Title: Just As Warriors Always Do.
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians, future!fic.
Author: Sister Grimm Erin, for her beloved Neko.
Prompt: "Time heals all wounds. (But I'm still bleeding.)"
Genre: Tragedy / General.
Soundtrack: "Clumsy", Our Lady Peace.
Length: 435 words.
Rating: K+
It was brightly sunny the day the young man exchanged one desert for another.
He was padded through a strict security regime, particularly due to his dusky skin. The boy he had once been originated in a farm somewhere hopefully north of the Mexican border, but he rather doubted the disclosure of that information would speed his destination.
He has a few belongings in his suitcase- necessary clothes, a First Aid kit, a stack of papers, passport- and the important stuff is waiting for him in Iran. Having learned patience and how to rein in his temper the hard way, he tolerates the indignities and remains quiet.
Finally, he is allowed to board the plane.
The girl he sits next to is nervous, tense and preoccupied, and for this the young man is glad. People in general seemed to feel the need to avoid him, but every now and then one would try to reach past his façade, to get to know the dark-eyed and long-haired stranger beside them.
Discouraging them could take an entire ride when he needed to be planning a mission.
The young man wore a rune that had once belonged to someone more deserving around his neck. His hair was thick and dark, his eyes were the color of crimson wine, and a restlessness that would never fade dwelt deep-seated in his core.
Something in the set of his shoulders indicates poise. He is leonine and finally grown into his height. He is currently in the best years of his life, and the occasional woman is drawn to the danger that crackles in the air around him.
He is in the prime of his physical well-being, but he lost everything he ever had a long time ago.
The man- young in body, ancient in tragedy, wise in the ways of the world- watches the plane take off. He travels so much, the novelty of being airborne has worn off long ago- but the moment of leaving the Earth behind is one he still pays attention to.
Soon, he can see only the inside of a storm cloud.
The young man shakes off the beginning of a chill at his back and removes a notebook from his carry-on sling.
He busies himself in his task long after the other passengers are asleep. In his calling, sleep is more of an accident than an intention.
When Morpheus seeks him, he surrenders once in the long passage.
The image of a born warrior haunts his sleep.
Instinctually, the young man finds the rune with his thumb and forefinger.
He keeps expecting to find someone looking over his shoulder, even after all this time.
The thought clutches at him and he turns back to his work, the penance he thinks what he'll never find would have liked.
Scratch that- the young man knows the person who once wore the leather cord would have loved it, and every time he sees a ghost over his shoulder is worth it if he's doing something the warrior would have been proud of.
The plane touches down in the desert, and the young man puts the mask over his face.
He has his scars, but he has his duty and he has his honor, just as warriors always do. His old mantra, quoted from someone surprisingly omniscent, echoed in his ears:
There's a war that needs fighting, and there's a battle every step of the way, so don't think about what you'd rather not delay.