A/N: Again, you guys were so responsive, and I really, really appreciate it. You were all super encouraging, and I've been constantly checking to see if new reviews have popped up, cause I'm just so happy. This story is doing so much better than I'd anticipated.
Also, a quick note to "K", in regards to the tumblr post you saw about reviews really helping authors. I laughed when I read that, in part because of how true it is, and in part because I'd read the same post a few years back, and it encouraged me to review a lot more, too. Although, admittedly, you seem to be doing a better job than I at leaving more reviews. I'm still working on it xD BUT, I'll get there. Also, a thought on mentioning commentators: if authors expect a certain amount of output and feedback on what they put out to be viewed, wouldn't it be fair to expect the same amount of output and feedback from authors, and not just in the form of stories?
Anyway, on to the next chapter.
(SonofTartarus666, buckle up)
Fair warning that Michael kind of wrote himself in this chapter, and I like it.
Again, don't forget to let me know what you guys think of this particular chapter, and definitely let me know if something rubs you up the wrong way, so to speak.
Here we go.
TW: explicit suicide attempt, panic attack, mention of suicide watch procedures, delirium, mentions of homicide
Octavian swallowed as he watched Will leave for some medication (he'd told him what it was, but he hadn't bothered to listen), the cardiogram beeping dutifully beside him.
He was tempted to pay Kahale a visit, but he could tell just by feeling out the muscles in his legs that he would be too weak to walk that far.
He had to know know what had been raging through Michael's mind when he'd attacked him before. Perhaps what had been there when he'd been exiled? But why not kill him?
When Octavian thought back to it, he distinctly recalled feeling extremely weak, and thus unable to outrun Kahale, and Michael obviously wasn't concerned about public witnesses.
He'd had every chance to kill Octavian, so why hadn't he?
There had to be a reason.
Will came back then, a new IV bag in hand. He reminded Octavian to stay on his side when the augur tried to roll over onto his back. Octavian barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the obviously feigned concern. Instead, he curled up on his side under the heavy blanket as Will hung up the bag.
It was a yellowish colour, and for a strange moment, he thought it was urine. He mentally scoffed; why would it be urine?
"It's called a banana bag, or a Jane Doe bag," Will explained, reading Octavian's expression as a query. "Since your nutrient levels are so low, and your digestive system can't handle solid foods just yet, this will help by administering nutrients via liquids."
Octavian pretended to listen, nodding when Will finished, but his thoughts were already wandering back to Kahale.
Perhaps he was waiting for a more opportune time? Octavian's belt was probably somewhere in the Big House, most likely in the infirmary.
Would they have removed Octavian's knife? Most definitely, considering how little trust was held towards both parties.
If Kahale could somehow procure the knife, there would be no stopping Octavian's murder, since he was certain no one would try to stop Michael.
Octavian's heart fluttered in fear, but more so in admiration and anticipation.
If Octavian had figured it correctly, the crime would be perfect: Kahale loathed the Roman legion and its regulations, and both camps loathed Octavian. Anybody could kill him, but it wouldn't be as perfect as if Kahale were to kill him.
But Michael was no escape artist.
When Octavian woke at two in the morning, Will fast asleep beside his bed, the message was clear enough.
He rose cautiously, staggering when he stood and clenching his fists until the nails bit into his flesh and the black spots dancing behind his eyelids disappeared.
He pressed on, making it at last to the trunk by the entrance to the medical ward and picking the lock easily. He rummaged quietly until he found his knife.
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt, his determination wavering. But he thrust it away, resolve hardening once more; this at least he owed him.
He slowly made his way to the cellar, picking the lock again. He briefly realized with a strange nostalgia that he hadn't picked locks since he'd been in. . . well, no time to think about that now. He had to act quickly if he wanted this done right.
With some difficulty, he descended the short flight of stairs, immediately spotting Kahale sitting chained against the wall, asleep.
He woke almost the moment Octavian set foot in the little room, gazing at the augur with something akin to curiosity, sleep already absent from his mind. He sized up Octavian, glancing at the knife in his hand.
"Come to finish the job?"
"Why didn't you kill me?" Octavian redirected quietly.
Even in the dark, Octavian could see Michael's eyes narrow, "Why would I have wanted to kill you?"
"You've killed before," Octavian growled. "How would it be any different?"
"It's not," Kahale conceded. He tilted his head, a strange glimmer in his eyes. "Except that I didn't want to kill you."
"You're lying," Octavian accused fiercely, pacing closer, not bothering to be discreet. "Why did you hold off?" He wanted to know, needed to know. "Why not just off me?"
Kahale paused a moment, chuckling, albeit confusedly, "You got a death wish, boss?"
Octavian deflated, wincing at the title, but refused to avert his eyes. "Yes," he whispered.
That forced Michael into several moments of nonplussed silence before he could speak again, voice quiet and face hard, "Is that why you're here?"
Octavian swallowed thickly, looking away this time, "Yes."
Kahale sighed, head dropping back onto the wall with a muffled thump. A heavy weight seemed to have descended upon him, and he squeezed his eyes shut briefly. Stifled regret rolled off of him almost in waves.
"Look, boss. It's like you said: I've killed before. Killed without hesitation or remorse. I'll admit I'm probably a little screwed up in the head, and who isn't? But I'm still Roman. I can't kill my superior; it's in my blood, see?"
Octavian blinked, brow furrowing, his gaze intense, "Then why-?"
"Why did I 'try' before?" Michael finished, fists clenching as he studied the ceiling. "I was angry, boss. I wanted revenge on the Romans and the Greeks. To confuse them. You- the Roman about to compromise the alliance they so desperately wanted- you almost die, they'd be forced to realize just how much they want you gone, while having to deal with me at the same time.
"I wanted them to question their supposed 'clean slate' morality. I guess they found out where they really stand: they're not so much different than us exiled citizens*. I didn't expect that centaur to be so adamant about keeping you alive though; I was afraid I might've done more damage than I thought I had. That's a relief."
A lump formed in Octavian's throat, "So, you. . . you. . . won't kill me?"
Michael's silence was all the answer he needed. Tears gathered at the rims of his eyes as a sudden desperation rose within him, and he stumbled forward, unlocking Michael's bonds.
Kahale was looking at him with a strange emotion in his eyes, "What are you doing, boss?"
Octavian pointedly ignored his blotting vision and the growing constriction in his chest.
The second fetter came loose, but Michael only came up to sit back on his heels, rubbing his wrists as he sought out Octavian's gaze. "Octavian, what are you doing?"
He noted somewhere in the back of his mind that Kahale had finally dared to call him by name. So, he finally had his attention. Good. This was important.
"I need you to kill me," Octavian almost pleaded, holding out the knife with a trembling hand just as his knees buckled and he staggered forward.
Somehow, Michael managed to dodge the knife but catch him before he hit the floor, and Octavian was too weak to pull away.
Michael noticed the warmth beneath his fingertips and felt the back of the augur's neck. It was nearly burning. He frowned, "You have a fever."
"All the easier to kill me," Octavian muttered, letting out a painful string of coughs. Why was everyone so insistent to pretend that they cared?
Michael hefted him up carefully, heart dropping in sympathy when he didn't struggle, "Jeez, Octavian, what happened to you?"
If Octavian had heard him, he showed no indication of it. His voice had grown hoarse, breath erratic and eyes dropping exhaustedly.
"Please," he whispered, his head lolling to rest on Michael's chest. The knife fell as his fingers went lax, falling to the floor with a loud clang.
Michael gathered him up into his arms just as hurried footsteps suddenly approached the cellar. Octavian whimpered, gripping the fabric of Michael's shirt and squeezing his eyes shut.
He let out a harsh, pained breath just as Will Solaced appeared, wide-eyed and a little breathless. Surprise, then panic and anger, flitted across his face, but Michael ignored it in favor of bounding up the steps and past the son of Apollo to nearest bed he could find.
Before he could protest, he lay Octavian on the cot. He turned to Will, who was only standing there, stunned.
"Well?" Michael demanded, and Will shook himself out of his stupor, striding to Octavian's side and quickly replacing the IV line.
The augur groaned, not quite out of it, but not quite there. He gripped the sheets as the pain in his back returned with a vengeance, and the fever set off another bout of shivering.
Will noticed and quickly upped the morphine, which seemed to relax him a bit. But he was still writhing, coughs pushing themselves through his lips and forcing him to sit up in spite of his exhaustion.
He fell back down after much too long, breaths escaping in quick, pained huffs.
"Octavian," Will tried, hands hovering over the older boy as if afraid his touch might make the augur worse. "I need you to try to stay still for a little bit. The morphine still needs some time to-"
Octavian's strangled cry cut him off, so he tried again.
This time, he did still, but he was still breathing erratically, sweat beginning to drip of his temples. Will pressed a hand to his forehead, and Octavian arched up into it, whimpering softly. With his inherited abilities, Will immediately calculated the temperature: 103.4.
Will removed his hand, draping a soaked towel across his eyes. The younger boy was squirming nervously inside as he waited for the morphine to take full effect. When it finally did, what could still be seen of Octavian's face was tight with pain, brows furrowed and mouth pulled down in a grimace, as if he'd tasted something sour.
Will ran a hand through his hair before leading a strangely compliant Michael back to his holding cell.
Octavian's waking was slow and painful. Very painful.
The moment he woke, burning agony shot through him, forcing a hoarse cry from the back of his throat, hot tears quickly finding their way down his cheeks. As his back arched up, he discovered he'd lost considerable mobility in his arms.
This only created panic, and instinctively he tried to stifle another cry so as not to alert his captors.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, this could not be happening again.
They were rushing to him now in a flurry of footfalls and panicked words. He was writhing, begging them to stay away.
A hand touched his arm, and he jerked away with a shout, breaths beginning to come in irregular bursts. He was yelling now, because it was the only thing that would make them leave, or else they would knock him out, which at the very least would allow him some peace.
"He's delirious," a calm voice muttered, and for a split second something cold graced his forehead. He flinched away with a growl.
He hated them, hated that they kept him trapped here until somebody- nobody- came to get him. Came to "rescue" him.
"His temperature's at 104.8," the same voice reported, and he felt two pregnant pricks on the back of his immobilized hand.
He growled again, struggling desperately against his bonds. The voice was talking to him now, trying to get him to come down.
"Octavian, you're okay. You're in the Big House infirmary. I don't where you think you are right now, but you're not there."
Octavian's eyes darted open, looking around wildly before settling on his captor, who was resting a hand on Octavian's abdomen, looking down at him in concern. Looking down on him. Wasn't that just what he existed for? To be looked down upon, to be ridiculed?
And of course he was being tricked- he was still in the same cell they had stuck him in several weeks ago- but then why did this young boy above him look so concerned and so. . . kind?
Perhaps his mother had sent someone at last to rescue him? No, she would never- and what was this Big House the boy had mentioned? It didn't sound familiar-
"Octavian?" the boy was trying to get his attention again, his grip loosening just so.
Octavian blinked, startling out of his thoughts. How could this boy know his name? He hadn't told anyone since running away from home-
And the Big House didn't sound familiar- injured, Chiron, pain, dark, alone, confusion, whyweretheyhelpinghim, Will, Nico, Gaea, his fault, Reyna, Chiron, Will, refusingadying (nodesperate)boy'swish, Michael, fear, hope, pain, pain, pain, delirium, fever, pain- except now all of it did, and he was screaming because his back was on fire again, and Will was scrambling to up the morphine, and Octavian couldn't tell him no- no he doesn't want to live just give him this small mercy- he deserved this pain, he deserved this-
"No! I need the pain, it should be there! Just let it kill me! Please! Please!"
Somehow he heard Will swallow as he continued to inject the morphine into his system. Octavian tried to lash out, tried to stop him, but the bonds did their job well.
He could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate, sobs building in his throat and bubbling up until all he could do was lay there and cry, hard and desperate, hot tears streaming down his face.
Will disappeared for a moment, returning quickly with Reyna in tow. And he was sobbing helplessly, unable to stop and unaware of where exactly all this hurt had come from, and how his heart could ache so badly-
He startled when Reyna lay down beside him, careful to avoid hurting him. Then she was embracing him, letting him tuck his face into her shoulder and just holding him as he cried. He melted into the embrace faster than he could realize that he'd never been hugged before.
It was eternity before he passed out in her arms, exhausted and head spinning, tears still tracking down his pale face.
*since Romans in the Roman empire were considered citizens, I figured this would be the best term to use in that particular context
A/N: So, so sorry that this took so long to put up. My life just got incredibly complicated all of the sudden, and I kinda had to deal with that real quick before I could even get a chance to get back to this.
But, hey, I'm back, and with much, much more content to go on this story.
I'm hoping this chapter wasn't too intense, but I also hope it was just the right amount of intense?
Anyway, please remember to leave a review, still (as you all have been very, very good at doing, anyway), and let me know what you think so far.
Now, for the Fact of the Day(#17): A new word! Vociferate: to "shout, complain, or argue loudly and vehemently". Gonna find some way to use that monster in the future xD
Anyway, I'll try to get the next one up as soon as possible, so just bear with me. See all you amazing people later : )
