MAIN TITLE: The Keeper of Fate
WARNINGS: See first chapter for warnings.
NOTES: Thanks to Iiidog5, Neela4232, MeganLeBlanc, Mia lovely, Queen Alexandera's Birdwing, Guest, blackhawk68, PurpleandBlackPandas and fearless0601 for reviewing this chapter!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own PJO. Rick Riordan does. Oh, and the prank Dess is planning on Cheryl, I got it from chapter 40 of the Twilight fanfiction 'Meyer University'.
Chapter 9: I Take a Stroll Down Excessively Painful Memory Lane
The next three hours are absolute torture. As soon as we come to the realization that Jackson and the others could die at any moment and we wouldn't know, everyone starts yelling and complaining all at once. It's sheer mayhem.
Malcolm, who is smart/observant enough to figure out why Luke went totally psycho and slashed the fountain in two, glares at me accusingly and tells me off for provoking Luke. Gareth and Jake immediately rise to my defense (not that I need their help), which in turn sets off the rest of the Athena cabin.
This starts a miniature war (food fight) between the children of the wisdom goddess and the two sons of the fire god. Zeth, Beckendorf and I get involved when Malcolm throws broccoli at Jake. I mean, chocolate pudding, sure, but icky, green, healthy vegetables? That's just going way too far.
Instantly, the other cabins take sides. Ares and Hermes decide to back the epically awesome Hephaestus cabin, while Demeter, Dionysus, and Aphrodite all choose Athena (which I admit is usually the smart thing to do). The satyrs and the tree nymphs scramble around madly, trying to get us to stop, but we ignore them.
After several minutes of complete and utter chaos, an Apollo girl finally decides she's had enough.
"Would you guys just stop it? Percy, Annabeth, and Grover could be dying right now, and you're all acting like children!" It's the same girl who was flirting with Castor. And, I now realize, the same girl who made some rude comment about Tyson when he first showed up.
My temper flares. "And what about Tyson, huh? What, it doesn't matter if anything happens to him, just because he's a Cyclops?"
Her response is immediate. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you. You were scared of him too, when he first got here."
"Yeah, she was scared of him. We all were." Pollux stops trying to shove a loaf of bread down Connor Stoll's throat and instead addresses the Apollo girl: "But she was never cruel to him, not like you were. And once she realized that he wouldn't hurt a fly, she was fine with him, which is a lot more than can be said for you."
Castor, of course, is her knight in shining armour. "Hey, now, that was uncalled for, bro. I'm sure Bridgette didn't mean it the way it sounded."
Pollux shoots him a betrayed look. "She meant it exactly the way it sounded! Why are you always defending her lately? Why do you always pick her side over mine? What, some random girl who's a bitch half the time suddenly means more to you than your own brother?"
"She's not a bitch. And I always take her side because she's always right, while you're always being a jerk! You just can't handle the fact that I like spending time with her more than I like spending time with you!" Castor shouts, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he turns pale.
Oh crap, what have I done? This is why I should keep my mouth shut. Pollux and Castor almost never fight. But on the other hand, these accusations can't be coming from nowhere. The twins have obviously been keeping them bottled up inside for a while now, and maybe it's better if they let it all out.
I take a second glance at Pollux face. If he looked hurt and betrayed before, it was nothing compared to how he looks now. I also notice that Fiona seems to be on the verge of tears, which is to be expected, I guess. The guy she's liked for who knows how long pretty much just declared that he liked Br–something or other in front of the whole camp (well, not the whole camp; just the people that haven't gotten stabbed/maimed/grievously injured in the last few days).
"Bro, I didn't mean…" Castor trails off, not knowing what to say. No one is throwing food anymore.
"Yes, you did." Pollux turns away from him.
Mr. D wipes the remains of tonight's tomato soup off his face. At first he tried to get us to sit down and shut up, but after I accidentally-on-purpose knocked him into a plateful of spaghetti as I ran passed, he gave up and instead focused on getting revenge (which he failed at miserably). Now, though, he glances warily back and forth between his blond sons. He opens his mouth to speak, but Lee Fletcher beats him to it.
"Look, I get that this is really awkward, and I agree that my sister was out of line and that she's said some pretty mean stuff to Tyson, but she's right about one thing: you're all being ridiculous."
Mark glowers at him. "Stop acting like you're so much better than the rest of us, Fletcher. You participated in this food fight, too–"
"No, he didn't," Bridgette speaks up again. "None of the Apollo kids did, and you know why?" When know one answers, she continues, "Because we're all so exhausted from healing the rest of you whenever you get injured. Isn't it bad enough that we're always fighting monsters? Do you guys have to fight each other, too?"
Several people look down at the floor, uncomfortable. I feel ashamed, too, because she's right. We've had food fights at camp before, of course, but never like this one. This wasn't a good-natured battle between a few campers to settle something trivial like which cabin has kitchen patrol next week. This was all of us, taking our frustrations and anxieties and worries out on each other because we feel so, so helpless and we don't know what else to do.
Malcolm looks at me and says, very quietly, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You were right, after all." It's difficult for me to admit this, and my words sound forced. But Malcolm gives me a small smile anyway, to show that he's grateful that I at least made the effort.
And then suddenly everyone's apologizing, and Bridgette's coming over to make sure there's no hard feelings, and then I'm walking up to Mr. D to tell him that, though it was a complete and total accident, I'm very, very sorry that I got tomato sauce on his favourite shirt (which has the words 'Death to Blinky' on it). Surprisingly, he doesn't incinerate me.
Instead, he tells the campers to clean up the mess and get the heck out (I choose not to point out the fact that we can't 'get the heck out' because we're already outside). We obey, wiping chocolate pudding off the tables and sweeping broccoli into the garbage where it, like all green, healthy foods, belongs. Even the satyrs and the tree nymphs help us, though they didn't participate in making the mess in the first place.
I grimace when I realize that Pollux and Castor still aren't speaking. Earlier, after Bridgette and I exchanged honest I'm sorry's and slightly less sincere I forgive you's, Pollux pulled the blond (is it just me, or is everybody in this camp blond?) girl aside to apologize. Apparently, that isn't enough for Castor. He's still angry at Pollux–or maybe it's the other way around.
Finally, after the pavilion is practically spotless, Mr. D gets up off his lazy behind, stretches, and sees that the mess hall is, well, mess-free. Then he declares that we've done a decent job, all thanks to his unsurpassable leadership skills and his indispensable guidance. What a bas–but somehow I'm too tired to finish the thought. It is a sad, sad day when I'm too weary to insult the wine god.
In fact, everyone's tired, so we skip the campfire tonight. We all head back to our cabins and yet, as exhausted as we all are, none of us are going end up going to sleep anytime soon. We're all too tense.
At last, my brothers and I reach cabin nine. As I pull open the door, we all exchange brief, awkward glances. None of us are that great at dealing with difficult situations, something we all inherited from Dad. Zeth, Beckendorf, and Jake hurry over to their dinosaur-age literature, mechanical blueprints, and 'manly' toy-race-cars-that-look-like-they're-for-five-year-olds, respectively.
I expect Gareth to immediately rush off to join Beckendorf with the plans for the catapult (since the cannon actually worked, the boys have been looking into the more traditional long-ranged projectile). Instead, Gareth puts an arm around my shoulders and mutters, "Wasn't your fault. Anybody tries to tell you otherwise, I'll grind them into demigod powder."
Despite his words, he looks a little uncomfortable, because we're all children of Hephaestus and we usually don't know how to handle social interactions, let alone social interactions with girls who look like they're about to cry. But he smiles when he sees my lips curve upward. He kisses the top of my head in a brotherly way and then releases me.
While he walks over to Beckendorf, I flop onto my bed, reach under my pillow, and pull out the anklet I'm currently forging. I don't feel like working on it right now, but the cool metal feels good against my skin. I twirl the silver links between my fingers and wonder what the heck I'm going to do for the rest of the night.
Maybe I'll take that blood red wig the Stoll brothers gave me (in exchange for a few golden drachmas, of course) and sneak into the Aphrodite cabin. I'll put the fake hair on Cheryl's pillow and when she wakes up tomorrow morning and sees it lying there, she'll think it's her own. She'll have a panic attack and shriek about her precious, silky locks for five minutes straight. Then she'll end up accusing her cabin mates of shaving off all her hair while she was sleeping and she'll rage and storm at them for another five minutes, long enough for someone to inform me of what's going on so I can take Gardner's camera and film it. Her face when she realizes that her hair is, in fact, still firmly attached to her head will be absolutely priceless.
All in all, a brilliant plan if I do say so myself (even thought it's really not that brilliant). There are just a couple of problems: one, no one is going to appreciate a practical joke after what's happened (except for maybe the children of Hermes); and two, Cheryl's probably going to stay up all night so I won't be able to sneak in without her noticing. Right then. So no wig. Maybe tomorrow night.
Ugh. I'll probably just be sitting here all night, fingering this anklet, alone with my thoughts. If there's one thing I hate, it's being left alone for extended periods of time with nothing to do but think about things that I don't want to think about. Like what happened earlier with Luke, for instance. On the other hand, though, it's supposedly not healthy to keeps these things bottled up inside. But I can't talk to my siblings about this, and the only other person here is you.
…Wait a second. I think I'm having a brainwave here. I promised you before that I would tell you about Luke and I, right? I mean, when I told you that I was sort intending to find an excuse to get out of talking to you about it, but now I think I need to talk about it. So I guess you're stuck being my therapist. Ha. Sucker. You've never heard my mental rants about ex-boyfriends, have you? Well, you're really in for it now. You really should've booked it when you had the chance. And believe me, you've had plenty of chances.
I suppose I should start at the beginning. Not the very, very beginning, of course. That would take forever. And it would hurt. A lot. It was bad enough when I wasn't even thinking about it. It was bad enough when I didn't have the image of his murderous face and his cruel smile burned into my memory. It was bad enough when I wasn't constantly flipping between the memory of that face and the memory of the face of the boy he used to be. But now it hurts twice as much, and the longer I talk to you about him, the more it's going to hurt me. So maybe I should just start with when Luke and I first got together.
Now, I'd like to say that I don't remember the exact details, that I don't remember exactly how it happened. I wish I could tell you that I never cared enough about him to remember almost every last moment with him, sitting by the creek or watching him train in the Arena. But memories don't fade just because you want them to. To be honest, it seems to me like the more I try to push them away, the tighter they hold on, clinging to me like a second skin so that I can't remember who I am without them.
"Luke, this is so damn stupid," I complain, stopping in my tracks as I finally see where he's been leading me without my knowledge.
"So you've told me. At least fifty times in the last ten minutes, I might add." He smiles at me good-naturedly, so I know he isn't actually annoyed. Luke slings an arm around my shoulders and starts walking forward, pulling me with him. I resist, digging my heels into the ground.
"Dess," Luke says, now sounding a little exasperated, "if you really think that I'm going to let you wimp out, then–"
"Excuse me?" I wrench my shoulders out of his grasp. "I am not 'wimping out'. I never even agreed to this in the first place. You kidnapped me."
"Kidnapped?" he scoffs. "Please, you were more than willing to come with me half an hour ago."
"That's because I didn't know you were taking me to ride a Pegasus. You just said you had a surprise for me."
He sneers at me. "So you are afraid, then."
"I'm not!"
"Come on, Dess, you're seventeen! You gonna be afraid of flying all your life? Live a little!" He grins at me and meets my eyes, challenging me.
There it is again. We're friends, that's all. I'd even go as far as to say he's my best friend, though I know I'm not his. And that's really all I want. Friendship. He's gorgeous, of course, and I know that. But looks aren't everything, so I can ignore them most of the time.
Except that sometimes, like right now, he'll look at me in that way. As though he's never seen anything quite like me before, but somehow he still likes what he sees. And I'll stare right back; I'll stare right into his blue, blue eyes, and suddenly it'll be so hard to breathe. Not in the 'he-takes-my-breath-away' kind of way; it's more like I'm holding up something extremely heavy, like the tension between us is weighing me down.
That canNOT be healthy.
The second tick by and we continue to stare at each other. The grin on his face vanishes quickly, replaced by that strange intensity that somehow pins me in place while simultaneously filling me with a desire to bolt. I draw in a shaky breath and take a step back. The movement causes a lock of my hair to shift forward slightly.
Luke takes a step toward me and tucks the strands behind my ear with his right hand, the way he always does whenever a stray lock falls out of place. And as always, his hand lingers just a little bit too long, brushing against my cheek, sliding down my arm, and then finally stopping to curl around my hip.
The feeling that I'm being crushed doesn't just fade; it's entirely replaced by a sense of weightlessness. My skin grows warm where he's touched me. He pulls me forward. He leans in, his face so close that I can feel his breath on my ear.
"There's nothing like flying," he says softly. "Just you and the open air, everything you are left behind on the ground. No worries, no gravity."
"Unless you fall off, plummet to the earth, break your neck, and die."
He laughs quietly. "Like I'd ever let you fall."
He releases me and steps back. Then he turns and starts to stroll over to the stables. The weightlessness drains away, but at least I don't feel like someone is pushing me into the ground.
"You coming?" Luke calls over his shoulder. He doesn't wait for an answer, instead disappearing through the doorway.
I follow.
To make a long story short, it's an absolute disaster. The second I gather all my nerve and actually get on the horse, it throws me off its back. That should've been enough to send me running. But of course, I let Luke talk me into trying again. That's definitely the last time I listen to him. What does he know about Pegasi, anyway? He's an expert on swords, not flying mules. Not that I would ever call them that out loud. They'd trample me to death.
So anyways, I get back on, the Pegasus kicks off from the ground, Luke flies a short distance behind me to make sure I'm doing okay, and for a couple of minutes everything is fine. Then the wind picks up.
I'd rather not think about exactly what happened, but I basically ended up falling ten metres, which Annabeth told me usually isn't a high enough drop to kill even a regular mortal, let alone a half-blood. Still, the impact really, really hurts.
I lay on the ground for a few seconds before Luke swoops down with his Pegasus, dismounts gracefully enough to make me envious, and runs over to me.
"Okay. So that obviously wasn't supposed to happen. I'm sorry. But don't even try to bullshit me into thinking you're severely injured." Luke states this all very calmly.
"You are such a–" I let out a string of swear words that are not at all appropriate.
"See? I knew you were all right." Luke doesn't even flinch when I glare at him.
"You son of a–You said you wouldn't let me fall."
He turns away. "I know. I'm sorry," he repeats quietly. Disbelief floods me when I hear his voice break.
"Oh. Well, uh, I'm okay, so…no harm done, right?" Suddenly I'm totally okay with the fact that he let me fall ten metres. I just want to erase the expression of misery, of pain and guilt, that is present on the side of his face that I can see (and probably on the other side, too).
"Sure. I guess. You don't need to go the infirmary, do you?" He turns toward me again and looks me over, searching for any injuries he might have missed in his first quick examination.
"Nah. You know me. Over-dramatizing everything."
He smiles, his scar rippling across his face, and offers me his hand. I take it, and as that strange sense of release floods me once again I realize that I really don't need to get on a flying horse to escape gravity.
He helps me to my feet and I stumble just a little. He puts his arm around my shoulders for the second time that day, and even after I find my balance I don't pull away.
We wander aimlessly for a while, and then Luke, the idiot, decides it's a good idea to suggest I try flying again sometime.
"Luke, you're such an idiot."
"You've used that insult already, Dess. Usually with the F-word accompanying it." He grins at me easily, totally relaxed now. "If you're looking for someone to blame, try Zeus. He's the Lord of the Skies, not me."
"Yeah, but aren't there like, fifty wind gods or something?" I question.
"King of the gods, minor wind gods, what's the difference? They're all guilty of something. They're all corrupt." His voice sounds a little bitter now; unease seeps through me as I wonder just how deep that bitterness goes.
He does this every so often. It bothers me when he talks about the gods this way. I know the whole 'my-dad-left-me-alone-with-my-psycho-mother-for-nine-years-until-I-ran-away' thing (don't mention that to anyone, by the way; less than a handful of people at camp know, he hates talking about it) really messed him up, and I know it made him angry. I don't blame him. Compared to what he's been through, my childhood was a walk in the park.
Attempting to steer us to a lighter topic, I tease, "Yeah, but they're not the ones who kidnapped me and goaded me into doing something that scares the Hades out of me in the first place."
"So you were scared, after all." He smirks at me. I resist the urge to smack him.
"I wasn't!" I rip away from him and place myself directly in front of the blond son of Hermes.
"You just said you were."
"No I didn't. I was just trying to get you to shut up about the gods, 'cause you sounded really creepy and resentful, and damn it! I fell ten metres because you stuck me on that stupid flying pack mule, and–"
He cuts me off with his lips. His right hand holds my face to his and his left hand tangles itself in my hair. He tastes like those gingerbread houses that people make at Christmas time, like the ones my classmates from elementary school used to bring in just before the winter holidays started. After a few moments he pulls away and lets his arms fall to his sides.
"I have explored," he begins, the breathlessness in his voice ruining his attempts to sounds snobbish, "a lot of methods to try and get you to shut up. And I have to say, this one is by far the best."
"What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying you only did that to get me to–"
He doesn't let me finish. Instead, he takes my face in his hands and pulls me in for another kiss.
So yeah. That's how it happened. It was totally and completely unexpected. One second I was entirely convinced that we were just friends, and the next he was kissing me. Just in case you were wondering, I didn't always argue with him that much; it was just that I didn't like Pegasi.
Anyways, after that we–
There's a sudden pounding on the door. My brothers and I all jump up, instantly sure that the barrier created by Thalia's (now dying) tree has unwillingly let in yet another holy terror. We all grab the nearest weapon and Zeth lunges forward to open the door.
We're expecting some panicked camper with a bloodied arm. Instead, Travis Stoll's excited face appears, and he shouts, "They're back! They did it! They got the Fleece! And they're all back! Chiron is back! Percy and Annabeth and Grover and Tyson and unfortunately Clarisse are back!"
I'm too filled with relief to get angry over that comment about Clarisse.
"Where are–" Jake starts.
"They're by the pine tree!" Travis interrupts. "Now let's go, let's go!"
So we do. We run up the hill with all the other campers and form a mob around the tree. Clarisse walks forward, proudly bearing the Golden Fleece. Chiron is there, and Mr. D is informing him that as soon as all this 'saving-the-camp' garbage is done, the centaur will be back to work, taking care of those "miserable little brats". Chiron smiles at all of the campers fondly and replies, "There's nothing I'd enjoy more." Grover is being pulled into a hug by Juniper. I snicker when I see him blush, but I have to admit it's nice to see him. Annabeth, Tyson, and Percy are standing in the background, unnoticed by most.
Clarisse bestows the Golden Fleece on the lowest branch of the tree. Instantly, the world seems to brighten, like colour and sound and life are rushing into Thalia's pine, into all of us. The needles on Thalia's tree slowly turn green.
And then, for the second time that day, we're cheering ourselves hoarse.
Author's Note: I'm not entirely sure if all that stuff I said about falling twenty metres (which is approximately 65 feet) is true; it's just stuff I found on the Internet. For all I know, a twenty metre drop could be deadly. So don't try it at home.
Edit: I changed twenty metres to ten, because, as my brother has just informed me, people cannot reliably survive a twenty metre fall. He told me even ten metres would probably break a person's legs, but since Dess is a half-blood, I figure she's a bit more durable than that. But either way, you still shouldn't try this at home.