A/N: I'm really, really sorry I haven't updated the Hunter - hopefully I will get around to that by the end of this week - I've been swamped with homework and tests ... this - is a peace-offering - it's something I found on my hard-drive and I changed a couple of things and decided I'd upload it. It's an awful lot of drivel, but anyway. I've tried to do the character justice ... and failed miserably. But read and review ... constructive criticism is always great!
Passion
She stares defiantly into the sneering face of the playground bully.
"Alright, then, squirt," he leers, an ugly look coming into his washed-out, piggy blue eyes. "Show us what you're made of." His hands clench into fists, and she finds her own fingers curl automatically inwards, nails digging into her palms. She brushes away a strand of stringy brown hair and ducks to avoid a blow that would've broken her nose had it found its mark.
Her hyper-aware senses take in the gathering crowd of curious students, the beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as he lunges at her, missing, again and again – the hike in his breathing as he tires, the growing fear in his eyes as she retaliates, the surge of adrenaline in her bloodstream.
Her left fist connects with his nose and at the same time, she jerks her foot behind his ankle, sending him toppling to the ground, where he lies, breathing shallowly. There is a bruise blossoming on his temple – her lip is split and she can tell it will be horribly sore later. But she doesn't care. Power courses through her veins; there is a buzz of electricity humming in the base of her skull, and a feeling of complete and utter calm descends upon her as she stands, surveying her fallen opponent. She cracks her knuckles loudly, turning her gaze on her audience.
"Well?" she calls, in a voice that is oddly deep and hoarse for her size, "Anyone else wanna go?" She is nine years old.
It had started out as pure self-defense, but as she grew older, her role inadvertently switched from victim to bully. She found she enjoyed the thrill of the fight – the sounds - the adrenaline – the satisfaction she felt when her fist connected solidly with another person's jaw. It was part of her nature – more deep-flowing than the blood in her veins – a bit of her soul.
She hadn't meant to be a bully – and it was true that she never fought anyone who could not fight back – but somehow, she earned the reputation of one, and she found that reputations are hardier than some people believe them to be.
***
Myths have been her bedtime stories for as long as she can remember. Most nights her mother will sit at the edge of her bed, painting pictures in the air with her voice alone. Her mother has a lovely voice – when it is not ragged with pain and anger and drink. It brings the stories to life – the Labors of Herakles – the voyage of the Argonauts – the siege of Troy – her favorites are the recountings of ancient battles, fought on blood-stained grounds with savage armies and bloodthirsty men. She dreams of carrying a sword, with a polished hilt and gleaming blade, the plume in her helmet swaying in the wind as she slashes her way to victory. She imagines she is Achilles, invulnerable, unbeatable, glorious. She does not carry a shield.
And then her mother laughs vaguely, her eyes far away, and the spell is broken. She drifts out of the room – to drown herself in liquor – as she always does after speaking of the Olympians. She will wake in the morning, with a severe hangover, clutching her skull, screaming, "Lord Mars! Ares!" But no-one ever comes.
***
It is on her twelfth birthday that she gets a dagger – bronze hilt, burnished yellow blade made of a strange, unearthly metal. It arrives in the mail, wrapped in brown paper. There is no stamp. No return address. Her mother's lips turn thin and white and a wild look appears in her eyes, and she turns away, adamantly refusing to answer any and all questions.
She practices throwing it for weeks, only to have it confiscated by a teacher who sees her threatening another student. She vows revenge.
***
Sometimes she wishes she looked more like her mother. Her mother is beautiful – she has large, long-lashed blue eyes, glossy chestnut hair that falls to her slender, narrow waist, a full, shapely mouth.
Her hair is a mousy brown – it hangs in curtains around her face. Her skin is tanned, her eyes dark, her physique muscular. Her features are nothing like her mother's – more Latin than Caucasian. She emanates a don't-touch-me-or-you'll-get-hurt air that pretty much ensures she remains friendless. She doesn't get along with girls – she hates giggling and pink and make-up and boy-discussions, and she doesn't get along with the boys because boys in middle school are 'sexist pigs'. Only she's sure they're just jealous because she can lay each and every one of them flat in a fight.
Most of the time, she doesn't mind not having friends – she never is in a school long enough to make friends anyway. But sometimes, when she finds herself standing in a corner of the playground alone, watching her classmates exchange gossip and stories, she wishes she looked more like her mother.
***
She is thirteen when she discovers that she is a half-blood. A demigod. Not completely human. Special. And she isn't surprised. She's always known she was special – she's been wishing she was special for so long she's wished it into reality.
That is the summer her mother dies of acute alcoholism. And she's glad there's an afterlife because her mother deserves better.
***
She is fourteen when the spear-and-helmet appears over her head, after she knocks a fellow camper unconscious in a Capture-the-Flag game. And she understands her need to run headlong into a fight – her uncontrollable desire to remain in power – her blind urge to challenge, defeat, conquer. She is the daughter of Ares, the Greek deity of war, and she is passion personified. She trades her sword for a spear and swears that she will make her father proud.
***
She is fifteen when he comes to camp. And he brings pain and humiliation and jealousy with him. He degrades her without trying, and she hates him for it. And she hates him for making her feel jealous, because it is a petty emotion, but it is passionate and she loves passion and the hatred and the pain and the anger and humiliation exhaust her and she wishes that he wouldn't look at her like she's not worth his time, because it makes her feel so very small.
***
Sixteen, and she is finally sent on her first quest. And she fails – almost. She is saved at the last possible moment by him, and she realizes he is a good man – yes, man – and he has the makings of a true hero, something she's never had. And she breaks inside, because all she's ever wanted is a little pride from her father and now all she'll ever get is loathing, and disappointment, which hurts even more.
She cries herself to sleep that night, because she knows she doesn't deserve the cheers and hearty welcomes she gets when she brings back the Fleece – she didn't recover it, he did. And she cries - cries because she knows she isn't brave enough to tell the truth.
***
It is two summers later, after she returns from scouting the Labyrinth, that she comes to terms with herself. She is a warrior. She can take physical pain but it is the emotional she shrinks from. She is fiercely loyal and a good leader and she is good at hiding her own hurt, her cowardliness.
And she learns love. She learns how it can triumph over all adversaries, and cross any barriers – of race, belief, ideals … love makes all other things insignificant. And she scares herself with the power of her feelings, because she did not know she was capable of something so true.
When he sits up, lucid for the first time in months, she is overcome with emotion, and it is the first time she allows anyone to see her crying. And she finds that she is stronger afterward – stronger because it is the first time she has told anyone the truth.
***
She stands on the crest of the hill, watching the first rays of sunlight widen over the sky, lightening the color from navy to indigo, her hand resting on her sword hilt. Behind her spreads the slumbering army of campers; before her lies the battlefield.
She takes a deep breath; her armor rises heavily. In a few hours she will be in the front line of an army, and she will be fighting for herself, her friends, her family, her freedom. She will do this with what courage, honor, and dignity she has. She will do this with passion. A smile curves the corners of her lips; her eyes shine in the light of the dawn. And the plume in her helmet sways in the wind.
Fin.
A/N: You read through all of that? You deserve a cookie.