A Crown of Golden Leaves
By Kitty
August 4, 2017
Note Before you Begin: Please tell me what you all think when you finish this - I know it seems like I'm asking for reviews, but I'm really nervous about this chapter, and I'd really appreciate some feedback on it, so that way I can gauge whether or not I captured what I wanted to capture. I was writing this on and off for over 2 weeks, and it was a challenge to find the right words, good Lord. (Fun fact: I've been planning this chapter for over 2 years, so I've been agonizing over it much longer.) *disappears*
1) Dominus is the equivalent of Mr. and Domina is Mrs. - I hope.
2) I don't have any problem with drinking alcoholic beverages, but I've read so many fanfics and published books where people "drown their problems in alcohol," which is... so unhealthy, y'all. Seriously, don't drink when you're upset; that just sets you up for a downward spiral. Or just don't drink at all. So, I decided to have XXX to abstain from drinking.
Warning: Strong language. Some content may not be advisable for young audiences.
"The truth will set you free." – Anonymous
Caput L: Warning Sign
TIME passed by slowly as they kept walking at a steady pace, drawing closer to Tarentum. Too slowly, if Annabeth really wanted to say the truth, which she was disinclined to do these days—even inside her own head.
Her head throbbed in tempo with her heartbeat, a low aching rhythm that steadily increased in its pounding as the day went on and turned into several more days. Her feet dragged in the earth as she forced herself to keep moving, feeling heavier than lead these days. There was a persistent, clenching feeling inside her chest that made it difficult to breathe, at times.
Simply put, she felt miserable. And there was not a word she could say or a thing she could do about it.
The situation they were in was unidealistic to put it mildly, and catastrophic in more realistic terms. She couldn't afford for her body to let her down now of all times—she needed it to keep her going. It was her body; she was young and healthy and active, wasn't she? It shouldn't be failing her.
So, why did it feel like it was?
But Annabeth couldn't afford to think like that either. The more she dwelt in this kind of thought process, the more likely it was to become true. That's what she had discovered; the more somebody thought about something, the more likely it was to happen. She didn't want to jinx herself, somehow, even if she was only thinking about it.
The immortals were walking on earth, after all, and these were strange times. The gods only know what was possible and impossible now—and even they, too, seemed to be unable to help them. Unlike Percy, she knew they existed, there was no doubt of it in her heart—she was Athena's daughter, as her father had been oh so fond of reminding her. The question was, what in Tartarus were they doing, letting the Protogenoi take over like this?
Did they even hear their prayers now? Or had they walled themselves off in Mount Olympus, hoping that the protogenoi would not dare to enter their realm?
Hah! As if! Nobody was safe from Nyx's sort anymore.
Percy's fingers tapped against her bicep, and she glanced up at him in surprise, but he didn't look back down at her. Instead, he was watching the distance with a steady, hard gaze, as if he was looking for an invisible enemy and waiting for them to show themselves.
He looks so tired… and he did. She hadn't really had time to think about it lately—and she'd been so wrapped up in her own head that she hadn't noticed—but there were dark purple and blue circles underneath his eyes and there was facial hair growing on his cheeks and chin. Barely a shadow, but noticeably there, especially for somebody who was usually cleanshaven.
How much sleep had he been able to get at night? She knew that he was up later than most of them, took more shifts than the rest of them, and when he was sleeping, his subconscious was plagued with nightmares. Between those three things… no, she supposed he wouldn't be getting as much sleep as he should be. None of them were, really. The constant stress and the fear that Nyx or somebody affiliated with her was going to attack them wrecked havoc on getting rest.
But there wasn't much of anything she could do about it either, unfortunately. Not until they figured out what they were going to do about—all of this. After all, it wasn't like they could just settle and randomly become farmers; that wasn't in her nature, or Percy's, or even Thalia, Nico, or Piper's. Those three had turned their backs on a life of safety and comfort when they had come with her to Rome. Percy was too loyal (or compassionate; she didn't know how to describe his devotion to Rome) to stand down without a fight.
As for her, well.
Haven't I said that I'd go wherever he goes? He's more than just my husband now; he's my king, too. Octavius is as good as dead to everyone in this country.
After all, Octavius had supposedly betrayed his people. She didn't know how or why, nor did she particularly want to know the answer to either question. What he had done was unacceptable and unforgivable, and that was the end of that.
Are there more people out there? Are there more people who survived the fall of Rome? Or however you want to describe this aggressive takeover by beings that are impossible to defeat. We had no idea what was going to happen. None at all. Except Octavius Caesar, perhaps.
Rome had become hers, as well. Her country, her people. Maybe it was possessive of her, or selfish, especially since she hadn't even been born into this country, had been adopted by the royal family—but she couldn't help herself from thinking this way. She felt at home here in a way she never had in Athens, with all of its shortcomings and failures and power struggles. Even though living in Rome was undoubtfully dangerous and treacherous, there was still something about this land that had called to her. Something that she had liked.
Besides, it was Percy's home. His future. She might not have understood that until now, now that it was gone—but she could see how it shaped him into the person he was. To not have that responsibility thrust upon his shoulders... to have his birthright stolen from him, right under his nose—
In a way, it seemed to have crippled him. She didn't think he was meant to be somebody content to blend in the background and let other people rule in his stead. She had never really noticed it, but there had always been some kind of spark in his eyes that had drawn people to him… but it had slowly been dimming as the situation got more hopeless. He was meant to rule, he had been ready, but it had been ripped away from him before his time had come.
Before, his eyes—they were so bright, so radiating, that he looked like he was on fire.
Now she was afraid that fire was slowly suffocating. The embers were still burning lowly, still ready to flare at the right moment, when they needed him to stand up—but the longer this mess went on, the harder the recovery would be. For all of them.
She didn't want to see him lose himself in the process.
She was scared, too. For him, her—everyone. What this all meant, what they were trying to do. If what they were trying to do was even possible.
"Hey," Percy said, breaking her out of her thoughts. She looked up at him, and his lips twitched up into a minute smile. "You're worrying again. I thought I did enough of that for both of us."
She chuckled, even though she didn't feel very humored or happy. "Yeah, but somebody has to worry about you, otherwise you'll forget to look after yourself."
He blinked, and then his expression went blank. "If you say so." His face tightened, and then he huffed. "Thanks, Annabeth."
For once, she didn't know if that was meant sarcastically or not.
Thalia was acting strange.
Annabeth watched a little suspiciously as her friend actually talked with Piper about her baby that was yet to be born. Things like a nursery for the baby and clothes for the baby, and what gender she thought the baby was, and how Luke had been convinced that the baby would be strong and how he hadn't cared about the baby's gender, so long as it was healthy.
That was when Thalia started getting misty eyed as she gazed off into the distance, shutting herself off into that world of hers when she got lost in thought. Pregnant women supposedly had vicious mood swings, she knew that, but somehow, Annabeth wasn't entirely convinced this was related to that phenomenon. Developing maternal instincts notwithstanding, Thalia had always been the tough love type—but she had always, always cared deeply for the people she considered family. And Luke was as good as dead according to Percy's account of how Luke had distracted Nyx long enough for him to find a chance to escape.
Besides, putting down her mood swings as something related to her pregnancy felt… cheap, somehow. As if she wasn't doing the woman justice. And that was the last thing she wanted.
So, Thalia was most likely grieving for Luke, just like they all were in their own ways. If they had even wrapped their minds around it, which Annabeth certainly hadn't, yet.
At least her head had stopped spinning. She could think clearly again, for now, and that was something she wasn't going to take for granted anymore. Couldn't afford to take for granted anymore, not when she kept collapsing at sudden, random intervals. Not since this strange illness had been plaguing her for… for months, now that she thought back. Possibly longer than months.
I hate not knowing what's going on with me. I hate not knowing anything.
And that was the truth of the matter, wasn't it? She had always prided herself on being especially intelligent and driven, and now that both of those were being challenged by external forces she had no control over…
Just what was she supposed to do with herself now, then?
"Stop." Nico called out, softly, but also loud enough that all of them could hear him, as he held his arm out—as if that was a physical barrier that they had to breach. Well, knowing what he was capable of doing…
Annabeth stopped. Behind her, she felt Percy stumble to a halt, practically on top of her heels—he had been watching their backs—while Thalia and Piper stilled. She inched her hand down to her waist, so that she could unsheathe her short sword, if this was another one of those situations. The ones when the monsters tried to ambush them.
"Hello?" a young voice called out, sounding hesitant but also, at the same time, scared. As if it didn't know what it was calling out to. Annabeth tensed, prepared to spring at a moment's notice—after all, some cyclops had the ability to imitate the human voice. Didn't they? If this was another one of their tricks…
"Hold on." Percy's hand fell on her shoulder, and she relaxed ever so slightly, even though he kept the volume of his voice low so that nobody could overhear them—not even monsters with enhanced hearing. "I know that voice, from somewhere."
That wasn't necessarily very reassuring to her either, because he literally could have heard that voice from anywhere—but she stilled her hand. For now. If something happened, she would be alert enough to jump in and… do something. Hopefully.
Approaching the direction the voice came from, with careful, sure footsteps, Percy made it difficult for her to follow him. He was completely silent as he glided across the forest floor, even in sandals worn down from walking, as everyone moved to flank him. Perhaps they thought he was approaching the unknown living being as if they were an enemy, but Annabeth knew better, and she did her best to follow in his wake.
She felt clumsy, though—loud and clumsy; neither of them had really thought about moving silently through the woods, and she'd always been more focused on learning how to fight rather than stealth. Now, she regretted that oversight. She should have thought that that would have been a useful skill to have in her artillery—how had she not?
But it was too late for regrets that she could do nothing about. The past was the past, and that was that. She could find time to teach herself how to move with that sinuous grace that he had, whenever he wasn't being lax about the way he held himself. And if she couldn't teach herself, she could always ask him to teach her—or demand. Either way, he would be willing.
"Demetria? Is that you?" Percy had drawn his sword out of its sheathe, but he was holding it close to his side, both of his hands wrapped around the handle's grip. There was a distinct note of surprise in his voice, and he drew himself up. Annabeth quickened her pace, sacrificing quiet for speed since he had revealed them to this stranger, and she pulled close to him, just off his shoulder and slightly behind him—a half step. Percy glanced at her, before settling his gaze back on a young girl.
The girl couldn't have been older than twelve, if that; small and petite, with such a build that it reminded Annabeth of a bird about to take flight. A rare shade of fiery red hair that looked like it had been hastily cropped short, not even touching her shoulders. But her eyes—they might have been green, if they hadn't been clouded over.
Blind. She must be blind, she realized. But how did this blind girl get so far away from civilization and survive? There didn't seem to be anybody escorting her; no adults or even older children who could have been her eyes.
The girl—Demetria, as Percy had called her; and wasn't that a name that was vaguely familiar to her now, too? Hadn't he told her about this girl?—let out a strangled sounding sob. Annabeth almost let out a shout of alarm as the girl jolted forward, toward Percy, and she made to grab her knife—but the girl barreled into Percy's chest, tiny shoulders quaking as she wrapped her arms around him. For a moment, Percy looked startled and stunned, and he exchanged a quick glance with her, before his arms gingerly wrapped around the small girl's shoulders and stayed there.
"Hey, hey," he said in an unusually soft, soothing voice—one somebody might use around a terrified, injured animal that had a particularly nasty bite. "You're safe now. Nobody will be able to hurt you here."
The girl mumbled something that Annabeth couldn't understand, shaking her head, flexing her fingers—though those, too, might have been just seized by tremors. Percy shot Annabeth another terrified look, and she mimicked hugging somebody.
The poor girl was probably traumatized by whatever had happened to her. If this was the same one from Tarentum, which she had little reason to doubt because how many blind girls knew about Percy, then that probably meant that something had happened in Tarentum, too. Something terrible enough that it had driven this girl out of her home.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Annabeth realized something else. It wasn't likely that they would be going to Tarentum now. Not if this girl had come from Tarentum, as she suspected—and she was rarely wrong in these kinds of things. But she hoped so, she hoped she was wrong, because if Tarentum had truly been taken over, then what were they to do now? There was nobody they could turn to, nowhere they could go. Not if Nyx was hunting them down, to do gods only know what to them.
I can't… She turned around and walked up to Nico, always keeping Percy in her peripheral vision. For all she knew, this girl could stab him in the back with a knife hidden up her sleeve, though she didn't think that was likely. Not even the best of actors could fake sobs that were that gut-wrenching, that heartbreaking, that real. But then, Rome being taken over by a hostile deity had been something she had never imagined happening in her wildest of dreams, so maybe it wasn't too farfetched.
"Nico," she said, drawing his attention to her. "Is there anybody or anything else around here?"
He frowned, as if he was upset or angry with her for some reason, but she knew that he was doing—whatever creepy, though useful, death magic sensing stuff he did. He always got that look on his face whenever he was trying to concentrate on something.
Eventually, he said, "No. There's nobody here but us."
"And the girl?" She nodded at where Percy was still trying to soothe the poor girl, and even now, Annabeth couldn't help but feel sorry for her. What would be worse: a monster with the ability to replicate a human's reaction so convincingly, or a distraught child who seemed to have run away from home? "She's entirely human, right?"
Nico nodded. "Oh, yes. That was the first thing I checked."
"Good." And then she went back to Percy, squatted down by the girl's hip so that Annabeth would be slightly below her eyelevel, and watched patiently until the girl had started hiccupping on her tears. After all, she had had years of practice at this, one way or another. Piper used to come in distraught when one of her love conquests either decided she was too high-strung for them, or was unaffected by her general charms. Something that she didn't want to know about.
The girl eventually turned her face so that they would be looking at each other—except they weren't, really. The girl's eyes were focused on a point somewhere above her head, unseeing. Annabeth gave her a tiny smile, but didn't wave or try anything else. "You're Demetria, aren't you? Percy's told me about you."
The girl sniffled and took a step away from him, abruptly, as if she had just remembered propriety and decorum. Crying on the heir of Rome wasn't really considered either, but she knew that Percy didn't' mind, and these were… difficult circumstances, to say the least.
"Sorry for crying on… your husband?"
"That's okay." She paused, looked at Percy who was watching their exchange with alert, calculating eyes. "How did you know Percy's my husband?"
"Your heartbeat and the way you said his name," Demetria said. Almost flatly. Annabeth felt confused. "It's obvious to me, since I'm blind."
She was very frank with her disability—if it even was that. Maybe she just saw things in a different way to the rest of them.
"What happened?" Percy asked, his voice gentle, and Annabeth glared at him—they were supposed to be trying to calm the girl down, not make her remember what it was that had made her act this way. "I hate to ask you, but I need to know."
Was it not obvious to him? Something had happened to this girl's home, and she had been driven out of it. But then… maybe it was obvious, too obvious, and he wanted to make sure he wasn't jumping to the wrong conclusion. Maybe that was why he was asking her to remember what had happened, even though she was obviously traumatized by it. Cruel was not an adjective somebody could use to describe Percy, after all.
Demetria's—the girl's—face fell and she looked away, practically curling into herself, as if she could shield herself from the worst this world had to offer her. Annabeth's heart went out to her, and she wished she had the ability to do something… more. Something to make this better for her. Little girls shouldn't wear that look on their face.
A quick glance at Percy's face told her that he was likely thinking on the same wavelength as she was. Reaching out, she made to touch her shoulder, or something like that, but Demetria flinched away from her touch. Guilty and apologetic, Annabeth withdrew her hand quickly and folded it in her lap where it wouldn't be able to move forward without her permission.
"You don't have to say anything," she said gently. If it was too much, too soon, for her to say, then there was nothing they could do. But Demetria shook her head—a strange jerking motion as if she was a marionette and somebody else was pulling her strings, but it was very defined.
"N-no, if I don't speak now, I won't ever." She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and fixed her eyes on a spot between the two of them. "It's all gone. Tarentum. I-I… it was during the night, I think. I think, but I'm not sure. Everybody was asleep, except me. I don't have a very defined sense of time, since I can't see. Besides, I'd been having a bad feeling for days. Premonitions. I kept having dreams of Rome burning. But I didn't think… I thought it was a nightmare. But...— I guess it wasn't.
"There were monsters everywhere. And screaming. Gods, the screams as everything burned to the ground around me. The monsters were laughing, too, as if they enjoyed destroying our home—. They came into father's house. To kill him, or take him prisoner, or something. I don't know. There were men with them, too. With the monsters, that is. Soldiers. Traitors, to the crown. Father told me to run. To find you, or Praetor Jason. I didn't know where to go, I'm blind! I see nothing! So I just… after I got out, I just… I walked. Wandered. I don't even know how I'm still alive.
"I thought I hated them. All of them. All the people who persecuted me and drove my father and I out of the village, because I was blind, and because I could see more than any of them could possibly imagine. But… I… the monsters. They took everything. They ate my father, and the men violated the women and killed the children—I…. I hear them scream. I hear my screams. I—I can't… I don't…"
Annabeth moved as the girl started to become hysterical, breaths coming out in gasps as tears clung to her eyelashes. This time, when she pulled Demetria into her arms, she didn't struggle or flinch against her—instead, she turned and started to cry in earnest.
"It'll be okay," she said, half to reassure herself. But she knew it was a lie, and Demetria's sobs hitched and trembled. Tears stung at her own eyes. "We'll figure out how to make it through this. Just let it out. You're very brave, you know? Running on your own? That's bravery."
A rustle of fabric brushing against fabric. When she looked up, there was a look in Percy's eyes that scared her, even though she couldn't name it. It wasn't betrayal or fury—instead, his entire expression was flat, as if he had completely shut his emotions down somehow. They stared at each other for an indefinite period of time, and the only sound was Demetria's sobs.
What was he thinking? What must he be feeling? There had been men with these monsters; probably men who were supposed to protect this country, and yet they had turned and torn it down. He must feel betrayed. He must feel like he had lost everything. She hoped he didn't feel alone.
He turned his back on her and walked away from everyone.
Evening was approaching.
The sun seemed to spit yellow venom on the dark land where mist and melancholy hung, thick and heavy in the air, as it began its descent beyond the horizon. The trees seeped with sap like the beads of sweat that the sun sucked dry. It should have been the end of the day, a time for resting and renewal, but it now reminded him of another day they had survived. Of another man dead. Of another mother lost. Of another son fighting. Of another home destroyed. Of another life amount to nothing.
Truthfully, Percy felt devastated.
Before, he had a plan. Before, the situation was as far removed from idyllic as somebody could possibly get, but he had hope that it was possible to turn this around. That it was possible to rise from the ashes and build it back up again. But now…
There was nothing left. There was nowhere they could turn to, and they would be hunted like animals until they were all killed. There was no solution, no way out, and nothing they could do to fight the inevitable.
He might as well give up now. Might as well hand himself over to Nox, and let her do with him as she wished. There was nothing for him to salvage, nothing that he could do. Tarentum had been the stronghold of Rome, and it had been taken. Brundisium would be next if it hadn't been overrun already. Ostia was too close to Rome, and Syracuse was too far in the south for them to get to.
They were dead. There was nothing any of them could do. There was nothing left. Everything had been taken from him and his people. What could a mortal do to fight the might of an immortal? He was tiny and insignificant and nothing in the eyes of something who would live forever.
Absolutely nothing.
xxx
When he was sure he was out of earshot from anyone who would be able to hear, he tipped his head back and screamed at the heavens until his voice had gone hoarse and the tears had run dry.
Then he laughed.
"You look like you just walked through Tartarus."
Percy stopped short when Thalia walked into the middle of his path, blocking him from getting back to the others, and raised his gaze to squarely meet her piercing glare. The woman, who was probably a couple of years older than him, had a faintly disapproving look on her face, even though there was sympathy laced in with it. He hoped she said nothing.
"Very tactful, Thalia."
She shrugged slowly, tilting her chin down into it; a very nonchalant movement that really rubbed him the wrong way. He somehow resisted the childish urge to ball his hands into fists, though it was a close thing.
"Honesty is one of my best qualities."
"Sometimes, it's best not to say something," he muttered. He tried to dart around her, but she moved smoothly to the side, stopping him from walking that way. This time, he couldn't resist the urge to ball his hands into fists.
Pregnant or not, I will push her.
"You would think that, wouldn't you?"
He scowled. Don't take her bait, don't take it, the more rational part of his mind warned him. The other part, the one that wanted to fight Nox (or nothing, or the gods, or the world, or everything) with his bare fists until his knuckles were raw, was indigent. "Are you insinuating something?"
Thalia rolled her eyes. "You need to stop lying to yourself."
"I don't—!"
"Yes, you do," she cut in before he could finish. And now he was starting to feel offended; after all, who was she, a stranger, to judge him? "Look, you look like shit. And don't throw a hissy fit because I said a naughty word; I'm no saint, and neither are you, if my observations are correct. You need to get your head screwed on straight. There's a little girl who has been traumatized counting on you, and the rest of us are trying to survive."
Percy fixed her with a Look he had learned from Reyna. "Anything else you would like to add, your highness?"
Somehow, she ignored it. "Yeah. Don't fuck up."
"Kind of late for that," he grumbled, crossing his arms.
"I mean it, Perseus." She fixed him with a glare that actually made him pause for a heartbeat. "You can't afford to make mistakes now. Nobody's gonna be able to cover your ass if you get us all killed."
"Thank you, for your unsolicited advice that was completely unwarranted." He made a little bow at her and then he gestured at some place over her shoulder. "May I leave?"
She studied him for a moment. "Nico's been hiding whiskey on us. We're having a toast. Well, I'm not, but everyone else is."
Percy stared. "Is that a good idea?"
She jerked her head back, wrinkling her nose, and stepped aside to let him through. "If it's that concerning to you, princess, you should abstain. Ain't nobody's going to make you drink it if you don't want to. Anyway, it's probably best if somebody other than me stays sober. I'm not exactly in optimal fighting condition right now."
Princess?!
"You're not going to drink?" Annabeth asked him quietly as he filled a slightly dirt-stained mug of water for himself out of the basin of water, when he and Thalia got back with everyone and immediately separated to the opposite sides of the fire, as physically far away as they could possibly get from each other. He shook his head.
"No." He didn't state his reasons out loud, but he didn't think he needed to. Wanting to be completely sober, even if they were all only planning to drink a bit, was a good excuse, but he didn't think it would be wise for himself to be drinking.
The time when he had drunk too much in the ensuring months after Rachel had died was too close to the forefront of his mind, and he didn't want to slip back into that habit. Jason wasn't here, who had found him out and had thoroughly abused his eardrums and told his father about that habit (the first and only time he went to his father before him), which had put a halt to that spiral of self-destruction.
She tapped her fingers against the base of his spine, in acknowledgement, and they both sat down in front of the roaring fire, close enough that the heat was nearly unbearable against the bitter autumn twilight. Nico held out spears of some unknown, fresh meat for them to roast over the fire, and he took one for himself.
Everybody talked around him while they waited for their food to finish cooking. Not that he really cared or paid attention: he still couldn't believe that Tarentum was gone, overrun by monsters and his own people, by humans. Did their greed and ambition know no end? He would have never imagined that the men in the legions would have turned against the people. Against Rome.
But he was wrong.
It seemed like he was wrong a lot about a lot of things that he had taken for granted.
While they were eating, nobody talked much as they were all a bit ravenous—and food was more important, anyway. Annabeth tried to draw him out of his mind a couple of times, and he appreciated it, he did, really, but he just wanted to be left alone to stew in his own misery, and she gave up. Thalia, of course, glared daggers at him most of the time, but he ignored her easily.
Half drunk, Nico stood up and held up his mug, jarringly enough that he pulled away from the fire and the past. "Here's to Rome!" he said, remarkably clearly for somebody who had had at least a half pint of whiskey.
"And Luke!" Thalia piped up in the resulting silence. "And the baby!"
A few chuckles. Annabeth tapped her mug against Demetria's and smiled slightly. "To everyone else," she said.
"What about Reyna?" Piper said, the fire reflecting in her eyes. There was a pained little smile on her face as she tipped her glass toward them. "To Reyna."
"And my father," added Demetria, not holding her drink up, but her voice was heard clearly even if it was soft.
Everyone looked at him.
Percy shook his head, but offered his mug as well. "Jason," he said quietly.
They drank; Percy and Thalia from their water, Demetria from her watered-down mead, and the rest from their whiskey.
At some point, Annabeth's head fell against his shoulder, and then his lap as the night wore on and the others talked, or argued heatedly about nothing and everything all at once. His fingers carded through her hair, the repetitive motion soothing his heart enough that he started to watch the others and familiar enough that he felt comforted.
Maybe everything else had changed, but he still had her, at least.
Demetria was staring unblinkingly at the fire, and he watched her for a while before he reached over and hovered his hand over her shoulder. "Aren't you tired? Demetria?" he asked her, and she blinked, looking up at him. The fire was reflecting in her eyes, clouded as they were, as she shook her head sharply and rapidly—almost jerkily.
"I don't want to have another nightmare."
Silenced, and feeling a little cowed if he was honest with himself, Percy dropped his gaze to his hands. One was still stroking through Annabeth's hair, and the other was lying prone in his lap, underneath her head.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, not looking up. I should have done more, he wanted to voice aloud, but wasn't sure how. Nico and Piper were talking loudly over Thalia's angry huffing, so he didn't think that anyone would be able to overhear him—not unless Annabeth was actually awake, and he didn't care if she heard.
"How could you have possibly known what was going on? None of this was your fault."
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Her face was hard, back straight, shoulders tensed; half of her body was thrown into the light of the fire, and the other half was shadowed—the picture of either discomfort or determination, and he wasn't sure which. Whatever it was, she looked older than she should be. And sadder.
"Still. I wished I'd…" What? Known? He had no idea what he would have been able to do, if he had known. There was no way to crawl out of this hole they had dug with their hands and ignorance, and even if he had known…. Would there have been some way for him to stop this?
"I'm sure you've heard this already, but you can't focus on what's already happened. All you can do is figure out where you go from here."
"How?!" He would have thrown his hands up in the air in exasperation if he wasn't worried about jostling Annabeth awake. "I'm just as lost as everyone else is."
She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know. I'm not omnipotent, despite the fact that I'm able to see into the future and the past and the present. But I think that's okay, that you're as lost as the rest of us. It just means you're human."
He said nothing. If this was the definition of being human, then a part of him wanted to shun it and somehow become more than human. Maybe then he'd know how to save his country from this madness that had fallen upon it. Maybe then he wouldn't be powerless.
"It'd be a lot easier if I knew what I was going to do," he griped. Annabeth stirred, and he stilled, holding his breath and hoping that he hadn't woken her. That was the last thing he wanted to do—but no, she settled back down, fingers curled in front of her chest, over her heart. So different from her usual sprawling and taking over of their bed, if she wasn't clinging to him in her sleep. (He liked the latter option more than the first.)
Demetria laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound that sounded wrong in her voice. "I guess none of us with Powers are higher than the rest who don't, eh."
He snorted. "What a lesson in humility taught to us."
She nodded at Annabeth. "She's really nice, Percy. I like her."
He smiled, slightly. "I'm lucky she was the one."
Neither of them said anything for a while, until Demetria spoke up again. "I'm sorry about Jason, by the way. He was… he was good. That shouldn't have happened to him. He had everything going for him."
Jason did, didn't he? He had the whole world and a whole host of dreams in his head that he had never been able to do, because his time had been cut too short. And he'd died thinking that he had failed him, had failed Rome, when, in reality, it was the other way around—Percy had failed him. Had failed Rome and everyone else who was depending on him.
"I am too."
Tilting her head back so that she could take in the sky, her hair slipped over her shoulder and down her back, and she frowned. "You know, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."
He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Hesitating, so briefly that she could have easily been pausing for breath, she tilted her head down and brought her legs up so that her chin could rest on her knees. She was looking at the fire again. Again, Demetria seemed impossibly small and forlorn; shoulders hunched close together, arms encircling around her knees, as if making herself seem as small as she possibly could would keep the world away, as if that would offer some modicum of protection.
Perhaps he was projecting his own sense of fear and failure on her in his thoughts. Perhaps she was just getting comfortable, he barely knew her, after all—but perhaps he wasn't.
"Every time I close my eyes, I have visions. These terrible visions, of things that happen in the past, in the present, and in the future. I keep seeing horrible things happening to people, all around me, and I'm never able to do anything to stop it. I dreamt that Rome was going to fall, but I— I dismissed it. I told myself that it was impossible for Rome to fall. That other people would know, more important people than I. But because of my blindness, my father and my town is dead and everything I've ever known is gone."
When Percy exhaled, his breath fogged. He barely felt the cold. "That's not your fault, Demetria. Nobody knew about Nox or Discordia or any of the other gods. We're not all-seeing gods; we're just human beings."
So funny, when he was the one giving comfort, it was easy for him to say those words—but he couldn't accept them himself, in his own heart.
"Still... I should have said something." Those were his own words, parroted back at him. Anguish was written across her features, and Percy nudged her gently with his foot, trying to draw her out of whatever she was thinking about. (Did he look like that, too? he wondered. Did he make others feel as sad as he felt now taking her in? As helpless?) She blinked at him, with big, tear-rimmed eyes. "Why isn't there anybody out there like me? Why do I always, always, know about things that are going to happen before they actually do?"
He studied her. He'd spent years hiding it from all but a select few—Jason knew because he told him, as did Reyna, who had grown up with him. Annabeth probably suspected. Rachel had found out. But if there was a time to reveal that he could have been an Augur, or an Oracle, or however it was called…
Besides, he could see himself in this girl—and she really did seem like a young child to him, sometimes. Somebody to be protected and kept safe. Like a younger sister, or maybe even a daughter if you squinted and looked at it sideways.
"When I was younger, I used to dream about things that were going to happen in the future. So, you're not as alone as you think. I still dream about things happening currently, far away, sometimes I think, but I never remember them after I wake up. Not like you do. You know how my mother died out in sea? I had a dream a week before we got word from that poor messenger—my father thought I was just being hysterical when I told him, which I was of course, but he didn't listen to me. I was in this fog for weeks, or maybe it was more like I was limbo almost, until the news came and… well, nothing was the same after that.
"He used to tell me that this was a blessing from Apollo, that I can use it to know things better. But honestly? It's more of a curse than a blessing, to me—I hated it, so I guess I tried to repress it, until I don't remember my dreams unless they're really bad. It can drive somebody insane, knowing what's going to happen, but never being able to stop it. Not that you should try to do what I did. I'm a bad example when it comes to dealing with trauma. Go to Annabeth for advice when it comes to emotions and feelings."
Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, still glassy with tears, but her jaw had dropped. She closed it with a visible effort and swallowed, twisting her fingers together. "Really?"
He nodded. "Really."
For a long time, she stayed silent and he did nothing to interrupt her from her thoughts. How easy it was, to use words to comfort that he didn't truly believe—words that other people had told him, over the years, that he had dismissed. Did they not apply to him too? Shouldn't they? So why did he never take them at face value? Was he a masochist for self-inflicted pain?
He knew the answer to that last question all too well, unfortunately. Annabeth was one of the few good things that had come into his life, and he still didn't know what he had done to deserve her. So long as she would have him, he was hers—and vice versa, of course.
Still, he couldn't help but wish there was something he could have done. Something more. Some way to prevent this disaster that their lives had spiraled into. Some way to have prevented… all of this. It wasn't rational, and maybe it wasn't fair to himself, but he couldn't help the way he felt.
"I don't just see stuff that happens in the future." Her tone of voice was thoughtful, even though she spoke slowly—and there was something else underneath her thoughtfulness. Something he couldn't quite put a name to. "Sometimes, I'll have visions from the people of the past—people that I knew, or know, always, but never people I haven't met yet. Silly stuff, meaningful stuff—like how my parents first met, which was love at first sight. Or how ongoing bets were started, like Domina Thalia over there. She has an ongoing with Dominus Nico about when Domina Piper will... uh. Never mind."
Percy wasn't quite sure how that had anything to do with him, or even why she was telling him this—but he stayed silent. Maybe she was thinking out loud, or maybe she was trying to lead up to a point.
"But." And there it was, the qualifier. She must have been leading up to a point that she now was going to address. "Ever since you left, and healed—I've been having this recurring vision."
She paused, and looked at him expectantly, as if she needed reassurance he was listening to her still. "Okay."
Again, her muscles tensed, again she wrapped her lithe fingers around her biceps, squeezing them so tight that her knuckles went white. Again, she exhaled, deliberately, and let go. Was she nervous? But why? Surely, if it was something to do with his past, it wouldn't be that bad, right?
"Your sister. She was stillborn, right?"
His… sister? The one that nobody talked about, so everybody knew about? Yes, yes she was. Born to a serving girl after a tryst, almost fifteen years before he was born. But that wasn't exactly news to him—he was fully aware of his father's past, to some degree. Royalty didn't necessarily receive privacy. What he didn't understand was why Demetria was bring this up.
"Julia? Yes. Why?"
"How old would she have been, if she had lived, when you were born?"
"About fifteen years old, I think. Maybe give or take a year." What he didn't understand was why she was asking for this information—what she was getting at. Or why she seemed to be so… scared, except it wasn't quite fear. Was it discomfort?
"Okay. Right. And—and your mother. How old was she when you were born?"
My… mother? Why were they going from his sister to his mother? They were unrelated; his mother wasn't much older than his sister. "When I was born? She'd have been about fifteen, I suppose. Maybe even sixteen. Her marriage to father was purely political—I think she would have been about fourteen when she married him."
Demetria looked nervous, fingers twisting together and swallowing reflexively. Her gaze was locked on the fire, though she kept darting glances at him out of the corner of her eyes. "I don't… I don't think I should tell you."
Really. "Demetria. It can't possibly be that bad."
"No, it really, really is." Edging further away from him, hands twitching, nostrils flaring—she was the very definition of somebody trying to hide something.
Maybe you should leave it alone. Maybe it's better for you not to pursue this line of questioning. Maybe she has her reasons.
But he was willful and obstinate at the best of times; listening to other people was something he had gotten better at over the years, but at heart, he would always do what he wanted, at the end of the day. He never shied away from the truth before, and he wasn't about to start now.
"You've already told me too much, now. If you truly didn't want me to know, you would have kept your silence—but you didn't. Either way, I'm going to find out at some point—and it'll probably be worse for me then than now."
"I!" Voice pitched high, but the volume was low, she glanced at him. She chewed her bottom lip, and then she exhaled gustily, shoulders and back slumping. "I'm so sorry, Percy."
He shook his head. Turn back, turn back around—but he ignored the feeling that warned him not to continue this line of discussion. "What is it?"
"When you left—the first time, with Praetor Jason, that is. After you left, I started dreaming about two people. A baby and a young woman, barely more than a girl. But the baby started to grow, and get older, and… and she looked more and more like the woman the older she got. Then the last time I saw the woman—she was dressed in white and a crown of golden leaves was resting on her head, while she took somebody's hands. Your father's."
"I don't understand," he said numbly, and he didn't. "What are you saying? What does this have to do with my mother and my sister? With me?"
"The thing is... I have no proof, or anything but a feeling. But. But it's the only thing that makes sense. Except it doesn't, at the same time."
Turn away and never look back, the feeling was telling him—and it was a feeling that he couldn't quite explain, just that it was warning him that he shouldn't take this line of questioning further. That he should let it go. But he couldn't, he was too far gone and he had to know. Maybe ignorance was bliss, and the truth hurt, but he'd rather be forewarned than have somebody else tell him at the most inopportune time.
The truth always came out eventually. Always. As the old adage went, the truth will set you free. And he had never been the type to run away from something that hurt.
"Tell me," he demanded, or maybe he implored—he wasn't quite sure anymore. Annabeth's head was heavy on his lap, and his fingers were intertwined with her hair. "It must be important."
Demetria laughed, lowly, bitterly. "This is so farfetched, or even treasonous, but I guess there's nothing to stop you from finding out on your own. I don't think your sister actually died that night all those years ago."
What. He stared at Demetria. "I don't understand what you're alluding to, Demetria. What, are you saying that my mother and my sister were somehow related? That my father lied to me and the public, that I actually do have a sister who is still living?"
Swallowing, she nodded—once, abruptly, barely more than a jerk of her chin. "Yes. In a way. I suppose you can say that."
He didn't understand. There was something big he was missing here, something that she wasn't telling him—something that should be obvious to him, maybe, but he was too tired to think clearly and his thoughts were still so muddled with Tarentum falling. "Okay. If that's all…"
"No. No, it's not. There's… there's something more." He stared at her, and kept silent—waiting for her to speak, to explain. To tell him what she was going on about. "Percy, that baby was your sister, and that young woman was your mother. She married your father."
The baby grew, and got older, and she looked more and more like the young woman who would marry the Caesar one day.
There was a tradition, about a king of Thebes. Oedipus Rex, they called it. The king's citizens had begged him to find a way to lift the plague that threatened to destroy them, and so his brother told him that an Oracle instructed him to find the murderer of Laius, the king who had ruled Thebes before him. He had summoned a blind prophet, who had at first refused to speak, until he told the king that he had killed the late king, had hinted that his marriage was incestuous—
No.
Oh, gods no. Please let it not be what I'm thinking.
Demetria lifted her chin and looked at him directly in the eye. "I think your mother and your sister—they're the same person. That your father married his daughter."
Please.
But the gods never listened, and the truth was never kind.
