Her Mother's Garden

A war is coming. A Great War, the second one, fought by both demigod and men. Second lives aren't always the safest, Marha learned that the hard way. Now comes the big question: what do you do when your world is falling apart around you, and it's all your Godly father's fault? She isn't so sure, yet. (SI/OC)

Dani Martin never considered herself to be a good person. Sure, she gave to the needy and never killed anyone, or something like that, but there was a lot of bad things she did. Like stealing the drunk girl's wallet, though, if she was going to get that plastered at the local pub, she did deserve it.

So, even if she wasn't the best person, no way did she deserve this.

Her eyes narrowed onto the gun, hands up like that alone would stop the bullet from piercing her body, "I told you, man, I don't have anything."

The mugger, a man, probably around her older brother's age, shook his head like that was shoving the lies away. "No, no," his fingers tightened around the gun — his eyes were bloodshot, and he had a distinct smell of stale alcohol and B.O. Jesus.

"I swear," she reached for her pocket, just to show her wallet was empty, but the loud sound of a gun being fired stopped her.

For a brief second, she thought he had missed. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage and alarms were ringing in her head. Then, her reality was shattered.

A startled cry left her lips as she felt her knees cripple below her, body falling in such a way that caused her head to knock against the concrete. There was a fiery pain in her chest, right around her heart, and she felt the warmth of what must have been her own blood that poured out the wound and around her body.

If the mugger was even phased by the shooting, he didn't show it. Instead, he crouched down beside her, checking her pockets for any goods. He stole her wallet, which would have made her laugh, for all it had was her driver's license and that drunk girl's credit card, then her phone, and finally ripped her bag off of her shoulders, which had her laptop for school.

Then he left. He left her.

"N-N —" She started coughing, feeling a liquid dribble past her lips, tasting the copper, and she cried. Even when the sobbing hurt her chest and her lungs and her throat, she continued, begging for someone, anyone, to find her dying body.

It was a week later that her frozen corpse was found by a homeless man.

Marharytka Barukovich wasn't Danielle Martin. Or, she was, but she wasn't at the same time.

She didn't remember much about her birth. There was pain, coldness, warmth, then the soft voice of a woman speaking in a language she didn't understand.

Life continued. She wasn't sure if she remembered that either, or how she knew things she shouldn't have.

She was three when she first felt present in her own body. Like someone had shoved something out and forced her in, even when she was fine with her existence of seeing someone else control her body (was it even her's?)

She stared at her father's — step-father's — telephone in the office she wasn't allowed to enter. It was black and reminded her of a ram, with its horns being the two ends of the phone. Marharytka frowned. Why was he using such an old phone?

Her eyes moved to the calendar. Her stomach dropped.

15 Март 1934.

Fifteenth of something, 1934. She was in the past, and in a non-English speaking country, with a language she didn't know how to read. Her chubby legs wobbled, then she fell flat on her butt. She stared. She stared some more. Then, when the truth finally settled in, she began to wail.

There was the sound of a door creaking open behind her, then the walking of shoes, and she was picked up off of the wooden floor. It was a male, her step-father, who was glaring at her like she was a rat eating his food.

"Lida!" He called, speaking a language she knew yet didn't recognize, "Your child —" he said the word with such venom she felt a stab of panic, scared that he discovered her secret, "was in my office again!"

The woman who she assumed to be Lida entered from the kitchen, apron over her dress. Lida smiled at her, then at her husband, though it was strained. "Dimitri, I thought you were going to start locking it?"

"To hell with a lock!" He practically shoved Marharytka into who she assumed to be her mama's arms, "You are lucky I love you enough to not leave."

When the man had left the house, her mama sniffed, though still wore a house-wife smile. She sat her down on the dining room table, "You know those Russians, love, strong tempers." She spoke in a different language this time. She cooed at the sound — like this language brought her more join than the other. What was this language? Was the other Russian? How did she know Russian?

Marharytka nodded like she understood. So Dimitri was Russian and they were not? What were they, then?

Her life continued on from there. She lived with her mama, step-father, and her step-brother, Leonid, who was three years older than her. His mama, Dimitri's first wife, had died during childbirth. Marharytka had once tried to ask where her father was, but her poor mama became teary-eyed and she never got an answer.

She knew what she had to do. They expected her to act like a child, so she would. If Danielle— Marharytka wanted to survive, she had to adapt, and adapt she did. She relished in living like a small child, attached to her mother's side and allowing her to partake in adventures. She hadn't yet reached an age where people expected more from her, and she wasn't ready for it to change.

But she would handle it. There were worse things than the gender stereotypes of her current time.

Then came the time everything changed.

The day started out perfectly, at least perfectly for Marharytka. Leonid had a fever last night, so he didn't have to attend school, but by the next morning his fever was gone and he was as right as rain.

"Come, Mar," her step-brother had beckoned her before she had even eaten breakfast, a grin on his childish face as his dark hair made small curls on his forehead. She grinned back, agreeing to follow him to the back yard.

Through her year being present, she had found a lot — her mama was born in Verenchanka, a place in Ukraine, her step-father from Petrograd, which is in Russia. Currently, she was in Moscow, Russia, where her family lives.

Leonid held her small hand, leading her out into her mama's garden. There were several flowers, her mama's pride and joy: tulips, sunflowers, chamomiles, and a whole patch of daisies. After her name, since Marharytka meant daisy in Ukraine. She was named after her mama's favorite flower.

"Look," he moved so he was kneeling in a patch of dirt, then, with gentle fingers, he moved a few sunflowers.

She gasped, getting on her knees beside Leonid, "Kitty!"

He laughed, "Yes, Marha, kitties!"

There, sleeping in a ball of fluff, was three newborn Russian Blue kittens, their eyes still closed. A mama cat eyed the two with lazy eyes, licking a stripe across one of her baby's backs. When Marharytka reached out to pet her, she hissed, but didn't protest when her fingers brushed against the top of her head. It didn't take long for her to begin to purr.

"I always wanted a kitten."

Leonid nodded, his eyes sparkled in happiness, "I know, now we've got four!" He nudged her with his elbow, "Go find your mama, she'll let us keep them, don't you think?"

"Oh, I hope so," Marharytka stood, ignoring the dirt staining the knees of her stocking, and hurried into the house. She could hear him saying soft words to the feline family when she shut the door behind her.

She made quick movement into the kitchen, where she expected her mama to be, making her honey cake, which was a favorite in the household. Instead, she found the kitchen empty, with a cake pan in the oven.

Then, the sound of voices, a man and a woman — her mama, but not Dimitri. A frown came to her face, who was she speaking with? Uncle Oleksander was still in Ukraine, and she knew of no other male relatives. Maybe their neighbor, Igor, but her mama would never let him in without her step-father.

Marharytka stepped lightly, looking over the corner into the sitting room. There she saw her mother, a streak of flour across her cheek, and the back of a man. He had black hair, falling like a curtain to his shoulders, and was dressed in some of the finest clothing she had ever bare witness to.

Then, her mother's sparkling blue-eyes landed on her, and her face turned into one of surprise, "Marharytka!"

The man turned too, though she paid him little attention. She looked up into the kind face of Lida, the woman who had given her everything, and for the first time noticed something foreign. Fear. Her mama was afraid.

It caused an awful feeling to curl up in her stomach.

Her mama motioned towards the man — staring at her with an intense expression, her skin erupted in goosebumps. Why was he so pale? He looked to be whiter than the clouds themselves. And… was she mistaken, or was his eyes red? "Marha, meet your father."

And at once, her world came crashing down.

Hi :)

Another fanfiction, oops! Hope to see some returning readers from my other PJO reincarnation fic, Mortals and Divine Intervention. These two stories couldn't be any more different.

If I write this correctly, we'll see Marha as she does things the only way she knows how — adapting to fit any situation she finds herself in. She's not a fighter, she's a survivor.

Marha speaks mainly Ukrainian and Russian in this story. The only time I'll not be using English for these languages is if she's reading something. I only speak English and Spanish, so I'm sorry if Google translate messes anything up. I've never been to Russia or Ukraine, so also sorry if I mess anything up in that aspect too.

This does deal a lot with Nazis and such, mainly the work labor camps. Please don't read if you're uncomfortable. I'll never write any actual antisemitism, only mentioned. WWII is messy.

If I get anything wrong, please correct me nicely.