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Disclaimer: I do not make any money off this work of fanfiction. All rights for the characters in Percy Jackson and the Olympians and Heroes of Olympus go to Rick Riordan and all who were involved in the creation of the novels.
10. Function, Form, and the Properties of Godly Stratification: an examination of reconciliation
Perseus gripped his spear tight. Under the final vestiges of day, he waited to hear a response. The challenge was issued, half-cocked and declared through his rousing sense of aggravation. All he could do was wait to hear what response he met with.
Staring into the violet blaze that opposed him, the decision suddenly seemed stupid. It wasn't as if he'd been guaranteed to walk away with both life and limb perfectly intact. What assurances could have even been given to him? He didn't know of anything that forced a god into a contract. He was working off of good-will alone, which didn't inspire much confidence in him.
Not the smartest choice he'd ever made.
Mithras' shoulders shook, short snickers leaving through clenched teeth in sporadic gaps. "Now that's an attitude I can get behind. I love the spirit, kid. Here, as promised."
The notebook soared through the air, almost hitting Perseus in the face had he not caught it at the last second. It was a small thing. Perhaps only three by five inches and not thick in the slightest. Cracked leather wrapped around the front and back cover, giving the worn journal a decent enough appearance.
Just as he went to flick it open, a finger pressed itself onto his chest.
He was given the barest of seconds to process that Mithras had closed the gap between them. Then the world was sucked into a void, taking him along with it. For a few awful seconds, all he could feel was his gastrointestinal tract being forced up through his nose, right before things became clear once more.
His knees nearly failed him, something that his brain had no trouble doing, vision shattering into a thousand different pieces. He could only see small dots as they danced across his eyes, sending his balance off-kilter. Even though he wanted to stay calm, instinct took over as each of his senses failed. A staggered step back saw him almost falling to the suddenly squishy ground.
Instead of panicking further, he brought a clenched fist up to his face, biting deep into his first knuckle. Slower than he would've liked, the nausea passed, taking with it the shattered sight-pattern.
The world came together at last.
Mithras was tossing his saber back and forth between each hand, watching him like a hawk. Around them, cabbage—or some other leafy green food—sprouted from the ground in abundance, marking great rows of vegetables that spread for a good distance onward. The soil underfoot was soft and malleable, almost sucking him into the ground.
Looking at the darkened sky, he found thick clouds covering most of the moon. The only reason he could see at all was because of a floating ball of fire several feet above him. The warm glow of orange light brightened an otherwise black battleground.
"Ten minutes… tick… tock… tick… tock."
The god's voice startled him back into the severity of his situation. Wasting time observing his surroundings wasn't optimal. He only had a handful of minutes to learn enough so he could put up a half-way decent fight.
Clenching his hand, his eyes widened at the realization that neither palm held anything. Head swiveling down, he frantically scanned the area in search of both his missing items. He'd never even realized that he let go of them. Of all the times to lose Impetus, right before a fight was probably the worst of them all.
While turning around, his eye caught sight of something to his right.
His spear and the notebook, bundled on top of one another.
Letting go of a sigh, he scooped down and picked them up, flipping the book open to the first page. Had he been in almost any other situation, maybe he'd have acted more reverently toward the knowledge recorded by a god. Hell, he might've actually cared that it was written about his father—a Titan.
Given his time constraints, he opted to let his eyes devour the words jotted on each page in black ink. He scanned the pages, looking for keywords that would give him what he needed to know. Power. That's what first came to mind when pitted against a god.
Next came utilitarianism. He'd need something that could be useful in more ways than one. Options. Fast options that had options themselves. Something like that. An ability that could give him a slew of choices in the heat of battle. Keep the enemy guessing, and they'll be too focused on reacting to make proper moves.
He skimmed the first few pages, stopping once he noticed that what he was reading wasn't in English. Nor did it look like Greek or Latin. Instead of characters written with neat lines and curves, he saw a series of boxes with varying amounts of dots inside them. While he was tempted to question what language the notes were taken in, there wasn't time.
The more pressing concern was how he could understand the notes at all; with even that not being important enough to take attention away from his task.
When he didn't see anything that fit the criteria he'd ingrained into his mind, he started to flick through book faster. Most of the first few pages sounded introductory anyway. He could always return to the text for future study.
After searching for what felt like hours, he picked up on something that seemed right. Squinting, he read the heading title that was written in deep bold boxes and dots.
'Titanic Energy? Better than nothing I guess.'
[AaMT]
Jason stopped and cocked his head to the side, seeing Lady Pax's distant scowl. "Erm, are you alright?"
The goddess took a moment to respond, her eyes finding their way out the windows. They narrowed, though there was some confusion tinging her face as well. "I'm not sure why, but I feel like something just changed. A shift in the currents of peace, if you will. It's almost as if… a decision was made… which will have consequences for years to come. How worrisome."
Not sure how to respond, he a look at Reyna, who returned his gesture with a worried shrug. Whatever the problem was, he really wasn't tempted to know much more about it. Already, he'd been given too much to think about. Adding more to his troubles might end up working against his favor, psychologically speaking.
With all that was happening, he'd have to keep calm. Reyna had talked to him on the bus ride while Percy slept, empathizing with him for his inclination to help people. More specifically, she'd brought up the train incident, coaxing him to speak with her on the subject.
He knew discussing it was for the best. True, the topic was an uncomfortable one since he'd failed as a leader—which he now recognized, with a little help—but talking it over with somebody more understanding helped him come to terms with his actions.
Yes, he'd failed clinically speaking. Still, their quest continued with each member relatively unharmed. Their duty to Camp Jupiter remained so long as they lived, which he intended to keep for as long as he could.
Even though he'd faltered at a pivotal moment, the circumstances saw fit to give him a second chance. If anybody but Percy had been on the quest with them… well, they probably would have all died trying to save those people.
Fate seemed to have different plans, though.
Or maybe Lady Vesta had somehow foreseen Percy's usefulness in remaining collected during tough situations. That could very well have been the reason she'd given the relative newcomer a chance to go on the quest. The more he thought about it, the more it sounded likely that Lady Vesta was a great judge of character.
"Enough about that, though," Lady Pax said, shaking her head in a quick, jarring motion. "Let's get back to the topic at hand. You two had questions to ask me, I believe."
Jason nodded briefly, looking at the goddess. "Yes. I have to wonder… do the traitors"—he noticed a flinch at his choice of words—"have any intention of willfully re-integrating themselves back into the legion? If they chose to leave, then what's stopping them from leaving again? Wouldn't it be fair to say that the gods can't really give more attention to us, since you're bound by whatever these ancient rules are?"
He paused, seeing her face grow dim, and tried to backtrack. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is… or rather, what I want to know… do you think things are going to change? Will the gods ever give us what we want?"
There came no response.
Sighing, he gave a rueful smile, trying to mask the disappointment from her telling silence. "Yeah, I didn't think it would be so easy. Can't blame me for hoping, though."
"It isn't that we don't… no… most of us do want to be there with our children!" Lady Pax interjected with vehemence. Her expression betrayed her tone, though, only further painting a frustrating image. "But we can't ignore these regulations. They're there for a reason! Destiny is a fickle thing. It can be changed with the slightest of whispers, the softest of nudges.
"Already, there are millions of strands of Fate for every mortal. Each one is predicated on the line that attaches to it before, and before that, and before that. It's something like a web. Gods are like storms, ruining each intricate weave without hesitance. We must be kept in check, otherwise, we might unknowingly begin a series of events that spiral out of our control."
Reyna inched forward, pressing her face close to Jason's right shoulder. "Who made these laws, if I may ask? My mother once told me about them, but nothing concrete. It doesn't seem like anybody else knows much either. And all the information in New Rome's library doesn't give anything solid."
"Who else could it have been, other than Necessitas herself? She is a dictator of Fate, in the most literal and connotative of meanings. Her laws are binding. Some more than others. Those rules which apply to our interaction with mortals are especially stringent. Gods break those rules, and they were swiftly given their sentence. She is judge, jury, and executioner. Necessitas knows no mercy in that respect."
The goddess grimaced, her lips were pursed and her neck muscles became visible. Her amber eyes became glassy and lost in some faraway place. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and filled with morbid fascination. "You've never experienced fear until you hear the wretched death throes of a god being forcefully stripped of their domain. After that, when you think the screaming has stopped because their vocal cords have torn, their immortal essence is rent from them. They bleed from every valid orifice, ichor changing from gold into bronze, then into red blood.
"I wouldn't call what they do screaming, after that. It's ungodly. Horrible. Then… well then comes the spindle. It ascends from the earth itself, shining brighter than the celestial bodies themselves. Strings of gold and silver wrap around each appendage of the offender, tight enough to bulge their skin. The spindle turns, slow and methodical. It pulls. It tears. And so the Fatebinder kills the lawbreaker. Destiny changes, apparently for the better."
With a hollow chuckle, she set her folded her trembling hands on the table, gripping her fingers with crushing force. She released a shaky breath and screwed her eyes shut.
Jason felt his eyes stay wide even after she'd finished telling the story. He'd never figured that the gods could be killed in such a manner. Most of the gods who weren't around anymore had faded, due to either their domain being diminished or through their essence being scattered and unable to reform. Actually killing a god, though, hadn't really been a possibility.
Gods were dignified. They didn't scream in pain.
Gods were powerful. They didn't let themselves get torn apart.
Gods were immortal. They didn't bleed like mortal creatures. They couldn't die.
"How many?" he asked.
"More than you might think," Lady Pax whispered. "We are foolish… prideful beings. Often, we think ourselves the master of our own destiny. But that just isn't true. Everybody's fate is forever changing, never truly set in stone. There are an almost unlimited amount of outcomes for any one creature. All we can do is play along. Necessitas isn't a normal entity. She does not have scruples when something concerns her laws. Her word is absolute. Unlike us, she cares for nothing except for the title of Destiny. Luckily for mortals, she has no regulations leveled against you. Otherwise, I fear your entire people might have already fallen to her tyranny."
He felt his stomach sink further. "I see. Well, it's understandable that you'd want to keep yourself intact. At least the reasons are fair."
"I don't get it," Reyna said. "How are the Titans waging war then? Wouldn't they have to fight demigods to win? Isn't that breaking the whole 'no fighting unless challenged' deal?"
"Such is the reason they've gathered that large force of monsters and other demigods. Such is the reason they have not yet destroyed Camp Jupiter with their power, even while Othrys lies so close. Such is the reason that Saturn keeps himself locked in a mortal shell for the time being, biding his time in case he needs to step into the fray. The Titans have made many concessions to fight against the gods. If not for Necessitas' laws, I fear that this country would already have become a wasteland, ruined by the struggle between deities. Make no mistake, though, that eventually the Titans will slip up. I have no doubt that one of them will foolishly attack a demigod, forcing the Fatebinder's hand once more. Hyperion, most likely. He is far too brash."
Taking a sip of his soda, he moistened his dry mouth. Suddenly, it was becoming clear. The Titans hadn't just up and started to wage war without a plan. They'd already been working behind the scenes to amass large numbers of monsters to their cause, specifically to combat demigods. They were cutting off the gods' minor allies, lowering the number of potential enemies they would have to battle against by swaying half-bloods. They weren't attacking the country's infrastructure to weaken the West, all to avoid killing random civilians.
The Titans had planned for a long war if necessary.
"Can we win against Saturn and his forces?" He forced his voice not to tremble, channeling his inner Percy-face.
Lady Pax stared long and hard, the olive branch in her hand glowing softly with wisps of gold power. "There's little doubt in my mind. Against his monster forces, the gods can assist. Against his small demigod forces, your dedication will surpass their will. What I'm worried about is Saturn himself. With his essence mixed in a mortal shell… us gods might not be able to attack him first. He'll surely use this to his advantage and remain inside of his host until his full power returns.
"Once that happens… well… if he learned anything from the last Titan War, he'll keep his brothers close. United, the Elder Titans cannot lose. Four of them were enough to hold Caelus, the Sky himself. If all six brothers stand together, nothing can be guaranteed."
[AaMT]
Perseus had just started to turn a new page on the subject of Titanic Energy when he was interrupted by a rather chilling declaration.
"Time's up, kid!" Mithras called. His earnest baritone cut through the otherwise imposing silence of night. Sword swinging through the air, he caught his saber in one hand with a flourish of bloody steel. Flecks of red flew through the air, staining a few cabbages with small droplets. "En garde."
The god advanced with a sprint, running between the vegetable column at an inhuman clip. Purple eyes burned brighter than the orange flames that hovered above, gleaming with crazed delight. Once within range, he made his first attack, telegraphed clear as day.
Impetus raised to intercept the downward slash. The air hissed as both weapons met, a loud screech of defiance racing across the field. Perseus tucked the small notebook in his back pocket, hoping it wouldn't be lost in the ensuing fight. He pushed back against the god's formidable strength before disengaging himself.
Keeping fair distance would be a must. Impetus was probably a good two feet longer than Mithras' saber, which meant that it held the reach advantage. He'd have to be an idiot not to take initiative after successful guard breaks.
Sweeping low with his spear, he swung it in a massive arc, aiming for the ankles. Debilitating his opponent would also be necessary. By the way he'd run, it was clear that Mithras held the upper-hand in terms of speed.
That is, unless one of his legs was crippled.
Perseus watched as the spear was stopped dead due to Mithras' own saber having come around. He was pushed back by a rapid swipe at his face, irritated that his foe had closed the gap once more. Ducking under another slash, he choked up on Impetus and used the shortened length to drive a counter.
Their blades met again, locking as the saber's edge ground audibly on Impetus' wing.
"You know," he grunted, staring at the god curiously, "I can't really figure out why you're going to all this trouble to help me. What've you got to gain?"
Mithras grinned wider and pushed with more strength. "That's the million dollar question right there, kid. I might just want to see you break some things. This felt like the best way to do it. Of course, along the way, no doubt you'd get some of my dirty work done for me. Anybody who claims to have nothing but your best interests at heart is either dishonest... or your parent. Sometimes it can be both."
They backed off at the same time, pedaling away before rushing in once more. Blows were exchanged with extended vigor, each attack taking its toll. Being a mortal, he'd expected to fight fatigue, but for his expectation to bear fruit so soon was disheartening. He would damn his human half; if only that hadn't been basically like damning his mother, which he wasn't particularly privy to do.
Truth be told, so far into the fight, he'd figured to have been a bit bloodied but ready to continue for hours. He wouldn't have pegged himself being practically uninjured yet wheezing from the strain. Maybe he overestimated his opponent and underestimated himself?
Possible, if somewhat unlikely.
Bringing his arm up to block another slash, he saw Mithras yank his own sword away and redirect his attack in the span of a second. Instead of coming from the left, the saber was suddenly approaching from the ground up, ready to split his head in two. Making a quick judgment call, Impetus came up between them to slow the sword's upward movement just enough for him to dive out of harm's way.
His shoulder hit the ground as he rolled to his feet, already having to duck another string of rapid-fire thrusts and swings from his opponent.
Expending too much energy would be bad. He was feeling the effects of prolonged combat. No doubt, a god's constitution was higher than his own, meaning he'd need to find a way to land a good, solid hit with either Impetus or his rending. Both would work in delivering massive damage if placed in the right area.
One hit could end it all.
Unfortunately, the sentiment went both ways.
Good that he still had a plausible trump card to pull, then. The information on Titanic Energy had been extremely interesting to read, even if most of it had focused on the theoretical aspect. At least there was a bit of practical application in using the power.
All he needed to do was want to do it.
During his reading, he'd realized that he might have actually been unwittingly using a deviant version of Titanic Energy whenever he threw a pilum back in Camp Jupiter. With each toss, he'd felt like the javelins propelled themselves forward faster than normal when leaving his hand.
If he could recreate that feeling only propelling the particles around him, he'd be in like Flynn.
To his chagrin, he hadn't measured his time properly and ended up fighting before testing his theory. He wasn't sure it would work the way he wanted. In addition, Mithras no doubt already knew about the Titanic Energy, which meant he wouldn't be caught off guard by a direct usage of the power.
Creativity was key. The ideal situation would see him make an opening and then successfully execute a technique he was mostly unfamiliar with.
Cake.
He blocked another incoming attack, locking their weapons once more. "So how did you go from a Persian sun god to a Roman war god anyway? Seems like a downgrade if you ask me."
Mithras sneered. "Oh, in some ways it was. I hated having forgone my roots for a few decades. Despised myself, in fact. The Roman conquest of the Ancient Near East should have sounded my death knell, had I not managed to catch the fancy of those passing conquerors. It was then that I was presented a choice: either move with the currents of time, or forever be lost to the annals of history. As you can see, I chose the latter!"
The god back away and spun around, delivering a raging back fist that caught Perseus across the cheek.
Staggering away, he grimaced at the warm glow in his jaw. He blinked just in time to see the saber coming for his gut. Through a quick twist of his foot, he managed to keep himself from being impaled, suffering a long gash along his ribs for the trouble.
Hot pain forced a hiss of anger and discomfort from his lips, fighting past his clenched teeth. Letting his eyes fall on the wound, he figured the danger of bleeding out was slim.
A quick breath of cool air calmed his zealous nerves. The timing was still off. He wasn't sure if he could use the Titanic Energy the way he was planning, though he hoped that enough desire was the key.
Who would have figured bending universal laws was hard?
If he could buy himself just another minute…
"Some of those attacks could've killed me, ya know?"
Mithras laughed. "I said that killing you wasn't my intention. Not that I would go out of my way to ensure your safety. Don't think, not even for a minute, that your life is guaranteed against me. If you die during the warm-up, then all the better. I save myself the trouble of having taken an interest in a worthless child. If you live, then at least I know you're worth my time. Tell me, how does it feel to fight a god?"
"Well, first blood goes to you," he acknowledged with a grudging nod. "Took longer than I expected from a war god though. Color me disappointed. Maybe you'd have done better in your Persian form?"
"Whether I could or couldn't have isn't a matter of discussion," Mithras replied. "War is all that I am now. My other persona died long ago. Once I fully accepted my new position… I became what I claimed to be."
"And is that really so great?" he asked, buckling his torso's weight away from the injured side. "Isn't your job position a bit saturated by now? I mean, how many Roman gods of war are there? Bellona, Mars, Nerio, Quirinius, Securitas—to some extent… what's so special about you?"
A snarl edged its way onto the god's mouth, deforming his grin into something animalistic and rabid. "Those names mean nothing to me. They are not the ones who revel in war like I do. They don't gorge themselves on the blood of an enemy like I do. None of them incite conflict—like I do! I am the specter of terror in battle, the horror of brutality in dealing with civilians, the pestilence that sweeps across lands once fertile! It is war that makes people stronger. It is war that molds the strongest beings of this world. Civilizations rise and fall through war and the lack thereof. Every nation is born of bloodshed. Every person alive today is only breathing because their ancestors fought and died on the battlefield.
"My domain will not be denied its rightful place among the lives of mortals and immortals alike! I refuse to see it be crushed by peace of all things! War… war never changes. Boiled down to its simplest formula, it is conflict. The means may change, the scale may differ, the reasons might shift, but make no mistake… war is what keeps us in motion. And I plan to force the wheel to move if I have to. Those other gods don't actively create war. If they don't, then I will. May their carrion bloat the crows into decadent decay."
Perseus listened half-heartedly to the tirade, more focused on finding his second-wind and playing his hand in proper form. He'd managed to keep Mithras talking long enough.
He was confident.
It would work.
Giving the god a grim smile, he couldn't help but comment, "A Fallout reference. 1997. It suits you."
He heaved Impetus over his head with one hand, bringing the butt of his spear down onto the ground with as much force as he could muster, envisioning his stamina draining and pushing out from his body.
The influence he exerted over reality was tenuous at best, only barely formed and not very intrinsic. Even so, a bubble of expanding energy exploded from around him, blasting dirt, rock, and vegetables into the air. The invisible sphere didn't push very far, only moving three feet or so before all outward energy randomized in the phenomenon of entropy, being dispersed around him and into the open field.
No matter the technique's power, it served his purposes in perfect order, sending some debris directly into Mithras' face.
Taking the opportunity, he domineered the energy again, this time having a smaller bubble expand just beneath the sole of his right shoe. When he forced it to expand, he did so with greater care, only to curse himself as his plan played out.
Not having compensated for the singular, high-speed force driving into an unstable part of his body, he didn't so much propel himself forward in a smooth manner as he did fly through the air, twisting and flailing without control. He made a mental note that future attempts would need fine tweaking, probably by compensating for the rapid change in velocity of one vector by applying equal force toward other parts of his body in hopes of reaching equilibrium.
As he soared, Mithras' surprised expression came into view, giving him just enough warning to brace for an inevitable impact.
Crashing into a god was comparable to being thrown against a tree trunk. It hurt a lot, that is to say.
His forearms took the brunt of the damage, having risen to shield his head. The collision hurt more than he would've imagined, and for a moment he was afraid that his arms had been broken.
Thinking fast, he managed to roll his body up as it hit the ground, letting him recover quickly. Movement at the corner of his eye made him move. An edge of wet metal whisked across his cheek, cutting thin.
Again, the steel came for him.
Lowering himself, he charged under the swing, ramming his shoulder into Mithras' stomach. A grunt of discomfort let him know that he'd struck true.
A fist passed in front of his nose, him having moved his head back enough to dodge. He blocked another attack from the right and rammed the shaft of his spear into the god's ribs, hoping to peel away for a time and catch his breath.
Mithras, however, seemed to have no intention of letting him escape from the close-quarter exchange. The enemy pressed hard, swinging with sword, fist, and foot, moving fast and using constant stance switches to jumble his offensive pattern.
Every time their weapons clashed, the air warbled and hissed venomously, like the death throes of an animal. Blood splattered against his face from the ever-dripping saber, forcing him to wipe it away at consistent intervals of time, should he not want to be blinded.
The sword rushed to claim his head.
Impetus spun around and knocked it off course, following up with a few crooked thrusts.
The saber parried each stab. It only took the lightest of flicks on the god's part to divert his attacks.
He took a step back only to find Mithras invading his space once more. Red metal nearly cleaved his arm clean from the shoulder. With a ready spear, he caught the vertical slash and twisted his body, locking the saber with Impetus' wings before driving it down into the dirt. With the stained weapon trapped, Perseus grinned and threw a wide-arcing right hook.
Knowing that he was losing the fight of attrition gave him incentive to act on hints of desperation. Two bubbles of Titanic Energy acquiesced to his command, one forming behind his right arm's triceps and the other behind its forearm. Expanding the spheres of force, his arm rocketed around faster than he anticipated.
A fraction of a second was all it took for his fist to bury itself in Mithras' cheek.
The god was lifted off the ground and sent careening back several yards.
It was a short-lived victory, though. With his arm aching with the most terrible pain he'd ever felt, Perseus dropped to one knee. Low rasps crackled past his throat.
From his upper back all the way to the fingertips of his arm, agony lanced through each nerve. Agony of burning, throbbing, and shredding. Spasming muscles sporadically made the wounded appendage twitch, each jolt torturous.
A brief glance down at his hand later had him figuring that a few knuckles were broken. Given how terrible he felt, no doubt the same was true for the bones further up. Never having been the recipient of broken bones before, he couldn't rightfully describe the pain.
But gods did it fucking hurt.
Another noise—similar to a stifled scream of anger—rippled in his chest and out his mouth.
His eyes looked to where Mithras had landed, hoping to find his foe in an equal amount of pain, just for vindication's sake. At least they could share the agony.
The god was already on his feet, dusting himself off with his free hand. His hair was somewhat mussed; the only indication he'd been struck at all. Worst yet, that damnable grin was still set in place, two gleaming rows of pearlescent teeth shimmering in the firelight.
'Fuck you too, then, you son of a bitch,' he mentally growled, not trusting himself to speak. He brought up his left hand, middle finger and thumb pressed tight together. With a snarl, he snapped, draining his stamina to where even kneeling became a chore.
Satisfaction eclipsed frustration as the side of Mithras' face was torn open, spurting ichor through the air in shiny arcs.
His foe reeled back, hands clutching the left side of his face. Liquid gold spewed from between his gloved fingers, falling to the dirt below in greedy, turbulent globs. The hovering ball of fire flickered for a moment as the god fell to one knee himself. It was impossible to see behind his hands, but Perseus was sure that the damage he'd done was substantial.
"Now your cooking with gas, kid!" Mithras shouted with glee, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the fallen saber. He gave a half-grin, ichor still escaping from the carved line that extended from the bottom of his jaw to his hairline. His left eye was closed and covered in gold as well from where the wound had traveled. A few specks of red intermingled with the gold, probably from the saber's constant dribble. "This is the most fun I've had since I fought Mars Ultor in 'Nam! Let's go even further. Let's paint the dirt red and gold, shall we?"
Sword lifted high, the atmosphere became charged with power. A shearing wind whipped around them, almost sending Perseus tumbling to the ground. What little heat the ball of flame emitted disappeared, lost in the sudden chill that swept across the field with frosty fingers. Soon, the ground trembled and shook.
He wanted to stand. Standing would have been optimal, if only to show that he was willing to die on his feet. Oh, he had no intention of dying, of course, but the sentiment would have remained, at the very least.
No matter how hard he tried, though, the muscles in his legs refused to move. Add excruciating pain to exhaustion, and there proved a tough formula to fight against. Most of his mental capacity was going to keeping an unwavering scowl on his face.
The earth slowed in its grumbling, ebbs of movement coming to a solemn close.
Without further warning, a skeletal hand broke free of the loose soil. Starch-white bone grasped hungrily at the open air above it, digits clenching and unclenching in a rapid series of motions. Following that, more hands shot up, rows and columns forming in vast numbers, stretching back behind Mithras as far as he could see.
The winds howled with fury and the fire roared above, having become a twisting vortex of embers that threatened to swallow miles of land with wanton fierceness.
Looking back down, he saw that the skeletons had risen fully, all garbed in uniforms similar to what Mithras wore. Their tunics were of varying colors, ranging from gray, blue, red, and white. Some wore other accessories, like hats or medals, though all cradled archaic firearms in their hands.
They shifted from side to side, skulls turning to take in their surroundings. How they moved without ligaments and muscles was a question Perseus was sure to ask if he survived the encounter. In the end, he figured it didn't matter much at that particular moment.
One of the skeletons closer to Mithras turned and addressed the god, voice sounding hollow, his gray uniform fluttering. "You are not Ares. How have we come to be here, in the land of the living, once more?"
"True, I'm not the Greek. For now, though, I am your god. You bow to me, you serve me, you are mine to command. For I am Mithras, Patron of Soldiers. Your afterlives are mine to do with as I see fit, General Jackson. Truth be told, I summoned you here for irony's sake."
"Irony?" Skeleton Jackson cocked his skull, scratching the bottom of his jaw with his rifle. "Not sure what you mean by that. If you have something for me to do, though, might I recommend telling me. I'd rather not spend more time up here than strictly necessary. Can't say I'm too fond fighting beside Blue boys, either."
Mithras waved away the complaint. "They're not Union, if that's what you're getting at. They're French. And the irony is that I want you to shoot that kid over there. His name's Perseus Jackson."
Skeleton Jackson clicked his teeth together a few times. "Any relation?"
"Maybe," the god shrugged, his grin growing wider. "Doesn't matter, though. You'll be following my command even if you don't like it." He raised his saber again, voice booming across the storm of wind and fire. "Soldiers! Two ranks, ten files!"
In concert, the undead did as they were told, marching into their two rows and ten columns. As the front row took to one knee, Perseus realized how the situation would play out.
He struggled to move. His legs trembled under his focused attention, each thigh feeling heavier than a concrete block. Sweat trickled down from his scalp, moving along the contours of his cheeks and nose. Though his rebellious body fought against his will, he didn't stop in his efforts.
"Raise and aim!"
"No way in hell am I dying here.' Through the haze of vitriolic anger and raw torment, a few thoughts managed to take hold. Dust swirled around him as the winds buffeted his exposed skin. Occasional wisps of orange fire licked at him, hoping to set ablaze what they landed on. No fucking way. I've come too far!'
Searching for the barest scrap of energy still left in him, Perseus pulled his knee off the ground, rising under the nearly unbearable weight of his exhaustion. Meeting Mithras' eyes, he snarled as the god gave him an amused glance.
The saber fell to point at him. "Fire!"
Still holding on to that flimsy crumb of stamina, he set the last of his determination in stone and took a single step forward, bring his foot down to crash into the earth. His ears filled with thunder when the first row of undead unloaded their rifles. In simultaneous fashion, a final wave of Titanic Energy pushed out. Since he lacked the stamina for a full bubble, he'd opted to send it out as a cresting cone of power instead, draining himself so that it would reach the unit wall.
It happened faster than he could process. Once where there stood well over one-hundred skeletal soldiers, no longer did he see any. Most of the area looked gouged and torn, an expanding trench that grew wider as its length increased.
He blinked once.
Another crack of thunder, and he stumbled forward.
He blinked again.
Sharp and flaming pain pierced the upper-right part of his torso, just under the shoulder. Blood gushed from a hole there, seeping into the nice shirt he'd paid good money for.
He liked that band, dammit!
Grasping at the wound, he forced his head to turn.
Standing behind him, still pointing a silver revolver, Mithras watched on with curious interest.
"Checkmate," the god said. His words were deliberate and more restrained than before. There still swirled an undercurrent of jubilant madness, but it was overshadowed by something dourer. It lay on his face, hidden under a thin layer of drying ichor. Intense wary regard. "Definitely thought you'd dodge that though." He sighed and stared at the gun, frowning at the glinting metal. When he lifted his eyes again, he gave a small shrug of acceptance. "Either way, that was a good fight, kid. I've got a new scar to show for it, in the end. Give it some time, one day you..."
Perseus swayed on his feet, shivering at the sudden bout of chills that beset him. A block of ice took residence in his chest, contrasting nicely with the burning pain in his shoulder and arm. He couldn't hear what Mithras was saying, only able to catch a few more words before he tumbled forward.
Before he hit the ground, something caught him by his good arm, holding him up.
"Don't go dying on me now, kid." Mithras chuckled. "Just take a breather while I patch you up, alright? Then we'll crack open a cold one and have a laugh at the situation."
Bleary-eyed and taxed to his limit, Perseus let his head droop.
'...Did I just blow away "Stonewall" Jackson?'
Rest sounded like a good plan.
A/N: If only I'd set the story in 2017. So many memes I could reference and make characters fully aware of. Oh, and more hints of the endgame in this chapter. Will it be a surprise? Probably not. Still, its there for the barely-discerning eye to catch.
I might keep chapters around this length to get the story rolling a tad faster. I think it might strike a decent balance between description and progress. Depends on the subject, of course. Might even let me get stuff out faster (no promises). I'd like to hear what you all think on that though. If people bother with these ANs.