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Notes and Etymology
Odin's Blizzard – A kenning used to refer to battle.
Corpse Dew - A kenning used to refer to blood.
Spear Shy – A kenning used to describe someone as cowardly/weak.
Black Song – A kenning used to refer to a reaver/raider/vikingr's war cry.
Perseus Thrall-Born – Theotford, 888 CE
There was nothing like the thrill of battle. No scent that could rival the invigorating blend of blood, sweat, and ash that hung over a war-torn town. The most skillful of songbirds could never hope to concoct a melody quite so delightful as the metal song of Odin's Blizzard. Not a feeling in the world could match the soul-devouring nirvana that was a berserker's battle high.
Lost within the streets of Theotford, face drenched in the corpse dew of countless spear shy Saxons, Percy felt that battle high overtaking him. His blood coursed thick and fiery in his veins, and the sweat of a thousand axe swings hung on his brow. The black song was sand against his tender throat, and a terrifying last sound for Saxon ears. They parted before him like the sea beneath a ship's prow. They fell to the cobbles they had once walked like wheat before a farmer's scythe.
His mind was scarcely on Midgard as he fought. His axe blow cleaved a man's arm from his torso, and Percy only saw the fountain of blood. A dozen arrows slammed against his shield, yet he could not feel the thump in his shoulder. His foot sent a man careening into another soldier's spear. The poor soldier died before he could dislodge his weapon from his skewered friend. Percy caused all, but saw none. All he heard was their screams.
Nothing could pierce the battle fog clouding his mind. He heard allies shout for help, heard men ask for orders, saw friends fall to walls of steel, and still his mind remained unchained. He reacted on instinct, shouting to his men with words that were not his and swinging his sword with a mind that belonged not to him, but to a battle-demon.
Eventually, the Saxons turned tail and ran from the monster hiding beneath a vikingr disguise. Percy watched them retreat, hopping like fear-stricken bunnies across pits of mud and past bundles of burning hay. The cheers of victorious men echoed through the streets of Theotford, but Percy's voice was not among them. He was no man. He was a bear of the Bjornar clan, and his battle-lust could not be satiated by winning a town. His was a more primal victory. A hunter's victory. With a snarl on his lips, he bounded into the smoke after all the fleeing bunnies.
He chased them past flaming houses and over trampled fields. One by one the stragglers fell to his axe, and still he followed. A great many Saxons were sent to meet their God at the ford near the town, and even more died before their sodden boots crunched the dry leaves of the forest floor. More still would have fallen, but a voice like a river of tumbling stones ended the pursuit as quickly as it had begun.
"Percy!" the voice thundered.
His footsteps dwindled into nothing as his ally reigned him in from afar. His gut still panged with battle-hunger, but Percy forced himself to follow the distant shout instead. The trail of shouts led him back to the far side of the river, where a familiar, grizzled face greeted him with the ghost of a smile.
"England has made you soft, Acke." Percy said in way of greeting. "A year ago, you would've let me give chase until the soles of my boots were weathered thin."
"A year ago, you had not told me of your secondary goals." Acke reminded him. "How do you expect the Saxons to fear you if none survive to tell of your ferocity?"
"When their fields are watered with blood and their bread tastes of their fallen comrades, then they will know to fear me."
"Rumors spread faster than bread among the Saxons these days my friend. If you had it your way, it would be years before the peasants in Wintanceaster learned of your deeds."
"As always you speak wisely." Percy conceded. "Though I wish just once you would let me choose excitement over wisdom."
"If it is excitement you seek, you should know that Liv is looking for you."
A groan escaped Percy's lips despite his best efforts to contain it. It was a rarity these days that a conversation with Liv ended pleasantly. Most often things would begin well, but soon enough it always devolved into a scolding. As stubborn as she was, not even a year's worth of failures could curb her efforts to close the ever-widening rift between Percy and Trygve.
"Did she look upset when she asked after me?"
Acke leveled him with that same knowing look he always did when Liv was involved.
"She never looks upset when she talks about you. It's the talking to you that troubles her."
"Right." Percy muttered. "Well, take me to her then. I'd prefer my chastising gets done before the men are finished looting. I don't need spectators."
Acke, ever the loyal soldier, was quick to oblige. He led Percy uphill across the ruined fields, footfalls heavy as they made their return. High above Theotford a flock of ravens had gathered, circling lower with each beat of their wings as they descended on the feast of dead men. Percy watched them sink to the charred earth, wondering how many of his fallen comrades would soon fill the birds' bellies.
The stench of death was strong at the outskirts of the town. As Acke guided him deeper into the carnage, the reek only grew more intense. Stale blood hung so thick in the air now that each breath tasted of iron, and lifeless bodies were as common as cobblestones underfoot. Percy did his best to ignore the fallen vikingrs, instead choosing to focus on the many brutalized corpses wearing Saxon colors. It was much easier to stomach the banquet for crows that way.
When they reached the center of town, Percy could see the full extent of his handiwork. In the town square, where only a day ago Saxons would have been shopping and mingling, there was not a single living Englishman. Instead, there was only a mutilated heap of bodies that would've been more intact had they faced a pack of hungry wolves.
Liv stood among the dead, directing a few nearby men as they scoured the scene in search of usable arms and armor. When her eyes landed on Percy and Acke, she quickly shooed the soldiers away, ensuring the coming conversation would not fall on unwanted ears. By the time Percy was close enough to see his reflection in her viridescent eyes, there were only three souls left in the town square.
"I'd like to speak to Percy alone if you wouldn't mind." Liv said, glancing at Percy's companion.
Acke inclined his head respectfully before ducking away. Percy shot a look of spite at the man's retreating form. If Liv killed him now, Acke would be the first person he haunted. It would serve the man right for abandoning his friend to such desperate circumstances.
"This needs to stop." Liv said once Acke was out of earshot.
"What exactly do you mean by 'this'?"
He knew exactly what she meant. He also knew it was easier to dig the hole deeper than it was to climb to the top.
"The same 'this' that's been going on since Halvard died. You can't keep 'leading' these raids by challenging a hundred men on your own, and Trygve can't keep hiding from you in the longhouse. It's just not a solution built to last."
"And why not? Every Saxon I fight is another that our men don't have to. Look around you. How many fallen Bjornar do you see? Not many. I save lives by fighting like I do, just as Trygve saves lives by working from Odin's Rest. He is the soldier; I am his axe. We don't speak, we don't fight. We just act. It works best this way. For all of us."
"Only until it doesn't." She snapped. "How long before you take on one man too many? How long before the Bjornar decide they'd rather not serve a king who hasn't tasted battle since taking the throne? If things continue as they are, you'll be dead and Trygve will be overthrown before the year's first snow."
"There is no number of Saxons that would be one man too many." Percy shot back. "As for Trygve, well, you're talking to the wrong man. Go tell him to lead a raid or two if you're concerned for his wellbeing."
"He won't go raiding and you know it!" Liv hissed. "You're a part of every major battle we fight. Acke and his men are our best fighters, and they won't lift a sword in anyone's name but yours. To take to the field, Trygve would first have to be willing to work with you, and right now, he's not."
"Again, you're talking to the wrong man. The problem lies with him. Not me."
Liv ran a hand slowly over her face. By the time she was through, her eyes were filled with barely contained frustration.
"Odin's beard! Why must you be so stubborn?" She grumbled. "A year without your best friend, and all because you refuse to apologize. This isn't like you Percy."
"I won't apologize because I have nothing to apologize for. I didn't kill his father, no matter how much he wants to pretend I did. I'm not going to wound Halvard's honor by parading myself as his killer, and I'm not going to insult Trygve's intelligence by catering to his delusions. Neither of them deserves that disrespect."
"And neither of you deserves to live the way you're living now. You're unhinged without him, and he's out of his depth without you. He needs you by his side to give him the confidence to act like a king, and you need him at yours to prevent you from losing yourself to this war. I try my best, believe me I do, but the two of you are pulling me in different directions. At this point I'm not sure which of us three will reach the afterlife first."
"Then stop living to hold us together. You can live a life beyond Trygve and I. After all, we survived without you once upon a time."
Liv recoiled at his words like they'd physically struck her.
"You two have been my only friends for years." She hissed. "I love you, love both of you too much to watch this go on. There is no life for me beyond you and Trygve. Other than you two, I have only my father, and I mean about as much to him as a piece in a game of Hnefatafl. Are you willing to doom me to that level of insignificance because of some twisted sense of principle and respect?"
By the time she had finished, her eyes were misty and her hiss had turned into a shout. A single tear cut a trail through the dirt and blood smeared on her battle-worn face, drawing Percy's eyes to the subtle curve of her trembling lip. Green eyes pierced him like daggers and, despite all the reasons to reject her pleas swirling around in the back of his mind, he found himself starting to cave.
"Fine." He forced out. "I will speak to him when we reach Odin's Rest, but I make no promises that things will change."
"Things will change." She said, echoing words first uttered long ago. "They have to."
Percy sighed. It had been a long time since he'd heard her so hopeful. A shame. Her dashed hopes when the coming conversation only made things worse would not be a pretty sight. Still, he had denied her for too long already. Some conversations, it seemed, could not be avoided forever.
"For your sake," he murmured. "I hope that you're right."
Perseus Thrall-Born – Odin's Rest, 888 CE
There was little Percy dreaded more these days than the sight of Odin's Rest on the horizon. Returning to the city meant facing the price of his success. It meant shoving his way through throngs of men as they reunited with their families. It meant shirking off the adulation of the many and embracing the despair of the few. It meant that as the crowd showered the victorious reavers with their cheers, he was forced to search for the silent faces among them.
One by one he tracked them down. He met with women who would never again feel their husband's touch. He spoke to teary-eyed children whose fathers hadn't yet taught them to swing an axe. There was little he could do to console them. His face could not convey any modicum of understanding. His words could not raise spirits, be they ghosts or emotions, yet, for all that it was useless, he did his duty. He had led his men in life, and it was only right that he served them in their deaths.
By the time his duty was done, the streets had cleared and his shoulder had been thoroughly wetted by the tears of new widows. His mind was taxed beyond function, yet still he had one more thing left to do. On travel-worn feet he made his way to the great hall of Odin's Rest. Voices emanated from within, and were Percy a patient man, that might've mattered to him. He threw open the doors, announcing his return with the crashing sound of wood slamming on wood.
Silence took the room as the noise died. Heads turned and hands fell to weapon hilts, but not a soul spoke a word. Percy recognized these men. Recognized their looks of disapproval and, in many cases, hatred. This was a meeting of the jarls. The most influential men under the Bjornar's banner, all gathered in one place to take orders from a man less than half their age.
Trygve headed the room, sitting atop the same throne his father had once occupied. His expression was schooled as Percy approached, hiding his true thoughts about the interruption beneath the guise of indifference. Percy gave a slight bow when he reached the foot of the dais, ensuring that the proper deference was displayed in front of the jarls. Rough patch or no, Trygve did not deserve to be disrespected in front of the men who he most needed to see him as strong.
"My apologies for interrupting." Percy said. "But I've come to make my report."
"It can wait." One of the jarls asserted. "We were discussing important matters."
Percy turned on the man, a look of utter contempt on his face.
"It can wait." he parroted. "You see, I've just returned from doing your job for you. That takes precedence over idle chatter, I think."
The Jarl's eyes widened in shock, which quickly turned to anger. He started to rise from his chair, fury driving his every move, but Jarl Jørn's steady hand on his shoulder stopped him before he could get far.
"You should thank Jørn for stopping you, Sigfrøðr. A few more steps and you would've been jarl of the burial mound."
There was a brief outcry from Sigfrøðr at that, followed swiftly by similar protests from the other jarls. Each in turn demanded that Percy be punished for his insolence but Trygve, in a move reminiscent of his late father, silenced them all with a single raised fist.
"I will not punish a man for speaking his mind." Trygve said. "If any of you take issue with his words, silence him yourself."
Naturally, none of the men took Trygve up on that offer. Even with their swollen egos and frequent delusions of valor, none were stupid enough to challenge the vikingr who'd been singlehandedly winning them England for a year now.
"I thought not." Trygve continued when none rose to the task. "Now, with the desire for peace weighing heavy on my mind, I'd ask that we all take a brief recess. Things will progress much more smoothly if you're not here for my brother to threaten and mock."
The jarls were slow to obey at first, but a single withering glare from Trygve commanded their loyalty. They made their way to the door in a jumble of grumbles and grimaces, leaving nothing behind save for the stench of bureaucracy. With the jarls gone, Trygve finally slackened in his chair, revealing the frustration he'd been feeling all along.
"I do wish you would show at least a minute degree of respect to the jarls." Trygve muttered.
Percy scoffed.
"They don't deserve my respect. They hate me because I was born a thrall. They wish me dead because I am your staunchest supporter. Do you truly expect me to soothe the egos of covetous men who would love nothing more than to steal your throne and force me back into chains?"
Trygve didn't even blink.
"Yes. I do. I expect you to do it because I asked it of you as a brother. Do not make me demand it of you as your king."
"You ask me for too much. I can't just ignore their contempt."
"Of course you can't." Trygve said, voice biting. "Because you've always been too bitter. Too focused on the ways the world and its people have beaten you down. You don't notice the admiration you've garnered from the people. The lower born folk revere you like a god, and still your mind is stuck on a few old men who spend their time arguing in circles!"
"Because those old men are the same men who had me in chains! The same men who let my mother die because it was easier to find a new thrall than it was to help her!"
Trygve rose from his throne, face red with fury. Percy backed away a step, taken aback by the violent intent shining in his brother's eyes. His hands began to inch upwards, ready to ward off the impending blow, only it never came. Trygve, in a show of tremendous restraint, forced his balled fists to uncurl at his sides. A heavy breath carried the fury from Trygve's gut, leaving behind eyes filled with nothing but pity.
"It pains me that after all these years your anger still blinds you to the bigger picture. The jarls don't hate you because you used to be a thrall. They hate you because of what you are now. You're a symbol, Percy. The vikingrs and the workers of the Bjornar see you as a champion of the downtrodden. They would sooner die a thousand deaths than see you returned to chains. Your word could spark a revolution that would topple me, the jarls, and every other wealthy soul under our banners."
"That's not true." Percy insisted. "I couldn't-"
"You could. Acke and his men are our strongest fighters, and they only serve you. Most of the men in our armies have grown accustomed to taking your orders. They idolize you as a soldier, a general, and as a man. The people are behind you. If you wished it, you would be king. Nobody in Odin's Rest could stop you. Not even me."
"But I wouldn't-"
"I know." Trygve assured him. "Gods above, I know, but the jarls do not. They think rebellion lurks around the corner. It's why they hate you. It's why they fear you. It's why I've finally been able to convince them to do the one thing not even my father was open minded enough to attempt."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they think we need to appease the people. They think the only way to keep you off the warpath is to free every thrall in Odin's Rest. They think that because I told them it was true. You see now why your hatred is pointless, brother? You are not just Thrall-Born. Because of what you've accomplished, of the sway you now hold, you are the last Thrall-Born the Bjornar will ever see. What do a few narrow-minded jarls and their abhorrence mean in the face of such justice?"
Percy didn't answer because he had no answer. Somewhere, beyond the disbelief clouding his mind, he felt his eyes begin to sting. An angry council of jarls, a spike in the cost of labor, and a year's resentment should've been more than enough reasons for Trygve to leave the thralls in the fields and yet…
"Why? Why risk so much for some slaves? For me? You and I have hardly spoken one kind word to the other in a year, and-"
"And you are my brother, always." Trygve said. "We may have our issues, but you showed me long ago that the best of us can be found in the worst of places. I will not have the next you withering away at the quern, and I will not have you reminded of your suffering every time you walk past the fields."
The words were worse than any wound to Percy. For a year now he had lived in resentment, cursing Trygve as a man unable to forgive. All the while, Trygve had been working to provide him with the greatest gift anyone had ever bestowed upon him. Even worse, Percy hadn't even apologized for his role in Halvard's death. Like a storm happening all at once, all the blame, anger, and guilt he'd been projecting onto Trygve and the gods suddenly came crashing down on his own head.
"I'm sorry." he began, voice barely above a whisper. "I've been blaming the gods for his death. Blaming you for our troubles, I… I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought that by sending your father to Valhalla, I would somehow make his death easier for you… Make you feel like he wasn't just taken for no reason. That he would have a purpose beyond death. Maybe I was right, and maybe he was dead no matter what I did, but I still feel like I rushed him to his death anyways. You might've had a few more days, and…"
Percy let out a heavy, shaky breath, and tears fell freely from his face, soaking the hardwood below with their salty touch.
"I know I didn't swing my axe, and I know I didn't create the sickness that took him, but I feel like I killed him anyways and I haven't atoned for it. I haven't apologized to you, or even faced it myself. I'm just… I'm sorry, Trygve, for killing your father and denying him his chance at a true battle."
Trygve stared at him the entire time he spoke; face unreadable as the words he'd been unable to speak even to himself tumbled from his lips. Percy finished and there was silence. Harsh, painful silence that ripped at his soul and then…
"Is that why you think I'm upset?" Trygve asked. "You think I blame you?"
"Don't you?"
Trygve shook his head.
"Maybe at first but… I'm not angry because I think you killed my father. I'm angry because when he died, you disappeared. You didn't show up to his pyre burning. You didn't speak to me once as I struggled to climb out from his shadow and deal with my grief at the same time. You're my best friend, Percy. You're supposed to be by my side in all things, just as I am at yours, and instead of helping me come to terms with my father's death, you took my brother from me when I needed him the most."
"I thought that's what you needed. I thought that my hand was the last one you wanted on your shoulder as the smoke of his death-fire abandoned Midgard. I thought that there was no voice you would wish to hear less in the following days than the forked tongue that lured your father towards his death. I thought I was helping you by staying away."
"And I thought you were abandoning me." Trygve said. "Perhaps I was rash in my judgement of you. Perhaps if I had made my grievances known, things wouldn't have festered between us. Perhaps Liv, for all that she will rub this in our faces, was right when she said we only needed to talk like adults. For that, like you, I am sorry. We have been poor brothers, and even poorer men."
It wasn't exactly absolution, but it still felt better than anything had to Percy in a long time. To finally rid himself of the anger, blame, and self-loathing that he'd been hiding from even himself was the greatest relief in his short life. It was as if the crushing weight of the sea, once balanced on the focal point of his very being, had suddenly been blown away by a salty breeze. It was… Liberating.
"So, what now?" he dared to ask. "Friends again?"
He extended a hand. A silent offering. An unspoken plea. It was an apology, forgiveness, and a symbol of peace all in one gesture. He was hopeful, but at the same time terrified. If Trygve rebuffed him now, he wasn't sure what he would–. Trygve grasped his forearm.
"Not friends." The king said. "Brothers."
Perseus Thrall-Born – Fields of Lunden, 888 CE
King Cynefrith's request for a parley had come as a surprise to all the Bjornar. In the years since his ascension to the throne, the notoriously reclusive king had seldom been seen near a battlefield. Some said he was craven, while others maintained that warfare simply didn't align with his interests. Whatever the case, it was rare that he would attend a battle, and even rarer still that he would lead negotiations in place of his own generals.
Were Percy in charge, he would've denied Cynefrith's request. What was taken at the table would be infinitely more valuable if taken in battle. Much to Percy's displeasure, Trygve had insisted that if the King of the Saxons wished to meet, he was honor bound to oblige. So, with the taste of bitter protests on his lips, Percy had stilled his axe and readied himself to face Cynefrith.
Not long after the battle died, Cynefrith's men went about setting up a table in the middle of all the carnage. One highbacked chair was set on either side of the table, each standing tall and regal over the blood-soaked field. Saxon banners – as ugly as they were numerous – were planted all around the sight of the moot. And there, surrounded by two dozen soldiers and a whole retinue of handmaidens, was the king of the Saxons himself. He sat tall and dignified in his plush chair, watching with a haughty expression as Trygve and his smaller delegation approached.
Trygve was the first to reach the table, and his massive frame quickly wiped the levity from the Saxon soldiers' faces. Cynefrith rose from his chair, the only Englishman unfazed by Trygve's imposing stature, and extended a hand in greeting. Trygve made a show of examining the blood coating his arms from fingertip to elbow before sitting opposite the Saxon king, leaving the man's own hands spotless. Cynefrith, whose eyes spoke of impossible wit, snorted at the gesture and its implication.
"You think yourself better than me because you take part in the barbarism? How very backwards of you."
"There is no honor in watching men fight." Trygve said. "My clan will not stand for an unblooded king."
"Yours are a curious people," Cynefrith remarked, unperturbed by the thinly veiled insult, "More concerned with honor than pragmatism. It's quite primitive really."
"I cannot ask my men to die for me if I'm unwilling to do the same."
"And therein lies your problem. I hold my life in much higher regard. I'd never bother to pick up a blade myself, and I certainly wouldn't meet with my sworn enemy with anything less than a full honor guard."
Trygve leaned around the back of his chair, slowly counting the members of his retinue. He pointed first at Acke, then to Liv, and finally at Percy before turning back to face the English noble.
"I count three skilled warriors on my side, and zero on yours. If one of us came to this truce undermanned, it is you."
The gathered Saxons began to stir, grasping angrily at sheathed weapons as they and their king were beset by Trygve's insults. Cynefrith, unlike his men, seemed ecstatic at the chance to trade harsh words. He raised a single hand – unworn and adorned in ornate jewelry – to calm his men.
"Perhaps you speak true." Cynefrith admitted. "I doubt I have a soldier among my armies that could rival your whore or your mute, let alone that slave you have playing general, but you come armed with phony gods. I much prefer my advantage to yours."
Percy ached to throttle the man, but he maintained his composure. Cynefrith was clearly a man who would take advantage of any weakness, no matter how small. Letting petty insults bother him was the first step in handing the Saxon leader the upper hand. Thankfully, Liv seemed to realize the same thing, though Percy knew she would be raving about the 'whore' comment for days to come. Acke, as ever, was as expressive as a pile of rocks.
"I see you've got your lapdogs trained well." Cynefrith appraised, sounding genuinely impressed. "I insult them and their gods, and still, they hold their tongues."
"It is easy to stomach prattling kings when their words only delay their surrender."
"Surrender?" Cynefrith repeated, looking rather amused. "I don't intend to do such a thing. I asked for this meeting so that I may offer you the chance to lay down your arms."
"And why in Odin's name would we surrender? We're less than a day away from breaking your army! Lunden's ash will form tomorrow's clouds!"
"Yes, but what will you have gained? My forces have resisted you for days now, a feat that we've not managed in some time. Were it not for your slave and his band of savages, we would have thrown your forces from Lunden with ease. This is a defeat I would gladly suffer, as it would be no victory for you."
Percy almost voiced his disagreement but was ultimately stopped by one disturbing fact. He actually somewhat agreed with the man. While he and the Fannar had been decimating the Saxon forces, the Bjornar had been struggling to gain any ground for days now. There was no doubt that they would be victorious should the battle continue, but it certainly wouldn't be without cost.
More concerning than the struggles themselves was their cause. The Bjornar's issues up until this battle had largely been a product of being outnumbered. Today, the Saxon forces had been bolstered by new soldiers bearing unique orange and purple regalia. These soldiers, each at least ten times more skillful than the average Englishman, had been the source of the trouble. If they were a sign of what was to come… More battles such as these would be devastating to the Bjornar.
"Your resistance means nothing." Trygve replied. "Fighting valiantly or no, your men will lose all the same. Lunden, like all the cities we've taken from you, will burn soon enough."
"Maybe." Cynefrith admitted. "But while you laud every victory as absolute, you fail to recognize reality. For every two cities you've taken, we've taken one back. Your precious Thrall-Born cannot be everywhere at once, and when he is absent, we strike. When it is my men against yours, your conquests crumble to dust… You see, I believe that you will run out of men before I run out of cities to lose. This war is one of attrition, and I don't think you have the stomach for it."
Again, Percy was forced to acknowledge the wisdom in Cynefrith's words. If the Saxons were going to continuously field soldiers like the ones being encountered today, the losses taken by the Bjornar would multiply exponentially. And if the soldiers were who Percy suspected them to be… The Saxons might just win the war of ten thousand cuts by a single stroke of the blade.
"You speak boldly, Cynefrith, but it matters not. Hounding me with threats while my army knocks at your door will not win you this war. Tonight, Bjornar banners will fly over Lunden, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. A week from now, another city will fall, and then another, and then another until one day I sit atop your throne and command your own honor guard to dump your body into the sea."
Cynefrith responded with an equally grand yet ultimately unimportant threat of his own. It was then Percy realized that these 'negotiations' weren't anything more than a posturing session. Cynefrith had never intended for anything to actually be gained from this meeting, which raised the question; what exactly was he playing at? Why gather them all here if he had no intention of brokering a deal?
Suddenly on edge, Percy tore his attention from the negotiating table. He diverted his gaze to the surrounding field, searching for hidden threats among the corpses. A thorough search revealed no hidden battalions among the dead, and the archers atop Lunden's walls hadn't so much as glanced in their direction. Despite the safety of the situation, Percy still felt uneasy. Guided by the feeling in his gut, he turned his inspection to the distant forest where, finally, he spied the source of his fraying nerves.
To an unsuspecting mortal the watcher would've looked to be an ordinary mounted soldier, but Percy's demigod nature ensured he saw the truth. The being studying him from the edge of the forest was no man, but rather a human-horse hybrid with a strange bow slung over his back. He was a centaur. One of the most famous creatures in Greek and Roman myth, and clearly a message intended for him and only him. In that moment, as he met the ancient eyes of the distant centaur, he felt the weight of all his fears collapsing on top of him.
He made his way to Liv's side, moving slowly to disguise his alarm. Though his back was turned to the negotiations, he could feel Cynefrith's eyes burning holes into the back of his skull like beams of focused sunlight. An image of the Saxon King's wicked grin plastered itself inside his mind, covering every inch of his psyche no matter how desperately he tried to stamp it out.
Percy reached out for Liv's arm, grabbing her attention and his salvation in a single moment. Her eyes leveled him, filling him with the same calming sensation that they always did. With Cynefrith's intimidating gaze – so full of malevolence and unknown schemes – banished from his mind, he was finally able to think once again.
"Something doesn't feel right. I'm going to check the perimeter." He whispered to her; voice so low he could barely make out his own words. "You'll be okay here if I'm gone?"
"Oh, please." she whispered back, offering him the faintest of smiles. "There's barely twenty of them. Trygve and Acke could handle this themselves if they needed to."
Percy chuckled lightly, giving her one last smile before heading off toward the trees. Further from the presence of Cynefrith, he was able to better reign in his fears. He had trained for far too long to be worried now. Killed too many Saxons to trouble himself over a few new soldiers. There was too much at stake for his courage to be whittled away by the unnerving aura that the Saxon King carried with him. There was a war to be won, and this centaur and his people were nothing more than a few extra souls to help crowd the afterlife.
The centaur watched him as he approached. Once the tree line was within axe throwing distance, the strange creature gave him a curt nod and faded into the forest. Percy gave one last glance back at the negotiating tables, ensuring that nothing bad had happened while his back was turned, before plunging headlong into the underbrush after the mythic beast.
He moved deftly through the forest, maneuvering past gnarled trees and over fast-flowing brooks in his pursuit. The subtle magical trace of the centaur guided him through the wooded expanse, taking him far from the battlefields of man and deep into a clearing imbued with divine energy. The glade was packed with the same mysterious soldiers from the battle for Lunden, all watching him with hands on the hilts of glowing weapons cast from bronze and gold. In the center of the clearing, standing near a setup that mirrored the one in the battlefield, was the very centaur he'd been chasing.
The centaur watched him carefully, tracing his every movement with brown eyes that shone bright with ancient wisdom. There was a confidence in his posture, a small smile beneath his scruffy beard, a relaxed aura about him that set Percy's teeth grinding. This centaur thought he had the upper hand. Regardless of the fears that Cynefrith had raised or the threat these orange and purple clad soldiers presented, the centaur was making a foolish mistake. The Bjornar had won far too many battles to be underestimated, and Percy had killed far too many men to be regarded as anything less than the most dangerous mortal alive. He would have to remind the beast of that.
"So, what are you people? Romans, Greeks, or both?"
In only a breath, all the wind had been ripped from the centaur's sails. His ancient eyes were suddenly wide with alarm, and his tail flicked nervously at his rear. Percy was right then. He just wasn't sure which of his guesses had struck home.
"Both." The centaur managed to get out, so astounded he'd lost much of his tact. "How could you know such things?"
Percy shrugged.
"It's my business to know."
The reality was much less impressive sounding than that. Truthfully, it had been nothing more than an educated guess. Percy's time scrying with Odin had been rather unhelpful, so all he'd known was that the 'greater enemy' he was destined to face was divine in nature. He'd had his suspicions of course, but it wasn't until he'd seen the centaur that those suspicions had been confirmed.
When the horse-man didn't answer after a while, Percy realized he had an opening he could use. Calling back on his knowledge of Greek and Roman culture – thank Freya for forcing him to study the finer details of Midgard's peoples – he was able to conjure up a name he barely remembered. A name that could hold more weight in this conversation than even the name of this centaur's pantheon.
"You see, Chiron." Percy began, stressing the centaur's name. "I know a great deal about you and yours. I know that you're an ancient trainer of heroes, which makes these people your demigod disciples. I know that you've sided with Cynefrith in this war, and after feeling his presence, I'm willing to bet it's because he's one of you. The only thing I don't know is why you bothered to set up that farce out there just so you could bring me here, especially after at least ten of your students died today by my hand alone."
Chiron's eyes narrowed, and his students shouted what Percy could only assume were insults and threats in languages he didn't understand. Despite his attempts to maintain an aloof façade, Percy couldn't help but smile. Seeing them upset was good for the soul.
"I simply wished to speak with you on behalf of my students." Chiron said, voice significantly more hostile than before. "England is our home, and we will defend it should you not abandon your dreams of conquest. We asked you here to tell you that should you and your people continue with these mortal squabbles, our pantheons will be forced into war, and we in turn will be forced to act accordingly."
"All this for a threat then? And one delivered in the least threating way possible. How charming."
One of the demigods – a short haired boy with an aura of uncontrolled rage – stepped forward, eyes alight with naïve arrogance.
"Hold your tongue, Norse scum." The demigod hissed. "This is your only chance. If you step on the battlefield again, we will come for you, and I promise you your upstart gods will not be able to save you."
Percy rolled his eyes, a gesture that certainly didn't endear him to his new 'friends', before reaching for his belt. Moving slowly, he drew his axe and placed it on the table. It was a threat and an invitation in one gesture, and everyone knew it. Not a single soul unsheathed their weapon in kind.
"If you plan to kill me, I suggest you do it now. You have me alone and surrounded, and there are enough of you to fill a Hafgufa's belly. You will get no better chance at it than this."
He picked up his axe, giving it a few twirls before locking eyes one by one with each soldier in the clearing. All faltered beneath his gaze, even the angry boy who had been feeling bold only moments before. Finally, his eyes stopped on Chiron, whose face was as solemn as if he were a dead horse walking. Rising from his seat, Percy started walking for the edge of the clearing. When no one moved to stop him, he turned back, giving Chiron and his pupils one last message.
"When the battle starts again, I will be in the center of our line. I encourage you all to come find me there. My upstart gods and I will be waiting."
And with that he was gone. The gauntlet had been thrown. The pantheons were at war.
Perseus Thrall-Born – New Rome, 2017 CE
"So, explain this to me again. You're going to use the Glamour to what? Read his mind?"
Nico's sister, Hazel, gave him an amused, yet sympathetic look. As if his confusion were a hilarious reminder of her before she'd become Hecate's chosen.
"Not exactly," she said. She raised a hand, conjuring up a trail of mist that twirled between her fingers like a writhing snake. "The Mist is… Complicated. I'd be lying if I said I fully understood its potential, or even how to explain the parts I do understand. The best I can put it, the Mist won't be reading his mind, he will."
The mist in her hand coalesced in her upturned palm, slowly taking the shape of a miniature horse. The tiny steed pranced atop the valley formed by her hand, whinnying as it shook its mane in delight.
"I'll give the Mist basic shape. Try to form things to what you already got from him. After that, I'll leave the Mist in a sort of flux state. The Mist doesn't like to be inactive, so it'll reach out for… inspiration. Then, all we do is think of nothing, and Caleb's thoughts will outshine ours. Without even knowing it, his subconscious mind will fill in the gaps. With any luck, we'll get enough information for you to get back to your search."
"You do realize that sounds ridiculous, don't you?"
Hazel chuckled.
"Yes, I do." She closed her palm, snuffing out the mist form horse and banishing the mystical substance from sight. "But is it really any more ridiculous than anything else in the divine world? It's just another brand of the same crazy that rules over our lives."
"Maybe. But I prefer the crazy I'm familiar with."
"Don't we all?" Hazel asked. "Now come on. He's been stewing long enough. We should get in there before he falls asleep."
She led him through a series of corridors, passing by empty cell after empty cell. The whole place reeked of mildew and stale air. Percy wondered if there had ever been a time when the modern Camp Jupiter had needed this many cells, or if the prison had been this neglected since long before the Olympians moved to the United States. Based on the cracking ceiling and the dank air, he was willing to bet on the latter.
"It's just up ahead," Hazel informed him, nodding towards a thick iron door at the end of the hall. "We wanted to keep him somewhere dark."
"Darker than this?"
Hazel paused, stopping to examine the dimly lit hall for a moment.
"Yeah, darker than this," she said. "The shadows are nature's blindfold. It'll help sustain the illusion."
Percy just shrugged, as he wasn't really in a position to argue. His knowledge of how the Glamour – or as Hazel described it, the Mist – worked was minimal at best. He could recognize the magic being used and even utilize it himself to fool a few mortals, but when it came to something like this, he would just have to trust her. Luckily, the heroes of the modern day had so far proven themselves far more capable than he would've expected only a month or two ago. He had no reason to think Hazel would be any different.
When they entered the room the first thing he noticed was, just as Hazel promised, the darkness. Even with the small slice of light cutting through the shadows, he could still barely make out Caleb's seated form.
"No chains or anything?" Percy asked.
Hazel shut the door behind them, and Percy's vision faded completely to black.
"No need," Hazel said, voice coming from somewhere to his right. "Nico's watching him."
"I am." Came the man's reply. Percy turned on the sound, but even when he strained his demigod eyes, he still couldn't see Nico through the darkness. "And it's been quite boring."
"Sorry about that." His sister apologized. "The Senate wanted to be briefed before we did anything, and it's better to give them those little victories so they leave me alone on the big stuff."
Percy couldn't help but smile at that. While he'd long since grown tired of any politics that didn't involve his axe, he could still appreciate a bit of political savvy every now and then.
"So, when do we start?" Nico asked.
"I started right as Percy and I walked in here. That's why Caleb's not talking. He's already in the illusion. Do you want me to bring you guys in with him?"
Percy mulled it over for a second. On the one hand, the level of magic Hazel was wielding was equal parts confounding and intimidating to him. On the other hand, he needed to see things for himself to truly trust them. When he weighed the potential risk of the foreign experience against the chances of finding Adrian Hale without it, the choice was easy.
"Bring me in." He told her. Nico grunted his agreement.
"Alright," Hazel said, tone even and soothing. "Remember, try to keep your focus on observing, not thinking. Oh, and this might be a bit unpleasant."
Percy clenched his eyes shut – not that it really made a difference – and focused on his breathing. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling putrid air in one massive gulp. A tendril of chilling mist wrapped itself around his ankle as he exhaled. The sensation slithered up his body, cooling his skin and sending shivers up his spine. He took another breath, and the mist coiled around his swelling chest. It continued higher, reaching further and further still until his head was shrouded in the mystic vapor and…
His eyes shot open, only to be greeted by darkness. It was a different type of shadow. It wasn't the prison cell – itself a hovel devoid of any light – but rather an everyday darkness. Flecks of light pierced the shadow, and the darkness did not exist all around him, only in his sight. This was no prison cell meant to mimic the void. It was a blindfold.
A rumble came next, extending from the soles of his boots up into his bones. He could hear an engine humming, and suddenly he was stooping beneath a low roof. He tried to extend his senses, searching for any water nearby, but for the first time since his youth he couldn't feel the water all around him. He was alone now, trapped in the moving darkness. This had to be the panel van Caleb had described, and if the blindfold and bumpy road were anything to go by, Adrian Hale's factory was near.
Sure enough, it was only a quick three-hundred count before the rumbling ended and the van's engine died. The door was thrown open, and then Percy was being tugged out into the open air. As promised, the outdoors smelled of the forest. He caught the distinctive scent of burning Red Oak on the back of a light breeze. Gravel crunched underfoot as he was pushed along, and the sound of laughter could be heard in the distance. They were at a campground then, and somewhere among the vacationing mortals a factory built to manufacture death was hiding.
His unseen guide led him over a winding path. Several times he stumbled over tree roots and walked face first into low hanging branches, but still he persisted. He walked and walked until the sound of machinery dominated the songs of chirping birds. It wasn't much longer until he left nature behind entirely, stepping into the air-conditioned entrance of what he could only assume was Adrian Hale's grand lair.
He waited and waited, hoping for the blindfold to come off, but it never happened. Instead, there was only silence. Only waiting. His mind began to drift, and idle thoughts became a vivid daydream. There was no interruption until long into his imagined quest. Just as the story ripened, footsteps shattered his fragile fantasy world. An unfamiliar voice spoke out, and yet he instantly knew the man's name.
"You're here because you've finished initiation," Adrian Hale spoke. "My men have deemed you fit to become a soldier of my just crusade, and so I pass the truth of my mission on to you. Our destiny is beyond simple retribution. Beyond justice. We will be conquerors. We will act as our forebears did and take our rightful position as the new gods. The Olympians will die and you, your compatriots, and I will rule in their stead."
Again, footsteps rang out, and when Adrian spoke again, his voice was closer. Deafening, yet somehow barely above a whisper.
"All you must do now is serve our cause. My great weapon is nearly refined, and with it we will erase every demigod who would deny our ascension. The Camps will burn, and the gods will lose the worship that empowers them. With my project in hand and the gods on their knees, we will take the mantle of the Olympians unto ourselves… Now, tell me, is this a cause worth dying for?"
Percy felt compelled to answer, speaking in Caleb's voice instead of his own.
"Ours is a vision of justice. Ours is a vision of birthright. I live to serve."
"Then may your life be long."
Percy opened his mouth to speak again, but the chance died out when the world began to rumble. The earth crumbled beneath him, and suddenly he was falling back into the black. His breaths came ragged, and his eyes were clenched shut. Sweat hung on his brow, and when he opened his eyes, he saw… light.
The cell was bright now, illuminated by a brazier burning with Greek fire. Nico sat in one corner of the room, face ghastlier than ever, while Hazel stood in the other, hunched over and drawing in labored breaths. She looked up at him, golden eyes dim with exhaustion.
"It's a… Complex illusion…" She said between breaths. "I'm sorry I couldn't hold it for any longer."
"It's alright." Percy told her. "We got what we needed."
"How?" Nico asked, looking up from his spot in the corner. "We still don't know where the factory is or what the weapon is. All we know is that Adrian's even more insane than we thought."
"Not true." Percy corrected. "We've actually had everything we needed from the moment we left Piper's. I just didn't realize it at the time."
"Enlighten me." Nico grumbled as he stood up.
"When we were questioning him, we were too focused on the Adrian and his factory to ask the right questions. We should've been asking about the cult, not about its leader. Why are demigods joining him? Where are they doing it? How? The answer to our problems isn't to find Adrian's factory, it's to find his indoctrination center."
"You don't mean…?"
"I do… We're going to join Adrian's army. All we need now is an in."
All three sets of eyes turned to Caleb, who was watching the conversation with an expression bordering between disbelief and horror.
"So," Percy asked, drawing his axe as he lumbered towards the terrified demigod. "Exactly how much alone time is it going to take for me to convince you?
Caleb swallowed, shaking in terror as he forced himself to his knees before Percy.
"I'll… I'll help." He squeaked. His face whirled to Nico, eyes pleading. "Just don't leave me alone with him!"
"I knew you'd make the right choice." Percy said. "Now, exactly where do the cool cultists hang out these days?"
Hazel Levesque –Adrian Hale's Blacksite, 2017 CE
Hazel had to admit, Adrian knew how to keep things covert. His indoctrination center – a site Caleb affectionately referred to as 'Ethoney' – was about as far off the grid as it got in the modern age. It was hidden in a town too small for maps and too large to be easily searched. Oh, and the town in question was the closest thing to a ghost town since Elysium.
Not a soul roamed the streets, and based on the decrepit state of the buildings, it had been that way for some time. The surrounding wilderness had long since creeped up to the edge of town but, weirdly enough, not a single blade of grass had dared to cross into the town proper. It was as if the land itself feared the abandoned town. If Hazel had to guess, she'd wager it had something to do with the cultists lurking somewhere within the town limits.
According to Caleb, 'Ethoney' wasn't hard to find. He claimed that it was just a little bit further, but honestly, she felt like she'd been walking for years already. The town had a way of playing with your mind. Each step carried you past another broken down car, over another pile of rubble, beneath another arch formed by a building and a toppled telephone pole. As small as it was, the place had a way of seeming maddeningly large.
It was the perfect hiding place in all respects. Nobody visited, and if anyone did, they'd go insane before they found anything. To even get through the town was a challenge. To find a covert base in it? It would take a miracle to accomplish such a feat… That, or a guide whose only option was to help you.
Thanks to Caleb's efforts, Hazel only had to suffer the monotony for a while longer before they arrived at 'Ethoney'. He stopped them along the fence line of a small factory, leaning against the rusty chain links as he nodded towards the building. It looked about as stable as an ice bridge over the Phlegethon, but Hazel supposed that was the beauty of it. Nobody expected their enemies to hide out in a place that was a sneeze away from collapsing.
"This is it." Caleb told them. "Hidden in plain sight, though nobody is ever here to look for it anyways."
"He's hidden his needle in an invisible haystack." Nico commended. "Hale may be a lunatic, but he certainly knows what he's doing."
"That's an understatement. Adrian is a prophet. His visions for the future are-"
"Save me the programmed adoration." Percy interjected. "I'm sure we'll get more than enough of it once we're inside."
"I'm not brainwashed." Caleb insisted. "I'm enlightened. Adrian has shown me and my brothers our true destiny. Our-"
Hazel saw Percy's axe hand start to fidget at his side, so she decided to jump in before the battle between Caleb's lunacy and Percy's impatience could declare a winner.
"Ethoney." she said. "How do we get inside?"
"Oh. Right. That's easy. Head over to the far side. There's a door with a helmet and torch burned into the metal. Knock on it and someone will let you in."
"And there's no passphrase? No secret code that gets us in unharmed?" She asked, tone laced with skepticism.
"Nope." Caleb said. "Just ask for Sprout. They'll let you in."
"I'm sure they will." Percy drawled, looking rather unimpressed. "I've had enough of him. Nico, you can send him to your father now if you'd like."
Nico simply grunted and stomped his foot. A crevasse appeared from nowhere beneath Caleb's feat, staying open just long enough to swallow the demigod whole before it slammed shut and silenced his shouts.
Hazel winced at the scene. She knew Caleb was the enemy, and she knew that her father had demanded his chance to punish the demigod for trespassing, but it still didn't sit right with her to turn him over to be tortured. Unfortunately, Nico didn't quite share her sense of empathy, and Percy was probably being merciful by letting Hades handle the punishment in his stead.
"Everything else goes as planned then?" her brother asked, interrupting her thoughts of pity.
Percy nodded.
"Everything as planned. Wait things out. Follow the van when we 'prove ourselves'. Be ready to extract us if things go south. We'll IM you if anything changes."
Nico gave a small thumbs up and then disappeared into shadows, leaving Hazel alone with the son of Aegir. He looked at her expectantly, and she knew that it was her turn. She snapped her fingers once, producing a sound as strong as a gunshot, and then the mist was moving to her whim. In only a few short seconds, Percy was unrecognizable to anyone but her, and so too was she.
"There. All done." She said.
He took the time to shoot her the smallest of smiles before heading off towards the factory. Much to her chagrin, she was forced to jog just to keep up with his annoyingly long strides.
"You think this will work?" she asked.
Percy shrugged.
"I'm not sure. This whole espionage shtick isn't really my style. I'm kind of counting on your whole 'Mist' thing to get us on that van."
Hazel's dug her fingernails into her palm.
"I should be able to maintain the illusion." She said, reassuring herself more than him. "Appearance shifting is simple. But if we take too long to earn their trust, I might drop the illusion."
Again, Percy just shrugged. She wondered if he was feeling particularly flippant today or if he was just simply that unafraid of being caught.
"I wouldn't worry about it too much." He told her. "If the illusion drops, I'll get us out of there plus a hostage. No stress."
She wanted to tell him that that was a bold claim, even for someone boasting his particular skillset, but she never got the chance. His hand was knocking on the door Caleb had described before she even realized they'd reached it. By the time she'd opened her mouth, the slit of the door had slid open, and a new voice had entered the fray.
"I don't know you." The voice said. "What do you want?"
"We're here to see Sprout."
The eyes peering through the slit narrowed into slits of their own.
"He may want to see you… It depends… Is this a cause worth dying for?"
Hazel perked up immediately. She remembered that phrase from Caleb's Mist dream. It had seemed like regular cult dramatics at the time, but now…
"Ours is a vision of justice. Ours is a vision of birthright. I live to serve." She murmured.
There was a moment's pause, and then–
"Then may your life be long."
The slit slammed shut. The sound of about ten different locks emanated from behind the metal. Hazel and Percy shared a look, and then the door swung in on rusty hinges. A bright light blinded her as they entered, and when her vision finally returned, she was staring at one of the most impossible places she had ever seen.
"It's brilliant, isn't it?" The doorman said with a chuckle. "Welcome to Ethoney."
AN:
And we're back! This took way longer than I'd hoped it would (Fuck you summer classes) but at long last the chapter has arrived.
The big things in ancient times: Percy meets Cynefrith and Chiron, and Percy and Trygve's issues. The first means all the players know each other, and the second means more character development. Though the issue was presented and resolved in the first two scenes, the importance is on why it existed in the first place. Trygve was unwilling to stand up to Percy and tell him what he actually needed, and Percy was unwilling to back down from his stance even though he only held it so fervently due to his refusal to grieve and accept his own guilt. Think about these things moving forward, as they will make a return.
In the modern day, we get a bit more of the slow-moving subterfuge. I think I've mentioned this before, but I'll say it again here: The slow pace is intentional. I want you as readers to be feeling Percy's impatience, frustration, and hell, even boredom as he tries to unravel this cult that has somehow developed. He is getting closer and closer, but questions still remain. What is Adrian's weapon? Why are the demigods joining him? Who is his parent? What's the deal with airline food? Who knows? Not me, that's for certain.
Anyways, as always, I hope you enjoyed. Though quick updates are ideal, my main goal is that you're entertained when I do upload. In the meantime, well, that's what my other stories are for ;) That's about it for me. Love y'all, I hope you're doing well, and, until next time,
Peace