A/N: Happy Friday! We're done with blood for now, but not quite through with angst. Let me know what you think!
There wasn't any point in saying anything. She couldn't talk back. It wasn't much of a conversation.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Status Quo
The temple now paled in comparison to the glory it once had, so many centuries ago. Everything was in ruins, and it was only due to a fascination with the past that the mortals left the ruins mostly undisturbed now.
It used to be a site where Apollo was worshiped, sometimes even Artemis. Anyone that still worshipped the old gods usually did so at home now. Though some would still visit, it became more and more rare as the years passed.
The Muses were very familiar with this place. Each of them having been reborn into their immortal forms here.
It was one of their best bets for getting in touch with Apollo.
Calliope, Clio, and Erato stood at the front of the group, all nine of them approaching what was left of the main platform where they had returned to the world of the living. Clio and Calliope's bandages from the previous day were hidden beneath their clothes. Erato's low neckline revealed hers.
"Apollo, Father, we request an audience," Calliope said clearly, setting a golden bottle filled with wine down on the platform. An offering was not required from them, but made it much more likely that he would show up, as did Calliope referring to him as "Father."
Stroking his ego would only help them.
There had been plenty of times in the past where one or more of the Muses had come here to beg Apollo for a word, for advice, for help, and he had simply ignored them.
At times it seemed that he had chosen to let them figure the problem out on their own, which had made them stronger in the long run.
Other times, it seemed that he ignored them only to be cruel.
Calliope stepped back into her place, grabbing for Clio's shoulder to steady herself for a moment. Calliope and Erato were sluggish in their steps to the temple, still recovering. Clio had already improved significantly, her injuries far more superficial.
The nine of them waited, watching the skies. One minute passed.
The sky was clear, birds sang.
Five minutes passed.
Erato wobbled slightly in her heels, struggling to right herself before Polyhymnia moved beside her, deciding to act as a human crutch.
Ten minutes passed.
A horse could be heard whinnying and suddenly the sky grew brighter. Careful to avoid looking directly at them, the Muses each winced or held up a hand to block the rays as they approached.
The sound of horseshoes on stone reached their ears first, then the chariot hitting the ground as it landed.
Apollo's footsteps were next, and soon he was standing before them, hands on his hips, looming over them.
"Daughters," he said pleasantly. "I heard you had an altercation with my sister."
"Clio, Erato, and I went to try and clear the air," Calliope said. "That is, to explain to her that we were loyal to you. That we always had been and always would be."
"Is that so? And what brought this on?" Apollo said, his expression inscrutable behind his sunglasses.
"It's odd," Clio said. "Recently Jack Frost has been very concerned about what side we were on."
"Very odd indeed," Apollo said, sounding sincere and leaving Terpsichore and Euterpe exchanging brief glances.
"We thought it was obvious that it was yours, how could it be anyone else?" Clio continued.
"But if even the Guardians were starting to question things," said Calliope, "We thought we should talk to Artemis."
"She didn't take it well," Erato said, her voice still slightly strained from the previous day.
Clio nodded. "She completely lost it."
"She must be upset," Apollo said with a slight nod. "Artemis is usually more… calculated."
"She was angry and she was sloppy," said Calliope. "And she was upset about my wedding."
"Not like you," Clio said before Apollo had a chance to add anything. "You understand that the whole event was for show, a favor to the Guardians, really. We would never dream of wasting your or Artemis' time with such a thing."
"We didn't expect her to act like a fairy tale villain over the whole thing," Erato added. "Upset about an invitation, honestly."
Apollo adjusted the rings on one hand, tilting his head to imply that he was peering at the women before him. A few were holding their breath, waiting for what felt like ages for him to respond.
"You attempt to flatter me to avoid punishment," Apollo said. Tension was thick in the air.
"Not at all," Calliope said. "Surely, you know that I would never dream of sincerely getting married without you present. Sanderson and I were putting on a show. Artemis' meddling had caused others to doubt our alliances, so we had to make a statement."
Apollo grew silent again, considering this.
"And dear Eros?" he said at last, turning to Erato. "What of his work with Artemis?"
"I believe you made the point much clearer than any of us could," Erato said evenly. "He has learned his lesson."
"He better have," said Apollo. "But… I am pleased to hear this."
A few of the Muses couldn't help but relax their shoulders at this statement, releasing a held breath at last.
"It was obvious that Artemis would push you all too far," Apollo said. "But I fear she may not be done trying to negotiate, she doesn't give up that easily."
"No, she doesn't," Calliope said.
Erato gently touched her bandage. "We know better now, Apollo. You were right. She can't be reasoned with."
"A shame that you had to learn this way," said Apollo. "But your power is strong, and you will heal, and she will still try to steal you away."
"Not if we have anything to say about it," Clio said.
Apollo nodded, a finally sparing a smile. "Good. She will never understand you all the way I do."
Melpomene glanced up at this statement, slightly puzzled, before looking back to the ground, brow furrowed.
"We owe you so much," Polyhymnia said, bowing her head respectfully.
"And you would do well to remember that," Apollo said. He leaned over, taking the wine from the platform and lifting his sunglasses so that he might eye the bottle critically. "Hmm… it'll do."
He turned his heel and began walking back to his chariot.
"Apollo, wait," Calliope said, taking a careful step after him. "Apollo, we still—there's still the matter of the alliances, Rowan, the bomb, the—"
"I will be in touch," Apollo said, waving away her concerns with his free hand. "I'm very busy."
In the next instant, the horses were off, and Apollo was out of sight. Each of the nine women sighed, shoulders slumping and whispers, curses, and groans scattering through the group.
"Do you think he really bought it?" Euterpe couldn't help but ask.
"For now," Clio sighed.
Pitch watched carefully as Daedalus set what appeared to be a small fish tank in front of him, with a marble-sized device settled at the bottom. Daedalus removed the lid and gently touched the device, which began to silently blink a faint light.
He quickly set the lid back in place and picked up another device, heavy and star-shaped, one finger between each point.
Seconds passed slowly, the room quiet.
Light began to emit from the device in the tank, so bright that Pitch put up a hand and looked away. Daedalus gave a quick twist of the wrist, leaving the device in his hand beeping.
The light dimmed enough for them each to observe the tank again.
A concentrated beam of light shot upward, and with a loud pop! the device in the tank exploded, a crack forming at the top pane of glass in the tank.
"I thought you had figured out how to disable it," Pitch said.
"This is a worst-case scenario," explained Daedalus. "When there's no time to stop the explosion. All that energy has to go somewhere, and this will send it upward, instead of out in all directions. Now, in the event that there is still time to stop it…"
He set another tank with another small stardust bomb on the table.
Once more, he set the bomb and closed the lid.
Another twist of the wrist with his handheld device.
The small bomb beeped, a crack appearing on the surface, and fell apart.
"Hmm," Pitch said, nodding in approval. "Good. Very good. And you're sure it'll work on the real thing?"
"It should. Obviously, I can't really test it full-scale without giving away what we're doing here or using an excessive amount of stardust."
"Your discretion is appreciated," Pitch said.
"Your skillset," Daedalus said, tapping one of his temples, "is appreciated."
"Ah, feeling rested?" Pitch said, pleased.
"For the first time in a long, long time," Daedalus said. The curls of his graying hair and beard were, for once, not askew. The dark circles and lines around his eyes seemed to have softened.
Dreamless sleep seemed to be serving Daedalus very, very well.
"Good. Good," Pitch said. "Now, your second project?"
"This one was harder. I don't work well with magic, as I told you. But, I think I've figured out how to get what you wanted to work. Mostly."
Daedalus cleared the table before bringing out one final glass tank, this one filled with swirling dream sand.
"I can't replicate your ability to corrupt dream sand in a man-made machine. Therefore, a 'nightmare bomb' as you described it, would be impossible. You and the Sandman are from other worlds and it would take centuries of careful study for me to understand exactly how your powers work," the man explained. "The same technology in the stardust bomb can't really be applied here. But, I think I can use some of the same principles to amplify your impact on the dream sand."
"By how much?" Pitch asked.
"You can cover a town—and that's a town, not a city—in a matter of seconds," said Daedalus, picking up another device. This one was black and shaped like a small pyramid. "This is just the scale model. I, well, only have enough stardust to make one full-scale one if this works."
Pitch took the small, black pyramid gently in his fingertips. "And how does it work?"
"Holding this, interact with the dream sand as you normally would," Daedalus said, opening the lid of the tank. The dream sand began to expand, curling around the room in ribbons.
Pitch reached forward to touch it, and there was an electric crackling noise. He swore, dropping the small device, scorch marks on his hand.
Lightning, or something like it, seemed to burst in the room, running along every hint of golden dream sand. It all happened in a few seconds, the room buzzing with static when it was through, and all the dream sand turned black and sinister.
Two nightmares formed, standing beside Pitch and waiting for instructions.
"And I have to be touching it?" Pitch said, holding his scorched hand out, unamused.
"Unfortunately, yes," said Daedalus. "It's the only way it can harness your powers."
"And only one full-sized version? What am I meant to do with that?" Pitch said.
"A whole town plagued by nightmares should help you regain a fair amount of your strength and leave the Guardians baffled," said Daedalus. "While they're trying to figure out what's going on, we can gather more supplies and you can focus on getting stronger, still. You can't pull off a bigger plan now anyway, not with the tooth fairy still having access to all those memories. Not with Jack Frost still working with the Guardians."
"Hmm," Pitch said, examining the marks on his palm. "It will have to do. For now."
Jack had woken late that day, wondering if it was possible to be emotionally hungover and fully aware of how melodramatic the notion sounded.
He had never experienced an actual hangover. He had never had enough alcohol to really get drunk, the most being a slight buzz only a handful of times. He was honestly a bit afraid that he might like the sensation of turning his brain off a bit too much if he ever let it get that far.
But his head throbbed. His chest felt heavy. He had to drag himself out of bed, his first instinct being to hide beneath the covers until further notice.
He had work to do. It was officially autumn in the northern hemisphere, and the southern hemisphere would still be expecting a few cold days now that it was spring.
Doing anything felt like too much. But the Muses were speaking with Apollo today, and if the man felt like checking in on Jack after, he didn't want to be at the cabin when he arrived.
Dealing with Apollo was far beyond anything Jack could handle today.
So, he left the cabin. Head still throbbing and chest still heavy.
He iced windows further north and sent the first snow of the season to some grateful ski resorts. He kicked up chilled winds in places that rarely got snow.
His headache seemed to ease the more he worked, the more people delighted at the change of the season.
The boy still had some time before he could more sincerely bring snow to most of the northern hemisphere, but this was enough to start.
He checked over his shoulder in every town, every time he stopped to rest on a roof or the branch of a tall tree, suspicious of the daylight at every turn.
But Apollo did not appear.
It was sunset when he made his way back to Burgess.
He was unwilling to go straight back to his cabin, despite how much effort it had taken him to leave.
Instead, he landed softly in the cemetery, taking a seat on the ground beside a now-too-familiar tombstone.
For a while he didn't say anything.
There wasn't any point in saying anything. She couldn't talk back. It wasn't much of a conversation.
But without a task for the Muses to complete, without having winter to spread, his mind kept wandering back to his conversation the previous day with Bunny.
He attempted to shove thoughts of that conversation away, knowing it was a big part of why he felt so exhausted now. He didn't want to think about it.
He would think of literally anything else, he decided, lying back in the grass and staring at the slowly darkening sky. He tried thinking of the places he would bring snow to the next day. He tried thinking of how the Muses' meeting with Apollo might have gone. He tried counting the exact number of days that were left until the anniversary of the day etched into the stone next to him.
Still, his mind wandered back to that conversation. To desperately asking Bunny why he was helping.
Having no other options at the moment, he sighed heavily and started talking.
"I was able to be sincere with you. At least, I think I was. I remember it being terrifying, but, we did manage to talk to each other sometimes without making quips and jokes, right?"
The tombstone beside him did not answer.
"So, why do I get suspicious every time someone else is being kind to me? I believed that you actually cared about me, but the Guardians say something kind and I don't know what to do. The Muses thank me for helping them and I wonder why they're not saying something like 'Great job not making it worse, Jack.'"
Abusive relationship.
The term flitted through Jack's brain again, though he tried to ignore it.
In three hundred years, most of the beings he came in contact with showed him nothing but annoyance, if they acknowledged him at all. The only exception had come in those few years he had spent with Melpomene.
Jack started those years starving for anything resembling companionship, validation, acknowledgement. He had ended them resigned to spending the rest of eternity alone.
He had thought that in all the years that had passed, he had gotten over it. Time heals all wounds, doesn't it? Hadn't he had plenty of time?
Surely the way he was treated back then wasn't still affecting his relationships now… was it?
"I… expect everyone to hate me, don't I?" Jack said softly.
Much like the word "abusive," Jack wasn't sure what to do with this train of thought.
He sat upright, turning his head to gaze at Rowan's headstone, frowning. The flowers laid there were fresh, recent gifts from a visitor whose identity Jack didn't know. Perhaps it was the Bennetts, perhaps her parents had been in town, or perhaps it was someone else entirely.
He reached forward and gently touched one of the flowers, watching frost spread across the petals.
"I guess even you hated me for a minute there, didn't you?" Jack said, thinking back to their first proper meeting.
But perhaps "hate" was a strong word. He hadn't made a great first impression. He had broken into her apartment and Rowan had quickly gone from anger, to fear, to confusion, then back to anger, and only finally settled into curiosity after jabbing Jack in the chest with a stun gun.
"Or maybe I'm just bad at first impressions," he considered, leaning against the stone, one arm folded over the top. Perhaps everyone disliked him at first and then he grew on them. Maybe that was a better way to look at it than the blind assumption that no one actually wanted him around.
Still, it felt more comfortable to assume he was a nuisance.
It was odd, he thought, that being comfortable didn't necessarily mean being happy.
He supposed he had spent a long, long time comfortable in loneliness and isolation. He knew how to be alone. He was good at it. He knew what to expect.
Maybe that was why he was spending time talking to a tombstone instead of to any of his friends right now, despite the fact that he knew they would listen and give him more useful, more comforting answers than the silence he was getting now.
He leaned his forehead against his arm, still rested on the stone.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I need to talk to someone who can talk back."
He didn't know why it hurt to say it out loud.
He pulled himself to his feet and eyed the stone again, only for a moment, before walking away, staff held loosely in his hand.
He didn't fly, thinking that perhaps the walking might be more appropriate, somehow.
He walked down the path that would lead to the lake, passing it without sparing much of a glance.
He continued down the trail that went through the woods, some nocturnal birds waking and cawing in his direction as he passed.
When he reached his cabin, he was greeted with three boxes set in front of his door, each stamped with a black widow.
His brow furrowed at the sight. He had forgotten that Arachne was due to return his clothes today, still wearing what Euterpe had lent him. But why would she return three boxes?
Jack scooped up the boxes and opened the door. After turning on the lights, he set the boxes on the table. He took the envelope from the top, also stamped with a black widow, and opened it.
A plain card was enclosed, and Arachne's neat, sharp handwriting was scrawled across it.
Jack—
I did everything I could to remove the blood stains from your clothes. While Thalia insists they are no longer noticeable, I have six more eyes than she does, and I can very clearly see where I failed to completely remove the marks.
I would have tried my stain removal process again, but I do not believe your clothes would have survived it. I already had to mend the trousers at several places in the seams.
While it pains me to do so, I have returned the still-stained clothes. I apologize sincerely for being unable to provide my usual quality of work.
Additionally, due to the sheer number of times this past year that I have been forced to observe you wearing that old hoodie and those dilapidated trousers, I have been working on a few alternatives. Please find them enclosed in the additional boxes, and accept them as a consolation for the stained clothes.
If you ever find yourself in need of something more elaborate, you know where to find me.
-Arachne
Jack set the card aside and opened the first box, finding his hoodie and pants, pressed and neatly folded. He took hold of the hoodie and pulled it from the box, holding it out in front of him to examine critically.
There was only one place, a spot near the pocket, where he noticed a subtle mark that hadn't been there before. He turned the hoodie around in his hands to examine the back, finding no further marks there.
Setting the hoodie back in the box, he pulled out the pants and tried to find any marks there, as well, remembering that there had specifically been bloodstains on the knees. He found only one other small, faint spot near one of the seams.
Overall, his clothes seemed fine. But Jack, too, only had the two eyes.
Curiously, he set aside the first box and opened the second.
Inside was a blue jacket, with bronze-colored buttons that ran up the closure, just left of the center of the chest. More buttons accented the wrists, where the cuffs included holes for his thumbs. The hood was loose and large, and would act as a slouching collar when it wasn't pulled up.
The pants were slim-fit, and a grayish brown, with reinforcements on the knees and more buttons running down both sides of the calves. The fabric was stretchy and artfully distressed, as though to mimic the not-so-artful distressing on his usual pants.
"Hmm," Jack said, unsure how to feel about the items. He set them back into their box, and opened the last remaining one.
Another blue hoodie, this one with a lighter blue section in the middle to break up the design. The sleeves were tighter from the wrist to the elbow, accented here with bronze-colored snaps.
The pants were a dark brown, with lighter brown panels at the knees, again to break up the design. There were more bronze-colored accent buttons running up from the outer ankle to halfway to the knees, and along the pockets.
The items were all clearly high quality, and there seemed to be an attempt from Arachne to mimic his personal style. If one could even say he even had a "personal style" to speak of, considering the little thought he had given his wardrobe in the past centuries.
Still. They almost felt too nice.
So Jack pulled off the clothes that he had borrowed from Euterpe and pulled on his old hoodie and the old, ratty pants, carefully re-tying the cords that kept them in place at his calves.
Perhaps another day he would try the new clothes.
Tonight, he just wanted to feel like himself.
Comfortable.
Unhappy.