(Sorry the huge delay/hiatus. Been going through some personal shit lately and haven't really had the time to sit down and write. But, I've gotten through the worst of it, so I should be able to continue the story with the same erratic updates that you guys love so much. Again, sorry for the sudden hiatus, but I'm back now. Let the story continue.)
The daughter of Aphrodite was dead. She lay sprawled out in a perverse, crimson snow angel. Oliver crouched over the body, lips pursed. The .45 round he had shot her with punched straight through her ribcage and popped her heart like a balloon. She was stone dead before she hit the ground. The snow was coming down harder now, in thick sheets that reduced visibility to a few feet in front of his nose. Her body would be covered in minutes. He sighed and rose to his feet, brushing the snow off of the front of his pants. Red-hot emotions washed through him; guilt, anger, self-loathing all came unbidden, and he turned away from the body, closing his eyes for a moment before walking back to his squad. It wasn't these feelings that made him afraid, however. It wasn't his anger or guilt or self-loathing that made his blood turn to ice with terror.
It was the part of him that felt good.
The Sons had lost half a dozen men to the dragon, another three suffering serious injuries, including Denali. The small man grimaced and leaned heavily for support on one of the mercenaries, nodding grimly at Oliver when their eyes met. He nodded back, mouth dry. The other two Godlings, both unconscious, had been bound and blindfolded and were being carried like sacks of potatoes by two of the burlier mercenaries. Nina looked weary, leaning on her staff, but gave a tired smile to Oliver when he looked at her.
Six casualties, seven including the Godling. He grimaced and pointed with two fingers towards Midas's compound, yelling to hear over the wind, "A squad, move out."
He received a chorus of confirmations, and the group began the trek back to the mansion. On the way there, Oliver attempted to contact Kevin through the radio. The device only squealed out distorted static, however. The storm was interfering. He sighed, shoved it back into its pocket and trudged ahead, keeping his still-living hand inside to keep it warm. He lost his G36c in the fight and now the only weapons he had on him were his compact .45 handgun, the Px4 Storm, in his shoulder holster, the knives in his wrist sheath and boot, and his bare hands.
It was enough for him.
The squad made it back to the mansion after about fifteen of marching in a semi-coherent group with Oliver at the lead. The spotlights set up by the Sons cut through the swirling mass of white with ease, lighting the way for the return group. The courtyard was in a controlled flurry of activity; the mercenaries rushed but did not run between taking down fortifications, loading up the vehicles and dealing with other logistical issues. Kevin's rather large head poked through Schrödinger's driver hatch, directing the men in front of the tank out of the way as he steered with surprising precision. The courtyard was filled with yelling, the smell of gun oil, and a dozen types of machines grinding in the bitter cold that had suddenly descended.
The injured mercenaries, Denali and the Godlings were taken to a makeshift medical tent and the back of one of the black vans, respectively. Nina, being the only one with serious medical capabilities, rushed around the comfy chairs pilfered from the mansion which the injured sat on. Her hair plastered to her forward with sweat as she bound wounds or cast spells of healing, illuminating the small tent with viridian light.
Oliver, after a moment of searching the chaos, waved Rosa over and pointed at the prisoner van, "Take three men and watch them," He ordered, his lips set in a grim line. "If they request anything reasonable, give it to them. If they talk, listen to them. If they try anything stupid, beat 'em until they stop trying. Clear?"
The muscular woman only nodded, returning the look, and strode across the courtyard with her shotgun resting on her shoulder, barking orders of her own. Oliver sighed and rubbed his temples, glancing around. He had a moment to himself. He found one of the Humvees they had taken from Fort Ignis and lit up one of his hand-rolled cigarettes, allowing himself a moment to breathe, and think. The battle flashed behind his eyelids in discoherent images, sounds, and feelings. Fear, anger, guilt, pride all warred within him and he sucked down the sweet, noxious smoke in an attempt to smother them. It didn't work.
He felt the presence before he saw or heard it. It began as it did before; a cold-burn feel in the back of his skull. Snow hung in the air, the wind stopped in place. All around him, men and women stopped in place, mid-stride or activity. This time, though, the pain flashed through his body in an instant and, before he could blink, Beowulf was standing before him once again, braided beard coated in frost, muscular arms crossed. His spectral blue form glowed softly.
A small smile was visible on his face, and he clapped softly, Good job, Godkiller. You used my strength well. How did it feel?
Oliver took another breath of smoke and tried to ignore his shaking hand, "What's going on? What's happening to me?"
The smile faded, and the clapping stopped as Beowulf looked at Oliver with an appraising look, You're a bit of a downer, aren't you?
Oliver's face soured, and he sighed smoke. After a few seconds, he replied, "I guess. Sorry. I'm just… confused, okay? I've been having visions, out of body experiences, experiencing feelings and powers that aren't my own, and now this," He gestured at Beowulf. "It's just… confusing."
The legend looked at Oliver for several, long minutes, staring at him with eyes as blue as glacial ice. Then, he nodded, I understand how you feel. More than you know. He pondered for a moment before a look entered his eyes that Oliver didn't recognize. How much do you know of our order, Oliver Irons?
Oliver looked at him sidelong, attempting to seize on any cue to his intentions. Beowulf's features were immaculately blank, however, and eventually, Oliver explained, "The basics. I was going to be properly inducted into the ranks at some point, but…" For a moment he was back in Vermont, the Hydra screaming above him as it tore into his home, but he snapped back quickly. "That never happened. I know we protected Mar- the Fire, for thousands of years. I know that at one point there were more of us, but that over time we were whittled down. I know that a long time ago, along with protecting the Fire, we helped fight off monsters and negotiate with emissaries from other pantheons, since we share common ground with most of them." He swallowed hard and threw his cigarette into the snow. "And I know that we're the last of us."
As Oliver talked, Beowulf watched him with keen interest and ice-blue eyes. Then after Oliver was done he nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned around and folded his arms behind his back, turning his face up to the dark gray sky, Indeed. Our order was once dedicated to protecting the mortal world, like the Demigods of today. Only, most of them did not have the luxury of fantastical powers and parents who could be persuaded to cause an earthquake or call down lightning. At this Beowulf glanced back at Oliver. They had us.
Oliver felt his stomach drop in fear and confusion. "What do you mean, 'us'?" He asked. After Beowulf remained silent, he took two long steps forward and spun Beowulf around, grabbed his shoulders and demanded, "What do you mean, 'us'?"
But the specter just gave a small, bitter smile and shook his head, saying, I wish I could give you the answers you seek, Keeper, I truly do, but the Old Laws prohibit my speaking of them. I suggest you seek out the console of Prometheus. He can lead you to the answers you seek.
And then Beowulf began to glow a dark azure, before shattering into ice and falling to the ground, cutting grooves into the deep snow. Time resumed abruptly, snow whipping at his face, wind cutting through him like a blade. Oliver clenched his fist and barely stopped a yell of frustration. Questions churned and crashed in his head like violent waves as he tried to pull together what information he could, with no luck. Pain gripped his arm, and when he reached down to rub the muscles he realized the feeling was in the left arm. His fingers met only the hard, tightly bound Imperial Gold threads that moved and felt like his own flesh and blood. Phantom pain.
With a shuddering breath Oliver got the pain under control, the cold air burning his lungs and helping him refocus, adjusting the glove he wore on it subconsciously. He glanced around the courtyard, seeing the mercenaries finish packing up the equipment they had brought, loading up sandbags and heavy weapons into the Humvees and SUVs, warming the vehicle engines in preparation to leave. He saw a short, gold-clad figure standing in the window of the mansion, who waved at Oliver once he noticed him. Midas. After a moment, he disappeared from sight.
He brought his radio to his mouth and spoke into the open channel, telling his little strikeforce, "Be ready to move in five. I'm gonna go thank our host for letting up stay here, then we go home."
A short chorus of affirmations buzzed in his radio, and he crossed the courtyard with his long strides, occasionally dodging out of the way of mercenaries laden down with heavy gear. He reached the door and, taking one look back out at the chaos of the courtyard, stepped inside, mouth set in a thin line.
One last bit of unpleasant business to conclude.
The main hall wasn't any different from when Oliver had seen it earlier. The rows of people-turned-statues frozen in horrified positions. He had to make a conscious effort not to look at the frozen face of Midas's daughter, blood hot in his veins when he looked anyway. The lights made the room shine in a brilliant fashion, the wind outside howling like beasts clawing at the door. Midas was lounging on his throne-like chair in the middle of the room, eating from a golden plate with golden silverware (goldware?), with his son leaning against the wall, twirling his sword around his fingers.
The dead king smiled at Oliver as he entered, waving at him with a bit of sausage on the end of the fork, calling from across the room, "Well done, Godkiller! From all of the gunfire and explosions and screaming, I gather you had been successful?"
Oliver continued walking, left hand clenching and unclenching behind his back as he simply nodded. Well done, he had said, good job at killing an innocent girl and getting his own men killed. The guilt came back in a hot wave, the rage and self-hate only a second after. Midas kept talking, asking rhetorical, pointless questions to his son who answered with one or two words each time, seemingly not paying attention to the look on Oliver's face, or the way he looked at the statues that lined the hall, studying the looks of horror etched into their perfect golden forms.
Oliver stopped at the foot of Midas's throne, left hand clenched into a tight fist behind his back, his right held up to his chest as he gave a shallow bow, "Thank you, Midas," he said, his voice tight and controlled. "For letting us use your property."
Midas smiled smugly and waved his fork in a dismissive gesture, the bit of sausage flying off and plopping onto the perfect gold floor. Midas said, "Oh, it's of no-"
Oliver cut him off, "And thank you for showing me what this whole excursion was really about. I've figured it out, even if you haven't." He rose, an unreadable look in his strange glassy eyes, as he extended his left hand out from behind his back, the gloved fingers no longer curled into a fist, instead into a flat, open gesture.
Midas frowned, seemingly annoyed about being cut-off but intrigued at the curious gesture. He looked up at Oliver, trying to read him through squinted eyes. After a few fruitless seconds, he asked, "What are you getting at, Godkiller? What have you discovered?"
Oliver explained slowly, careful in his phrasing, "It's a test, Midas. From Gaea. For me," he extended his hand a little further, nodding at it, "And now, it's a test for you."
Midas looked at him suspiciously, but Oliver saw into his eyes, saw the greed and pride that clawed their way to the top, shoving down the caution and warning. Oliver as seen eyes like these before. Eyes of someone who cares only for themselves, who will do anything to get what they want, step on the heads of anyone below them, rip down anyone above them.
Who deserve everything that's coming to them.
Liteyres began to say something, maybe a warning, but the king shushed him with one hand. Midas smiled at Oliver and said, "You mean to tell me that Gaea gave me the opportunity to add the Godkiller to my collection? You call that a test, Oliver Irons?" With surprising speed he grasped onto Oliver's hand, smiling with yellowing teeth, "It's a gift."
The golden touch spread up the glove that Oliver wore, turning the black fabric a brilliant yellow. And it stopped there. Midas looked down, confused, then back up to Oliver's face, mind racing to find a solution when he realized the hand he felt was not flesh and blood. His eyes opened in shock and terror, and his mouth opened to spew something pointless.
Oliver took one step forward, drew the knife from the sheath on his left arm, and buried it hilt-deep up through Midas's throat, where his jaw connected to his throat. His body twitched as the six-inch blade bit into his spine, and his eyes took on the look of a terrified animal, wild and unfocused as his free hand desperately tried to fight Oliver off. His powers appeared to have faded, however, and the temporary contacts only succeeded in turning patches of his camouflage into gaudy yellow patterns. Oliver jerked the knife, Midas's body jerked violently, and he fell still, his eyes open and unseeing, head lolled back against his perfect, gilded throne.
Lityerses screamed something in Greek as his father's body slumped into the throne, charging up the dais with his sword held high. Oliver stepped backwards, leaving his knife inside Midas's neck, and brought up his handgun to put three .45 slugs into the man's chest in quick succession, the gunshots echoing violently around the metal-coated chamber. His sword clattered to the ground, his body following shortly after.
Mercenaries kicked down the door, rifles raised and ready, as Oliver was cleaning his knife with a small gold tablecloth. Thorn was at the head, needle-like teeth bared as he scanned the room. Seeing only Oliver and the two dead bodies, he frowned and asked, "Commandant, what happened?"
Oliver tossed the bloody cloth aside and sheathed the knife, nodding at the golden statues, "Do you know how to turn them back?"
Thorn blinked at Oliver, "Uh, running water, if I remember the story. But, what-"
Oliver cut him off again, "Then find a river or hose or something to help them. Midas must have something like that around here. When you do, give them warm clothes and the option to come with us. If they take it, we'll give them a home and a place to work at Fort Ignis. Understand?"
Thorn's mouth opened, a shocked look crossing his face, finding his voice as Oliver began to walk away, "But, sir, what happened? Why did you kill him?"
Oliver stopped at the door. He looked over his shoulder at the little girl, her face etched in terror, frozen in the moment that forces beyond her control changed her life, made it worse. He turned to Thorn and answered, "He failed his test. I passed mine."
With that Oliver stepped back into the cold night, the feelings of anger and guilt and self-loathing tamed, if only for the moment.
It was time to go home.