been.
There were reasons for that, of course: they argued too much, differed too much in their opinions on how to go about things (started by eating pancakes and going as far as to wielding swords) and were both stubborn to a point where it hurt a healthy partnership – they'd managed, certainly, but if even Percy could see that it would not be worth it in the long shot, to lose such a precious friend that was, no doubt the daughter of Athena could see it. If he were completely honest he assumed that she'd been thinking of the right words to say to him in order to salvage what they could.
It took him a moment to realize that he hadn't answered the question. "Sorry." He mumbled embarrassed. "I… had a comforting dream."
His friends and relatives nodded knowingly, assuming that his father had come to him during his rest to ease his worries.
He wouldn't correct them on their presumptions.
Zeus tilted his head confusedly, staring at the nervous goddess amidst them – Poseidon, to his right darted him a side-ways glance which he chose to ignore. This was unprecedented, he knew, and unusual for a goddess such as Hecate, who'd at one point been known as a Virgin Goddess – she had long but laid down that title, with all complications that came with it, but, until these days, not once been with child.
"She is grown you say." He asked curiously.
Hecate nodded, biting her lip, before she pulled the appendix from between her teeth. "And matured, my lord. I am aware of my wrong-doing of not informing you any earlier… I was not certain if she'd make it to adulthood."
"Hecate, dear, no need for such titles." He admonished carefully. "There is nothing for you or your offspring to fear – I so swear. I am however curious. How come you worried for her life?"
The woman in front of him took another deep breath, eyes focussing on a spot above his right shoulder hanging between his brother and him.
"As you know Circe, my student, betrayed me early on and found herself a willing partner whom with she procreated – and from their loins, you could say, sprung a whole species. Witches and Wizards, these days, live in magical enclaves – and this you all know." The deities nodded. "However, in the last years one amongst them rose – twice – to claim absolute leadership, a boy by the name of Tom Riddle and had his actions not been so vile one might have had pity with him for his past. Be as that may, my child fought bravely with her companions to abolish him and there were times when, even as I watched her, I could not be certain that she would see the next day. It pained me to no end not to reveal myself to her but I thought it best under the circumstances."
Zeus, approvingly, nodded. According to law lesser gods were not forbidden from direct interaction with their offspring, but Hecate was a delicate topic and she was wise to err on the side of caution lest she started an argument. Fortified by his gesture the witch continued.
"My child survived and made certain her friends would as well – although these days she finds herself realizing that, perhaps, something is not as it is wont to be. For where her friends sag under stress, she blooms under the support that they need – as it was meant for our kind, to help the people should they so want it and act accordingly. She finds herself not tired, neither magically nor emotionally and I fear that she is hedging doubts, which is why I thought it prudent to alert you to her presence. It might be nothing at all, but I would rather you know of her."
Again the Father of Gods nodded sagely, this time stroking his beard. "Yet you have no designs for her?"
Hecate shook her head, smiling softly – reverently. "She is a will-full spirit, unrestrained at times and rarely allows herself to be tamed – to realize that a higher being would dare to manipulate her life, as surely she would understand it as such, would incite her ire that, while she is a good-hearted person, can amount to undesired peaks."
Again the man nodded, smiling a little. "It was the right thing to do, Hecate, for I have news for you that might please you." The woman stood a little taller, confident in her ability to listen and to learn.
"A while back Olympus found itself in grave danger and a hero arose – young Perseus Jackson, who is the son of none other than my brother to my right." At this her eyes darted shortly towards the tanned face of Poseidon, but otherwise gave no indication of her thoughts.
"He has done us great services, but objected to immortality, stating instead his own terms and we have hence done as he wished, for it is dishonourable to disregard such things." Twisting his beard a little, he took a deep breath – what Perseus had asked of them was… not uncommon for a demi-god, and he was not surprised… not entirely anyways, and yet it had proved audacity and impertinence that hadn't been seen since Heracles himself, Zeus could therefore not fault the boy for it.
"It was the wish of Perseus Jackson that all gods claim their children and that all children have a place at the Half-Blood Hill. And therefor that place does now have a cabin waiting for your child should she so wish it – and she might, should the τέραταii come after her. There has been calm for some time now, and it might even do all our children some good to see yours for once, and realize that there are other unknown things out there as well."
The lush trees around them swayed in the gentle breeze, the nymphs dancing from branch to branch, sometimes falling in jest only to grab on to a branch and catapult themselves upwards again. The falling pine-needles bounced off the protective shield she'd cast around them as they lay in the soft moss, enjoying the coolness of the forest and the interloping, warm rays of sun that caught them sometimes.
"Tell me the story again." He asked, cradling her closer to his front.
Hermione turned to face him, up close she could see the weathered layers of his skin, the stress lines around his eyes that could hold as much pain as Harry's – she wondered for a moment if perhaps this wasn't her version of Harry (and why she'd dream of him), but that didn't seem right. No, he was his own person.
"Why do you like to hear it so much?"
He pulled her closer again, his arm flexing around her the scent of the sea lulling her into safety and she cuddled closer, burrowing her head underneath his chin where she fit perfectly – her own hands caught between them.
"I like that you became heroes, and I like that all of you survived."
It was an odd thing to say – certainly – and she wasn't even convinced that the two of them had the same definition of 'heroes' (it felt different when he said it), but for some reason it explained everything and she took it as it was. She wondered if he'd like it if she told him how both Harry and Ron were currently faring but decided that he needn't know – let him have his illusions.
She woke up contently, but mildly disappointed to not find herself in an embrace of two tanned arms that enveloped her in the smell of the sea – salty, windy and fresh – but instead found herself veritably trapped in her blanket. She sighed, slightly hopeless, before, giggling, she dove deeper into her blanket.
The dreams had continued for weeks now, every time in a foreign environment – safe from what she could garner – and so far their friendship had but progressed. Curiously enough she had never once wondered about his name – not in her sleeping hours either way, if ever she did it would be while she was awake, tracing his face with her inner eye.
While she had not brought it over herself to confess to her friends and her family about her nightly visions – Harry, especially, would very likely advise her to find a way to halt them, given his history with dreams in relations to megalomaniacs – she had conceded to have found an outlet that brought her joy, if not satisfaction.
In the distance, she could hear a dog howl – as she'd heard in the last few weeks, it would appear that one of the ever elusive neighbours of the Burrow had found themselves a pet animal that would greet the day boisterously. She smiled even at that as she rose from her bedding, the blankets pooling at her waist.
Today, as any other day, she would give her best to support what was slowly becoming a slightly more solid Weasley Household – Snape's letter (and consecutive promise) rested on her nightstand.
Something was troubling Thalia, although he could not precisely pinpoint what – or who? – it might be, or when it had started. One he'd managed to return to his usual rhythm of life in Camp Half-Blood however, it wasn't all that hard to realize that his cousin was quieter than normally.
Where snark and sarcasm had prevailed there was now expectant silence filled with pointed looks into the direction of the black-haired daughter of Zeus. But she was elsewhere.
Whatever it was that occupied her so much no one was able to guess and even when Grover had made discreet inquiries had it yielded nothing – which had resulted in a downtrodden Sartyr full of self-blame. And the fact that Thalia – while the two of them were basically joined at the hip – had not yet made a move to placate said Sartyr was what had tipped Percy off for good.
Under any other circumstances Zeus' daughter would have been the first to soothe any bruises or hurts Grover might nurse.
Also, under any other circumstances Percy would never have assumed to question the demi-god about it: but Grover was his friend, he felt hyped from his dreams and if something was about to happen it might be good to know up front. Annabeth had looked stunned when he'd presented his reasoning to her (leaving out his dreams that were still, naturally, a mystery to his fellow campers) and had not found a – rational – argument to stop him.
Such was the reason he, mutely, joined his cousin in her daily tribute to her tree.
Ever since she'd woken, whereas tree and shield remained intact and in abeyance, the demi-goddess had understood it as a material sign of her father's claim to her – like a present; and would pray to it daily, sometimes alone, sometimes in company.
Percy knew the value each and every claimed child of the gods put in such gifts – he was no different from them in that aspect after all – and respected the manifold ways every one of them treated their presents. So he stood with Thalia, allowing his mind to come to peace as he waited.
"You look anxious, Aunt." The witch-goddess turned from her spot in front of the magical barriers at the familiar voice, caressing the soft fur of the black pup in her arms.
"That's because I am, my beautiful Athena." She smiled unapologetically, but soft.
The fair goddess closed in on her Aunt, curtsying shortly – as she did to elders – ere she bestowed a kiss to the woman's right cheek. As she backed away, she too directed her keen eyes towards the crooked house that held yet another demi-goddess, the first of her kind. "It will mean a lot of change in her life." The goddess of wisdom breathed before she looked at her father's cousin again. "But so it has for all of our children – and it will answer quite a plethora of her inquiries."
Hecate smiled. "You sound intrigued."
"Oh, I am." Athena admitted, cheeks rosy as she smiled. "She has not set foot into our world yet, but already possesses the stuff to make a hero. You have an exceptional child, Hecate. Gifted and ever so intelligent. I pray that she shall always find light in the darkness."
With a gust of wind, she left and the Witch-Goddess found herself alone again. "Well then, δόντι ζώουiii", she addressed the pup in her hands, "better fess up after such a blessing from her Aunt."
Taking a fortifying breath, she crossed the wards.
He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but to be truthful he was rather certain that this hadn't been it.
"Duck!"
The curly-haired woman he'd recently gotten to know as a friend – and potentially something more – turned towards him from his right-hand-side, pummelling him. The full body impact of her considerably small and lithe form – especially in comparison to him – successfully sent him stumbling out of the range of a lightning streak whizzing past his head by a hair's breadth.
"What are you doing here?!"
"What is this?!"
They'd spoken at the same time and, both a little unwilling to be the first to answer, stared at each other for the duration of a breath, before she pulled him away from the fray.
Only now was he able to take in the full extent of what he'd quickly deciphered to be a battlefield. What had been a lightning streak before now identified as a spell, pure magic whizzing over an erstwhile green glacis left and right taking down opponents that he could not keep apart in the dark.
"What is this?" he repeated, his hand instinctively going for Riptide.
The young woman pulled him onward, away from the field and towards a large building he could not make out in its entirety – it held steadfastly under the onslaught, strong and safe even in the face of war. Finally secure in one of its' nooks, the woman turned to him – her features were drawn, thinner than he remembered, her eyes sunken and tired and he wondered if this was her, or a mere mirage of her.
"The battle I told you about." She answered in a hushed voice, it was smoky from an injury whose scar he could perceive at the left side of her throat. Her eyes whirred about in panic. "You… came at an inopportune moment."
He needn't be told that this was a nightmare of hers – perhaps even a recurring one, if the heroic stories she'd told him were even only partly true. "I can help." He offered, pulling his Heavenly Steel – but the woman shook her head, forcefully.
"No… no, if I-", she didn't finish the sentence in favour of jumping when a spell landed perilously close to them. The woman shook herself out of her stupor, before giving him a wild look; the sort he, by now, knew how to interpret as the look of someone about to do something stupid, heroic and epic, but ultimately stupid and suicidal.
Percy was about to ask her not to do it, but as he reached out to grasp her hand, she easily evaded him, stepping out of the sanctum that was their nook. "I am sorry you have to see this – I don't even know how to remove this from your memory, if even you remember this."
A mad cackle that echoed over the field caught her attention enough to tear her eyes from him, followed by eerie silence and the disheartening call that 'Harry Potter was dead' – darkness that had been at the very verge of being defeated seemed to take over, seemed to seep into the very pores of Percy's body and he wondered if the metaphor would end her before he was blinded by a golden beam the likes of which he'd first seen at the beach of Santa Monica.
'Impossible.' He wanted to say but before he could he was evicted from the battlefield – and fell into stillness and slumber.
i Find your answers , where you would never seek them, in the wilderness, at the peak of the large island you see across the pond
ii terata; monsters
iii dónti zóou; fang
So, I got this title as a writing prompt (from here: ) and kind of came up with this, I've tried to continue this, but without success so far - at least in my opinion, I can be very critical about my stuff these days.
Let me know what you think!