AN: Y'all, I have invented a new religion and etymologically-consistant titles and words for it for the sake of this fic. PLEASE leave me an encouraging comment for this chapter, I spent far too long combing though language banks to make sure everything was accurate and even showed signs of evolving, as an adapted word would had it actually been used over many generations. I wonder if this is something like what Tolkien felt at some point.
Happy holidays to those that are celebrating!
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Lost, Found, and Still Lost Goddess
Teddy Lupin couldn't remember a time his godmother hadn't been around. She was there in his first memory, was there almost every morning and every night — was there even more often than his parents were. She was his best friend and most constant playmate. When Mum was at work, when Dad was out tutoring, when Uncle Sirius was doing whatever Uncle Sirius did that 'wasn't appropriate for children,' Teddy was with Auntie.
And when Teddy's mum and dad gave him a little sister, Teddy played with Auntie even more when his parents were home — because Tia was really small and needed a lot of attention.
Uncle Draco — who was also Teddy's 'general education instructor' — once asked if Teddy never got jealous of his little sister. (Teddy reckoned Uncle Draco didn't know much about sharing since he didn't have any little sister for himself.)
Teddy told him, though, that Teddy figured that most kids only had two parents at most to play with and pay attention to them — and maybe a few relatives every once in a while — while Teddy had his parents plus Uncle Sirius most of the time plus Auntie all the time. Plus all of Auntie's attendants when She took Teddy out. And Uncle Draco, too, most days. Also, Auntie might even count as a handful of people by Herself since She could sprout Her extra arm thingies. So, even though Tia had taken up most of Mum and Dad's attention, Teddy hadn't thought he was losing out.
Auntie was actually really good, too — even when Tia eventually got big enough to go around with Auntie and Teddy, Auntie could hold them both with no problem, and paid attention to both of them at the same time. Mum and Dad couldn't do that — sometimes they even needed two of them together to hold just Teddy or just Tia.
Really, if it was based on just the maths (and Auntie's Ollie had helped him do this maths), even if Teddy had no one else, having just Auntie around was more than what loads of other kids had. Teddy had overheard his parents and Uncle Sirius mutter to each other in a tone that sounded like they were ready to cry that Auntie wasn't 'all there anymore,' but Teddy thought Auntie was already more than enough as She was. He was quite happy with his Auntie, and loved Her lots; he didn't know why anyone would think She wasn't 'all there.'
. . . Was She more before? Teddy knew there was a 'before,' which was also when he wasn't born yet, but it was hard to imagine a 'before' when Auntie was the 'all' that wasn't there anymore. After all, She was so much right there in the present. She was a goddess and the 'patron of magical society' on top of being Teddy's godmother. Teddy was just Teddy, and his parents were always telling him 'you just being you is enough!' So why did Auntie have to be more?
"Oh, if you could have met Her before, love," Teddy's mum once told him during a birthday, eyes damp. "She was so excited when she found out I was pregnant with you. She couldn't wait for you to be born — dove head first into what was good for fetus-development, was always on me about nutrition. We used to joke that She was more eager for you than I was."
Teddy couldn't imagine Auntie as eager. Not as excited, either. If the Auntie he knew could be either of those things, Teddy reckoned he'd be directly blinded.
Was that the reason? Was it that Auntie had been so much before that people got blinded and greedy? It sounded like it, and Teddy didn't want to sound fussy and point fingers, but if She was even more back then that they couldn't be happy with the muchness of Her now, then that was 'a personal problem' (like Miss Mione had once told him).
So — because it was only fair — it was okay to Teddy that Auntie could never remember his name and only ever called him Little One. She said 'Little One' with the same amount of love Mum, Dad, and Uncle Sirius said 'Teddy.'
And it was okay that She laughed whenever Teddy fell or ran into things and got hurt. She always kissed him as he cried, and made the blood and cuts disappear right away.
And it was okay that She didn't cover his eyes like Mum, and Dad, and Uncle Sirius did when there were things 'not suitable for children' sometimes when he went out with Her, when there were things that were bloody or violent. It was okay that She didn't care that he got scared. It was okay because She would scoop him up and cuddle him as he'd try to hide in her long hair, and She'd laugh and tell him, "There's no point in not looking, Crybaby; covering your eyes won't change anything. But one day, you won't cower. Until then, I don't mind being the place you feel safe to hide."
Teddy didn't feel like he was missing out in any way with the godmother he had . . . but if he somehow lost part of what made up Her muchness . . . he figured he would probably be sad like his parents, Uncle Sirius, and Auntie's friends were. Still, he wished they could be happy with the Auntie they still had. Auntie was never sad, but Teddy figured it couldn't have felt very nice that people didn't like how much of you they got.
Teddy was happy to love Her as She was so much that it would make up for everyone else, though.
But, then one day, Auntie was gone.
They'd slept in a sanctum in Ireland that night. She'd tucked him and Tia in as She always did. She'd sung them their favorite lullaby. Everything had been normal. But when morning came, She was nowhere to be found.
Auntie's attendants (the ones specific to that sanctum — Her main ones were gone, too) Floo–called sanctum after sanctum, friend after friend, asked Mum and Dad and Uncle Sirius and everyone if they knew where She was, but no one had an answer.
Days passed. Weeks passed. Still nothing.
It was then, as all the adults panicked and ran around, that Teddy wondered if this feeling of a stretching hole in his belly was what everyone had been feeling all along.
There was a full-grown man within Camp Half-Blood who was neither staff nor management. Such a thing had never happened before.
Now, it wouldn't be wrong to assert that demigods who were college-age were indeed adults, and those of that sort had indeed come and gone through Camp Half-Blood on a number of occasions. However, this grown man was very obviously not recently of-age. Instead, he was a tall and broad gentleman clearly closer to thirty than twenty.
He was also not a demigod.
Campers coming and going from their activities stopped mid-stride to gawk at this man who crossed over the border of Half-Blood Hill (as if just out for a stroll!) despite being without any sort of escort. He made it down into the central courtyard before anyone could snap out of their shock and think to run for Chiron.
Beyond being far too grown of a person to be in Camp, the man was also just exceedingly odd in his presentation. He wore a beige plaid three-piece suit made of tweed, a matching fedora, a pale orange umbrella held like a cane, and a long, tan trench coat that reached down far enough to brush the top of his brown Oxfords. Not only that, but he had on what looked like a clerical collar but in gold rather than white, a fancy crucifix pendant, and a strained, anxious expression on his clean-shaven face which would have been pleasant and disarming otherwise. He looked like a cross between someone's fashionable great-grandfather stepping out of the time-stream during his youth, and a youth minister sincerely beginning to question his religion (and was gutted by how he'd reached that point).
He approached a child of Demeter — one of those who had yet to return to their wits.
"Excuse me," the man said, lifting his hat in greeting and revealing dark blond hair. "Would you happen to know where I might go to find the one in charge of this place?"
The child of Demeter blinked twice at hearing the man's (. . . Scottish? . . . English?) accent, but this bemusement only compounded onto her stupor due to his presence to begin with.
"Who the hell are you?" a child of Ares demanded with confusion-borne anger.
The man frowned a bit at the belligerent boy.
"Basic manners dictate you offer your own name before asking for someone else's," he said with faint disapproval, reaching up to touch his crucifix. "Never mind that I've done nothing to deserve being sworn at."
The child of Ares swelled with indignation.
"My question stands, Miss," the man said, returning his attention to the child of Demeter. "It's a matter of some urgency."
Normally, this particular child of Demeter would be happy to give directions to those in need. However, in this instance, her bewilderment compounded with her growing embarrassment at being tongue-tied in the first place, and her alarm at being so close by as a child of Ares was building up a temper. Altogether, it led to her behaving much like a malfunctioning animatronic, flapping her hands and unable to do more than open and close her mouth again and again.
"DON'T LOOK DOWN ON ME, YOU FUCKER!" the child of Ares erupted, swinging on the man with some fury.
Where there should have been blood, there was instead a parry. The pastel umbrella came up in less than a blink and flicked the offending fist away. As if swatting a fly rather than a Divine Rage-filled appendage.
Before the child of Ares could even be startled at being countered, the umbrella was jabbed sharply in his direction, and he went flying with concussive force. He smacked heavily into the side of a cabin before he knew what was happening.
"Rude," the man ground out, brows furrowed. The destructive umbrella returned innocuously to an at-rest position, held by the handle with both hands directly in front.
Before anything else could be said or done, Mr. D's rang out over the courtyard.
"Another wizard?" he sighed. "What have I done to deserve this?"
At his side was Chiron, looking more suitably confused and wary. In their wake were the campers who'd ran to fetch them.
"Are you the ones in charge of this place?" asked the man, face smoothing out. He stepped forward, touching the brim of his hat and nodding. "Ansgar d'Albion. My apologies for the sudden visit."
"Yes, hello, I . . ." Chiron said automatically before trailing off. He turned uncertainly towards his fellow camp director. "Mr. D? You didn't notice him enter camp grounds?"
Mr. D's scowl turned more sour.
". . . I didn't," he admitted. He eyed the stranger with some hostility. "Strange how that could happen. Makes me wonder what kind of being this person could be. The aura is of a god, and yet. . . ."
Aura of a god? But one Mr. D apparently couldn't identify. The campers stared hard, as if trying to ocularly gouge information from the strangely-named man.
"If my presence here is considered trespassing, I'll apologize for the oversight," the d'Albion man offered. "However, I was told coming here like this was perfectly fine as long as it's Lord Thanatos that I'm hosting."
Hosting . . . Thanatos. . . .
"An avatar?" said Mr. D, eyebrows shooting up. His hostility banked. He gave d'Albion a lazy once-over. "Not really Thanatos' style, to be honest."
Chiron, on the other hand, grew more alarmed.
"What purpose does Lord Thanatos have here?" he asked, spine stiffening. "I can't recall anything that might have happened that would warrant his attention. And a physical presence."
"Nothing about you specifically," d'Albion replied, raising a pacifying hand. "Nor does this really have anything to do with him either. Specifically, that is. He's tangentially involved at most. At least for this distinct matter."
Chiron became no less alarmed, but increasingly bewildered.
"Oh?" he asked.
"Yes, you see, I'm here for my . . ." d'Albion paused, looking conflicted. "That is, for . . . I'm here for Herakles Potter-Black."
If asked where it had all gone wrong, Neville wouldn't be able to answer. In fact, the idea that things had gone 'wrong' was entirely subjectively and dependent on the individual. If such a question was posed to anyone else, even those of his usual circle, perhaps a majority of them would deny that anything had gone wrong at all — just changed. He was certain, though, that not one amongst them were happy with all the changes.
Things had got overwhelming for Neville specifically when Lord Namtar had first made contact, back when Neville had been assaulted by Heri's ring in his family's greenhouse. However, Neville would say that he'd accepted that things had irrevocably changed beyond recognition when not a year later he'd been pitted against Smith (and others) for the position of Archpontiff* of Albion — the Hierophant — and won.
The scattered cults that had been worshipping Heri since her first defeat of Voldemort had done more than just gathered and asked for her to take residence in their self-built temples. They formally joined forces and adopted an official name for themselves — Vindeans, from Heri's most succinct epithet Vindic, 'avenger, liberator.' Finally a united, legitimate force, they began forming ranks, filling them in, and inducting initiates. Heri's immediate circle of friends were handily sucked in.
The adepts — that eventually became Pontiffs and Archpontiffs — lived up to their names. Neville had quietly thought himself to be a dedicated follower of his goddess, but the adepts and their sect-members were on another level of reverent. Prayers, hymns, offering rituals — they had them all, and all written down, published, and distributed amongst themselves. These people weren't playing around. It impressed Neville beyond words and also somehow . . . made him feel even more appreciation for his goddess.
He'd always regarded himself as one of the most incompetent mages of his generation until he trained with the DA, but that was just a matter of being under-equipped and unconfident. Meanwhile, the solid majority of those that looked to the goddess did so because they truly didn't have the means to protect themselves in the slightest from Voldemort's forces. To the vast populace, the threat of Voldemort had been the shadow of an incoming boot to an insect. Neville might have been just a bite-y mouse in comparison, but that was still less daunting than being an ant.
But these people knew what it was like to be ants. And thus they knew the relief of being saved from annihilation in a visceral way that even Cowardly Lion Neville would never really understand. And thus their adoration of their goddess was beyond comparison.
Interacting with the devotees, hearing their stories — it really gave him a wider field of view. More than more appreciation, he also gained solemnity. If their goddess hadn't existed. . . .
Luna had told him that there were universes where he was the one laden with the mantle of Chosen One, but . . . Neville Longbottom and Heri Potter were very different people. Even if he'd been raised with fame, and constant praise, and even combat training, he didn't know if he'd be able to do what Heri did. And Heri was Muggle-raised with apparently no knowledge of anything wizard-side until eleven; it was not training or adulation that made Her capable. And apparently this was the only universe were She was semidieous — it was not Her divinity that made it possible for Her to defeat Voldemort once and for all.
If this world had not been blessed with a Heri. . . .
And so Neville threw himself into the Temple. The gatherings, the ceremonies, the prayer rituals, everything. Heri might have been gone in spirit, but what remained of Her was still good — still generous in Her aid of others, still sweet despite Her soullessness, and still fierce in Her defence of those She still recognised as Her own. She might lack warmth, lack attention-span, and have the empathy of an Unseelie Fae, but that was what She sacrificed so that they could live free of fear. He didn't intend to abandon Her now, after everything.
And it wasn't only Neville that willingly fell head-first. Hermione, Sally-Anne, and Wayne had careers outside of the Temple – Hermione at the Department of Mysteries, Sally-Anne as a wardrobe designer for the Laurestine Theatre, and Wayne at the Department of International Magical Cooperation – but Luna, Hannah, Smith, and Ernie were in as deep as Neville. Luna was established as an Archphiton* immediately; Hannah became an Ablegate,* liaising with the Ministry via Wayne; Smith snagged Pontiff of Brockshire;* and Ernie landed Presbyter* of Kilnalochan.*
Neville himself took up the mantle of Pontiff of Westurham* — that was, until the senior Pontiffs and foreign Archpotiffs decided that it made no sense for their goddess' native nation to not have an Archpontiff as well. Following that train of thought, they also decided that if there was to be a head Archpontiff, it made the most sense for it to be the one of the aforementioned native nation. Thus, the election for the highest seat was initiated, with every cleric higher than a Presbyter or Abthane* who was not already an Archpontiff was eligible to be nominated, no matter where they originated in the world.
With Vindeanism having become such a strong presence within wizarding society, the announcement of such a selection was understandably met with much ado.
In theory, every Phiton, Ablegate, Pontiff, and Archphiton from anywhere was eligible. In truth, those of Albion weren't presently too keen to be overseen by someone who hadn't been at the heart of matters when Voldemort was raising hell, no matter how responsible and devout such a person might be to their goddess. The foreign clergy picked up on that sentiment as well, and so it was only the most competent of outside clerics that were nominated amongst the natives.
In theory, it should have been Smith who won between him and Neville. They shared a number of traits that made them more popular for the position than other nominees — their personal connection with their goddess; their competence when it came to magic; their "meritorious deeds performed in the goddess' honour" (the fact that they'd fought at the Battle of Hogwarts); et cetera. But it was Smith that was semidieous and endowed with the knowledge of the ever-shifting public opinions.
Relying on his social alliances — things that Neville had never cultivated — Smith should have been able to talk his way into the seat. Hannah might have beaten him out if she had accepted her nomination, but she'd turned it down immediately, saying such a position didn't suit her. And so that left only Smith and Neville in the ring, with Smith as the obvious stronger contender.
However, Lord Namtar had advocated for Neville.
When a gathering had been called for nominators to speak their minds on why their nominees were the best for the position, before Luna — Neville's nominator — even thought to stand up and speak her piece, Lord Namtar made his entrance. He'd bled out from a shadow behind an open window's curtains and took form, wearing the carcass of a mangled crow.
To an audience of terrified and awed priests, He'd croaked that it would be a travesty if His perfectly qualified human avatar was passed over for such a position.
Audacious as ever, Smith soon enough regained control of his tongue, and he had words for Lord Namtar's statement. He argued that being an avatar for another god should have disqualified Neville if anything. It was a conflict in priorities, he'd said.
However, Hannah came to Neville's defence. She asserted that Lord Namtar was essentially a sentry to their goddess assigned by their Lady's own divine father, and thus His general approval should be one of the minimum requirements going forward. As well as for the current election.
The council considered the notion very seriously before agreeing that such a requirement made sense.
With that new stipulation, being the one directly endorsed, Neville won the vote.
Neville Longbottom, only 21 years old that year, was made the supreme priest of an international cult. Somehow, multiple people agreed that that was an excellent idea.
He'd still been half-certain it was all some strange dream even as the senior Pontiffs gathered and dressed him in ceremonial garb. Even as they bestowed him a regnal name. Even as they sent out a notice of his appointment to all the international newspapers.
Even as they escorted him to the sanctum in Houndsmarch,* where their goddess was visiting at that time, and presented him to Her.
"My dearest Lady," Hieropt* Felideo, the Archpontiff of Hispania,* had said, dropping to one knee in front of where their goddess sat under a shady willow, cradling the napping Teddy Lupin. The other Archpontiffs and accompanying senior Pontiffs followed his example of genuflecting. "It is my great honour to present to You the new Archpontiff of Albion, The Most Reverend Hierophant Ansgar."
In fact, more than a strange dream, it would have made an excellent nightmare. Their goddess had looked at Neville with that hazy recognition She had been using since She re-awoke, blinked a few times, and then without hesitation called him Ansgar.
"Hierophant Ansgar!" She called out quietly, smiling brightly. "So nice of you to come see me today!"
Though She said 'see me,' it was said with the same inflection as 'meet me.' 'Neville' — now replaced in her memory by a newer appellation — was immediately lost to the carnivorous eddies that was Her cognition.
After that, She never called him anything but Ansgar ever again.
Ansgar was a fine name — it meant 'spear of the god.' A fitting name for the position and his purpose within the position. But the last thing he'd ever wanted was to move even further away from what they'd once been. He had been awed by Her since he was a child, enthralled since they'd first met, but he was loath to lose yet another facet of what had made them 'Heri and Neville.'
But just as Heri was gone, now so, too, was Neville. There was only Hierophant Ansgar and his goddess left.
Time marched on.
As Hierophant Ansgar, he oversaw the construction and consecration of temples across the Albion, managed the running of the central sanctum in London, and accompanied his goddess on trips within the nation for ceremonies. Vindeanism was strong in its reach and footing. Because She was leagues more present in mortal society than other deities (amongst the other obvious reasons), accumulating reverence for Her empowerment (and also for the respectability of the Temple) was easy. Far from losing relevance as their society inched forward from Voldemort's reign of terror, She was lauded even more than when She was hailed as the Girl Who Lived. The Temple thrived.
It wouldn't be wrong to say that even those who were observant of older faiths acknowledged the veracity of Vindean beliefs and practices — and participated as well. After all, how did one fault the logic of worshipping a deity that had been proven to gain the means of answering prayers via prayers themselves? A deity that would answer prayers? In fact, due to this very actuality, Vindeanism was less of a religion in the traditional sense of the word and more of a massive, ever-active ritual.
Things were fine. Things were good. There was no reason to say that things weren't good. The nation was flourishing, society had no overt turmoil, innovation in technology was on a climb, the general sentiment towards those not pure-blooded (or even wizards) was more friendly than it'd ever been, and Albion's wizarding population was inching back up to where it'd been before Voldemort's reigns of terror. By all rights, things were fantastic.
But Hermione spent most of her days working within the halls of the Department of Mysteries with grim fanaticism towards a goal she refused to say aloud. The only time he ever saw her anymore was when she came to the central sanctum to pray instead of taking the rest she very clearly needed.
And Hannah never really smiled anymore, only laughing sarcastically when others dared to joke with her or donning a wan, yearning upturn of mouth when their goddess spoke with her. She was otherwise moody and recalcitrant, intent in her work of maintaining the peace they'd sacrificed the last of their childhoods for.
And Wayne had no shred of softness left in him, now flinty-eyed and stern-lipped — a consummate Ministry employee. He was a step away from being the head of his department, and so unyielding was he now that the actual head already deferred to him as well.
And Sally-Anne refused to acknowledge that anything was less than exactly as it had been before. She treated their goddess exactly as She'd been before, chattering and gossiping with Her when she wasn't at work, and ignoring that it almost always took their goddess a few seconds to recognise any of them whenever She wasn't looking directly at them.
And Ernie had become more flippant about things than he used to be — far more flippant than many things deserved. As Hieropist Macmillan, he tended to the responsibilities that being a Presbyter came with a perfunctory style, and where the old Ernie would have lent an attentive ear or a kind word, the present Ernie was dismissive and indifferent.
And Smith was positively tyrannical, the only saving-grace being that his ambitions were focused on the Temple rather than the government. With Ernie no longer tempering him, and Heri no longer around to mellow him, he'd thrown himself into the positional identity of Hieracous Ansroth and become a grasping, pitiless thing, worse than Draco Malfoy once threatened to be.
Speaking of Malfoy, there was no shred of arrogance left in him; he'd been pale to begin with, but these days it was as if someone had taken a sponge to him and sapped out any sort of vibrancy he had left in him. He haunted the goddess' footsteps to assist in the raising of Teddy, but he couldn't bear to look directly at Her.
And Krum, he was — well, there was no foreign diplomat more ferocious in his favour of wizarding Britain. It was only the fact that the Temple didn't hold enough political sway for his purposes that the melancholic man wasn't a cleric of Vindeanism himself, Neville was sure of it.
And Luna . . . she'd all but lost her whimsy, no more talking about creatures no one else could see. She was arguably the one who took their loss the best, and she tended to her subordinates (their goddess' usual retinue) with a gentle touch, but like Hannah she'd quietly withdrawn into herself.
And as for Neville . . . well, no one called him Neville anymore.
But it was manageable.
Until their goddess disappeared, of course.
Amalia heard Death's voice before she saw the shape of it again. It was . . . it was fancier, and a lot less terrifying sounding than she'd expected, despite how agitated it sounded.
"What do you mean there's no such person here?" Death asked with sharp upset. "I was given specific directions to this place. Green eyes, pale as death, copper and black hair so long that it threatens to touch the ground? Always smiling, pitiless, and poor memory? Is none of this ringing a bell?"
Amalia poked her head out from behind the tree she'd sneaked up to (Abel and Elena at her tail) and saw the figure of a man who was far too pastel to fit the image she had, standing with the directors and a bunch of other campers loosely circling him. Earlier, she'd seen his vague outline, and a shadowy aura that had encapsulated him. But though her eyes rejected the sight now, her instincts insisted — this was Death.
"There is no one here by the name of Herakles," said Chiron, sounding strained, "With that surname or otherwise. Nor anyone by that description. We have a number of campers who have green eyes, and those who are rather pale, but beyond that. . . ."
"Is this not—?" Death pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and raised it to his face. "Is this not 'Camp Half-Blood, Half-Blood Hill, Farm Road 3.141, Long Island, New York 11954'? Lord Thanatos said this was the place!"
"Did Lord Thanatos perhaps bring you here for us to help find your missing person?" Chiron suggested. "That's certainly within the realm of what we—"
"No, if this is the place. . ." Death frustratedly interjected. "This is the place, so. . . . She said they were here!"
The last part was grumbled, clearly to himself.
"'They'?" asked Chiron. "You're looking for multiple people?"
It was then that the present counselors (and Luke) returned from stabling the pegasi that had taken them between camp and Olympus. The handful or so of them stepped onto the scene and then paused in consternation. Unconsciously, most reached for their weapons.
"What's . . . going on. . . ?" asked the head of Aphrodite Cabin, Silena, crossing her arms cautiously.
Her boyfriend sidled up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Heri came from around the back of the group, checking something in her bag, but then she glanced up, double-took, and stopped dead. Her mouth fell open.
"Wha—? Are you—?!" she exclaimed.
If Heri looked shocked, there were no words to describe the expression on Death's face.
"You— Wh— He—?" he stuttered, looking like he'd seen a ghost. " Heri? "
But that ghastly poleaxed expression soon gave way to disbelief and anger.
"You—!You're not—! You're. . . ! No! " he bellowed. "NO! Who are you?! Who are you?!"
Heri looked all sorts of confused.
"What? What are you talking about? Are you alri—?"
"NO!"
Death swung his umbrella like a sword, pointing the sparking tip at Heri. Wisps of darkness began emanating from him, like rising steam.
"Mr. d'Albion, this is Heri, one of our campers," Chiron said quickly, interjecting, frazzled. "She's been vouched for by the Council of Twelve—"
"You dare assume Her name!" Death — called 'd'Albion'? — shouted, glare fixed on Heri. "Outrageous! BLASPHEMOUS! That you would—! You dare make a mockery of Her—!"
"What are you on about?!" Heri cried, now also alarmed, lifting her hands defensively. "Have you gone bonkers?!"
D'Albion shouted in anger, and a bolt of blue lightning erupted from the end of the umbrella.
Screams rang out.
Multiple things happened all at once.
Amalia, Abel, and Elena bolted from their hiding place, trying to get to Heri instinctively in their terror. The armed older campers drew their weapons and braced to charge. Mr. D actually looked alarmed and ready to do something. But, most importantly, Heri stepped into the blast and met it with a glowing fist.
The clash resulted in an explosion of electricity, but she was no worse for wear from it.
"Did you just fire a Reductor Curse at me?!" Heri exclaimed, incredulity stark in her voice, fist still raised and glowing.
Since when could she do that?! What sort of parentage allowed her to punch away lightning?!
Amalia and the other two reached Heri at the same time Luke lunged towards Death, but Heri yanked him back immediately and tugged him behind her. The four of them ended up huddled behind her as she stood on the defensive. Amalia wanted to do something , but she couldn't think of anything that would be helpful for the situation.
Those who hadn't already been on the scene came running — from out of cabins, from the archery field, et cetera. The sound of the blast had not been subtle.
"Here now, Avatar," said Mr. D, unusually serious, as it felt like every single in-camp half-blood arrived because of the commotion, shouting questions as they came. "You can't be attacking the brats like that. Old Man Zeus would be furious with me if casualties were to happen. Especially that one right now."
"Olympus would back an imposter?"
"What are you on about, Neville?!" Heri snapped, her fists tightening, the glow brightening to a very discernable peach pink. "You are Neville, right? Have you completely lost your mind?!"
Heri knew Death? Amalia could not keep up with whatever was going on.
"Don't try to fool me, Imposter!" Death growled.
"I'm Heri, you maniac!" she cried, scowling. "Has someone got you under an Imperius?! A strange Confundus?! Something that keeps you from making sense or seeing sense?!"
Cabin Null was filing in behind her, the original taken-from-the-Andromeda ones as well as the handful of not-yet-trusted previous-rogues and double-defecteds, but none of them really knew how to face this sort of opponent. Despite monsters being, well, monsters, those were all still physical battles. Attacks involving the elements were powers only the most endowed among them were blessed with, or of the gods themselves. Amalia knew this was Death (Avatar of Death? Someone said that, right?), but it didn't really make sense that Death would reap via a bolt of lightning; that was very Zeus.
Was the avatar of Death a son of Zeus? But then, wouldn't the Great prophecy be about him, then, and the war they were prepping for would have already happened? Back when the avatar had been a teenager himself? The point here was that d'Albion being able to shoot lightning was a massive mindfuck for Amalia.
"Perhaps, if we could all calm down . . . and move this to the main building," said Chiron in a coaxing tone, "we might get somewhere productive? Have some questions and answers. It wouldn't do if a significant conflict were to emerge from a misunderstanding."
"This is no misunderstanding, this is a deception!" d'Albion pronounced. "Whatever this creature is is posing as someone no one has any right to pretend to be, and has fooled a trusted ally—! Where is Oleander?!" he demanded suddenly, swelling with outrage. "What have you done with her?! She is a well-loved vassal of two Noble Houses! Are you holding her hostage?!"
"You think I want Ollie anywhere near you with the way you're acting loony?" Heri scoffed. She rolled her eyes when d'Albion looked ready to lash out with another bolt of lighting. "Oh, whatever! Ollie!"
Amalia's first instinct, of course, was to look around considering the last that she knew, Ollie had been sent out by Heri to pick up something from the nearest town. However, before Amalia could actually move, Ollie popped into existence right next to Heri.
Since when could she teleport? Since when was teleportation even a thing? Today was a day of upheaving frames of reality.
"Miss Heri calls—" Ollie chirped upon arrival, a brown paper bag in her arms. She cut herself off with a squeak upon seeing all who else was there. "Hierophant Ansgar is here!" she cheered.
"What 'Hierophant Ansgar'?" Heri asked at the same time d'Albion cried, "Ollie! So you are here!"
"Ough . . ." sighed Ollie, looking at Heri with some distress. "Ollie had hoped meeting the Hierophant again would help my lady remember more. . . ."
"She has you hoodwinked, too?!" d'Albion exclaimed, rubbing his face. "Ollie! Open your eyes! This whatever is just mimicking the goddess! She's not even accurate!"
"What bloody goddess?!" Heri cried. "Since when was there a goddess involved in this?! And I just look like myself! Do you have a distorted illusion affixed to your eyes?"
"This is Miss Heri," said Ollie, cocking her head. "Ollie would never mistake her, sir."
"Heri is the one you're looking for?" asked Chiron. "Heri and Ollie are the pair?"
"Yes, what's all this about a goddess? Wasn't it supposed to be some Herakles fellow?" interjected Mr. D. "How could that be this girl? Wasn't her name Harriet or something?"
"The goddess' mortal parents had expected a son, and so named Her Herakles as they'd originally planned upon Her birth," said d'Albion through gritted teeth.
Looks were exchanged. A goddess named Herakles? Sure, 'Artemis' was a common enough name for guys despite that being the name of a goddess, but. . . . And when had there ever been a god dess called Herakles? As far as any of them knew, there was only Lord Heracles, son of Zeus and god of strength.
"Listen here, Avatar," said Mr. D, "we're not hosting any deity here, minor or otherwise, nevermind by that name."
"Then what is that supposed to be?!" d'Albion demanded, pointing at Heri.
"Heri's name is Henrietta Beausoleil de Lisle!" Nico spoke up, shouldering his way forward. "So step off, whoever the hell you are!"
Nico had come running after the blast of lightning, so he didn't know the full situation. Amalia attempted to warn him via some pointed looks, but Nico didn't manage to catch a single one of them.
"Nico, please—" said Chiron, still trying to do damage-control.
"Beausoleil de Lisle. . . ?" d'Albion echoed, brows scrunching. "Beau Soleil de l'Île — that one of the goddess' French epithets."
"This is my lady," Ollie insisted, crossing her arms. "How can you doubt a Bogle's ability to know our bonded mage? Ollie isn't a House Elf, but a Bogle is a Hob, too! Or did Sir think Ollie would come at the summon of just anyone who called?"
"Yeah!" agreed Heri. "Ollie knows I'm me! So there!"
She blew a raspberry at him.
D'Albion's hand flashed out like a striking snake and grabbed Heri by the jaw. She gave an outraged sound as he forced her mouth open. His eyes then went wide.
". . . Iolanthe?" he breathed.
Heri smacked away his hand that slackened from shock.
"I. Am. HERI," she said again through gritted teeth, holding back Alabaster and Nico as well as Luke now. "Damnation, Neville! How many times do I have to say it?! If I wasn't so certain you're under some mind-muddling spell, I'd be kicking your arse right now! And what do you mean Io—?"
"The glyph. The glyph there — on your tongue."
A glyph? In Heri's mouth? Amalia had never specifically looked at Heri's mouth, but she thought she would have noticed if there was writing in there.
Chiron gave Heri a questioning look, to which she shrugged, looking from him to the dazed d'Albion and back again.
"Well?" demanded Mr. D. "Is there something on your tongue?"
Chiron laid a hand on Heri's shoulder with care.
"There's no harm in having someone check. This might be the first step for us to begin clearing up this tangle."
After a bit of hesitation, Heri opened her mouth towards the centaur. He peered in cautiously, brows furrowed. His eyebrows then shot up to his hairline.
"What is it?" Luke And Alabaster demanded at the same time.
"There is indeed some sort of glyph here," said Chiron, mystified. "Here, in the middle. . . ."
"What?!" said Heri, stepping back, a hand rising towards her mouth.
"Oh!" Ollie gasped happily. "So my lady is piloting Io! Ollie had wondered how her hair that couldn't be cut was suddenly so short. Ollie had thought it was a Glamour."
"'Piloting'?" multiple people echoed in chorus, d'Albion the loudest.
"Yes, it's one of those ways Miss Heri is special — she can go into things and pilot them! She hasn't done it very often, but she's piloted Io multiple times before, when necessary."
"Since when?!" d'Albion asked, looking to and from Ollie and Heri with wild eyes.
Ollie cocked her head and scratched her ear lobe.
"Did Sir not know? Well, it has been a long while since my lady last did so. But Ollie thought everyone who already knew Miss back when the first time happened knew about it. . . . But maybe that was just the ones who were already part of Professor Dumbledore's anti-Bad Dark Lord Man group at that time. My lady had to fetch some nasty-icky goblet that kept the Bad Dark Lord Man from dying. Afterward, Miss Heri came home within Io. She said it had been too . . . too inconvenient to return to flesh before meeting up with Mister Sirius, so she piloted Io to save time."
Who was Io? Heri could possess people? There'd been a guy that had a way to keep from dying? These were the questions and exclamations that went through Amalia's head as well as were bandied about aloud by the other half-bloods.
"Possessing Iolanthe . . ." d'Albion exhaled. "Huh. That's . . . huh. Okay. That explains why she looks. . . . Iolanthe always looked exactly like Her since She started carrying it around. I don't think I ever saw it again after seventh year, though, so. . . . What happened? Why . . . ? And it stopped changing to match. . . ?"
"It was Miss Heri that had been transfiguring Io to match," said Ollie. "Ollie thought Io got destroyed during the battle, and that was why Io was gone. It seems Ollie really can't just assume things!"
D'Albion was quiet for a while as he gave Ollie this pale-faced, manic look — like he was witnessing some kind of Lovecraftian horror. Slowly, he looked back up at Heri, thoughts clearly racing. A light of wonder and disbelief lit his eyes.
"You. . . . Heri? Heri, is that really You?"
"I . . ." Based on the confused and disbelieving expression on Heri's face as she glanced down at herself every few seconds, she must have not known she wasn't in her own body either. Somehow. Quietly, as if to assure herself, she said, "I am Heri."
"You're Heri," he rasped. "It's You. It's really You. . . . The goddess . . . She . . . She's You, but You aren't in there! I thought . . . we thought. . . . You sacrificed Your soul, amongst other things. She came back without a soul. . . . We thought that was just a consequence. But You've actually been. . . ."
Trailing off, d'Albion was apparently content to simply drink in the sight of Heri in silence. He looked ready to drown in the sight, wheezing like he was about to faint.
In the next breath, he pulled Heri into his arms hugged her tight, like he was trying to merge with her.
"It's You," he croaked, face buried in her hair.
Heri had to stand on her toes since d'Albion was so much taller than her, but she finally untensed for the first time since she'd entered the scene, and returned the embrace. Just like how she soothed anyone of Cabin Null that needed a good hug, she petted and patted and rubbed her cheek against whatever limb was nearest.
"Well," said Chiron after a moment, lost as anyone else. "Since the hostilities have been resolved. And things have . . . some things have been explained. . . . Erm. Mr. d'Albion, has your task here been fulfilled? That is, you apparently are here to see Ollie and the Heri we have here. . . ."
It didn't seem like d'Albion even heard Chiron's words at first, but after a moment, he slowly pulled away from Heri and shook his head.
"No, I—" He rubbed his face. "Finding Heri here is a blessing and a miracle beyond the scope of my most desperate prayers," he said, damp-eyed and trembling. He grasped the bottom of his pendant tightly, which upon closer inspection was not a crucifix but a mace with two snouted animals snarling in profile. "But the fact remains that She was not the one I was searching for on this occasion. The goddess . . . Heri's . . . Heri's body, I suppose," he said with hysteria. "She's gone missing. And She must be found."
Chiron and Mr. D shared a heavy glance.
Amalia wanted nothing more than to watch this all play out and hear all the details, but it was then that Chiron said that the matter really did have to be taken into the Big House. And the only ones who were allowed to come along were the counselors!
Amalia watched unhappily over her shoulder as she was ushered away with the other protesting Cabin Null members by an equally dissatisfied Alabaster. She saw Chiron escorting d'Albion (who was clinging to a lost but affectionate Heri) and the eternal trio of Heri, Luke, and Ollie. The counselors muttered among themselves as they followed, trudging up the porch and through the door.
What Amalia wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall of that meeting. . . .
D espite being some millennia old in age, Chiron was pretty certain this was the first time he'd ever encountered a situation quite like the one right now. The forced theophany to defeat a foe he'd heard about after the last winter solstice, but he hadn't realized that there'd been so much more to it. International terror and warfare; the rise and climb of a new cult centered around a Twice-Blessed; chthonic Anunnaki engaging with mortals again (though that part was explained loosely enough that it went over the heads of the half-bloods). What's more, one of the half-bloods under Chiron's supervision was apparently simultaneously missing for months and possessing an automaton she'd previously created in her own image. After dying and then re-manifesting completely independently.
Honestly, the consciousness-in-an-automaton part was entirely new in and of itself. The girl's creature handmaiden had demonstrated the reality of it by pressing a few spots and then screwing off one of the girl's hands. Despite showing every sign of being perfectly normal flesh on the outside, the inside was wiring and hollow ceramic for both the bloodless arm and the still-moving hand.
There had been shrieks (and gleeful cackles from Clarisse and the Stoll brothers) when — after some coaxing — Heri proved that even entirely detached from the main body, the limb was still perfectly functional and under her control. The way the detached hand had skittered around the meeting table on its fingers was very Addams Family. Chiron wasn't certain anything would ever top that in stupefaction and discomfiture.
And to top it all off, the avatar of Thanatos (and not only just Thanatos, if Chiron was reading the implications properly), who was also high priest of the aforementioned half-blood under Chiron's supervision (said half-blood who was also the Twice-Blessed), was here to submit a quest to recover the missing re-manifested — and self-transportable — body.
This was . . . a lot. Honestly, this was the furthest thing from what Chiron wanted to handle while preparing for the confrontation with Kronos' forces. However, if the scope of this cult was even a fraction of what the avatar has led him to believe . . . and there really were fully-trained wizards ready to follow Heri into combat at any time . . . this could lead to a significant advantage for those on the side of Olympus.
This also had the potential to lead to the unfortunate reveal of a very significant taboo. After all, neither wizards had directly mentioned the other pantheons so far, but they were skirting close, and Chiron didn't know if they'd been informed that the Greek and Roman demigods were not meant to know of each other nor any others. And it would be suspicious if he pulled them aside right then to inform them, meaning Chiron's hands were tied for the time being. It would take just one unfortunate question from one of the half-bloods, and then. . . .
"Mortal god?" said the older Stoll boy, leaning on the table with his chin in his palm, listening raptly as d'Albion went into rhapsody over Heri and why she was so significant to wizarding society. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"
"Our Lady took in the veneration that should have been steadily accumulated for Her eventual ascension, and instead forced Herself into theophany," d'Albion replied, sounding both proud and mournful. "So that the genocidal self-made monster that had been plaguing our society for upwards of three decades would be entirely wiped out. So that he would be destroyed with no potential avenue of resurrection — something he'd been known for. She sacrificed blood, flesh, life, and soul."
Impressed looks and expressions of re-assessment were tossed Heri's way. The poor girl looked quite overwhelmed as she mutely listened just as attentively as the rest of the half-bloods.
Fitting, Chiron supposed, since (on top of coming to learn she wasn't in her true body) whatever process that had placed her consciousness in her automaton had resulted in an apparently patchy recollection. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the matters she couldn't recall, but Chiron had noted that a number of what wasn't remembered had to do with her divinity and death.
"In doing so," d'Albion continued, "Her original semidieous body was not only killed but entirely destroyed. Not even dust was left. To this day, we still don't really know how She — Her uninhabited body, that is — was reformed. But the result is that Her potential to ascend naturally was sacrificed as well. Now, the only way She may become fully divine is if some other god decides to grant Her a position in their pantheon."
Chiron tensed. There was the skirting close he was worried about.
"Well, that's . . . At least there's still that, right?" Miranda Gardiner said tentatively. "That's how most mortals ascend, after all. And it's an honor for the gods to choose you, right?"
Ah, bless a child of Demeter; there had never been a disloyal one. If there was one sort of half-blood that Chiron never had to worry about turning to Kronos, it was a child of Demeter.
"Should it be considered an honour?" d'Albion rejoined scornfully, sitting back in his seat. "Had She not given up Her entire physical existence for us, She would have become a fully independent deity! She wouldn't be obliged to answer to any higher gods! She would have been a One God in Her own right all on Her own! She wouldn't have needed to become the lackey of some Can't-Be-Bothered pantheon to get some measure of Her due!"
"Jeez, okay, isn't that kind of . . . ?" Miranda glanced around for some potential backup. No one spoke up, though. Those who might have come to her aid were too leery of provoking d'Albion after his display of combat magic. "I mean, lots of really important and powerful demigods have done great things, and not even all of them were selected for godhood."
"You think I exaggerate? To compare Her to the likes of the heroes of Greek mythology is to undersell Her! She's not just the one-off protagonist of some story involving gods, She's an object of worship in and of Herself! Wizarding society has not been this united in the exaltation of any single being since the heyday of Merlin. The worship of native pre-Christian idols" — (Chiron winced) — "can't even be compared!
"All of the magical West and a good portion of Asia pay respects to Her! She's been the patron of all wizarding Europe for a decade now, and of the wizarding British Isles for basically over two decades now! Since before anyone even knew She was a godborn! The amount of sincere faith She receives would have even a fully mundane mortal ascending! And you suggest that She should be honoured if some Sitting-Around-With-Their-Thumbs-Up-Their-Arse pantheon chucks Her what should rightfully already belong to Her!"
"Neville . . ." said Heri with an embarrassed look on her face, coming out of her stupor and placing a restraining hand on d'Albion's forearm.
"This is not sounding very pro-Olympus, Avatar," drawled Lord Dionysus. "A dangerous stance to have here in the midst of Olympian territory. Even if you weren't, mortals have been smited for less."
"I dare you to smite me!" d'Albion bit back. "I dare you! Avatar of Death aside, I'm an archpontiff of the Twice-Blessed! The Archpontiff! Can you afford it?!"
Heri once again tried to coax her . . . friend? Devotee? . . . but he instead simply wrapped the arm she'd been tugging at around her shoulder and pulled her into his side, gently bumping their heads together.
Together they looked much like an elder brother doting on a baby sister. This did not stop Luke from bristling like a lion whose territory had been encroached on.
(Oh, dear. Having a rivalry over affections between such significant components to the war efforts would only through wrench into things. . . .)
"This is why I hate dealing with the wizards," sighed Lord Dionysus. "They get so cocky with their privilege."
"As if being ignored even more than Muggles with only the solace that our godborn criminals can't invoke their progenitors' to aid their crimes is privilege," d'Albion retorted. "As if, instead of accepting it as compensation, we should thank you for making sure your 'hands-off' policy covers withholding tantrums on top of withholding assistance. Ooh, thanks so much for not just throwing a destructive wobbly whenever you feel like! I can really take that to the bank!"
"Nev, come on," Heri groaned. "Don't pick a fight!"
"Do you talk to your patroness like this?" Lord Dionysus said in an exaggerated wondering tone. "Does she accept this sort of disrespectful hierophant? Do you, girl?" This part he directed at Heri with a sneer.
D'Albion returned grimace for grimace.
"I honour Her because She is good and just and protects the weak. Even Her soulless body has done so in Her absence. She in Her entirety has earned my respect and reverence. Thus, I respect and revere Her."
"Hang on a second. . ." Selina interjected, breaking her cautious silence. "'Hierophant'? Isn't that like. . . ? Isn't that, like, another word for pope? You're the equivalent of the Pope?"
D'Albion turned and regarded her with a speculative look.
"It's been a long while since I've interacted with anyone who wasn't familiar with Vindeanism," he said slowly. "I never realized I was so far removed from non-wizards. Yes, I suppose the Catholic Pope would technically be my counterpart. The Archpontiff of Italia* might chaff at that comparison, though. And I certainly don't rule a city-state like the Vatican."
"A sub-cult of Hellenism is so prominent that it can have a head priest comparable to the Pope?" exclaimed Malcolm, Annabeth's stand-in while she was away at school.
D'Albion made a face that spoke of having some things to say about their cult being called Greek-adjacent, but Chiron stepped in before that conversation path of no-return could be trod upon.
"All of this sounds like this situation is more than worthy of an official quest," said Chiron, bringing the topic back to the main point. "Who here would like to—?"
Before Chiron could finish his sentence, Lee Fletcher exclaimed in alarm and pointed towards the door.
Murky green mist seeped in from the bottom of the door.
In the next moment, said door swung open on its own. In shambled the Oracle of Delphi.
"Is this something she just does now?" muttered Clarisse, on guard.
The first time the Oracle had done so was due to Artemis being kidnapped, so perhaps this was just how the Oracle of Delphi reacted when it came to quests with such stakes. This was just what Chiron was consoling himself with, though. He didn't want to consider the possibility that the outcome of this situation would be as cataclysmically significant.
'I am the spirit of Delphi,' the voice of the Oracle hissed in their minds. 'Speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python.' She stared unquestionably at the avatar. 'Approach, Seeker, and ask.'
Though he looked wary at the sight of her, d'Albion approached as instructed.
"What must be done to . . . to recover my goddess . . . in full?" he asked when he stood directly before her.
Green mist poured out of the Oracle's mouth. There were flashes of the same face — Heri's — multiple times. She walked through dark corridors. She — long-haired and laughing — danced in circles amongst others who cavorted as wildly. She stood stock-still and colorless in what appeared to be a graveyard. She was laid on a stone altar like a corpse put to rest, in what looked like a mausoleum, only the slight rise and fall of her chest belying her apparent lack of life.
The Oracle spoke:
'Splintered is the mortal god who roams where souls may find their rest./ Six of Camp Half-Blood must band as one to rise up to this test./ Go together with her vassals, and begin the journey west./
'Ares' daughter takes the forefront through the dark and endless maze./ See there revenants, a traitor freed, a lost lord found and raised./ Find your path beyond the ruins when the corridor decays./
'Travel southward when the Good joins up and feeds into the Great./ Where the mouth yawns wide is where the line of Lachesis awaits./ Find the priestess in the tomb and free her from her dire strait./
'In the Baron's hands is where the Flesh of Fury lost her sight./ Wake her from her frenzy ere the fifth goes from the day to night./ Mark the ground, make three from two. The Master called by candlelight./
'If you mean to seek that soul that only sleeps beneath the ground,/ cross the gateway only Death commands, and there is where she's bound./ Pieces gathered, stitched; a name bestowed; witness a goddess crowned.'
That . . . quite possibly was the longest prophecy Chiron had ever known any Oracle of Delphi to give.
Clarisse broke the stupefied silence.
"That didn't just say I have to go back into that death maze, right?"
AN1: If you want to find out how to support me as I write this fic and/or how to get chapters faster, find me on tumblr as High-Pot-In-Noose and use the link in my description that ends in /schedule if you're on mobile or (if you're on desktop) click on 'FAQs & Schedule.' I'm backlogged up to chapter 28 as of me writing this.
AN2:
Hierarchy of Vindean Clergy:
1st: Archpontiff of Albion, addressed as Hierophant [Regnal/Religious Name]
2nd: Archpontiff of [Nation], addressed as Hieropt [Regnal/Religious Name]
2nd: Archphiton (head Cult-sanctioned seer), addressed as Hieropt [Surname]
3rd: Pontiff (Bishop) of [Province/State/County], addressed as Hieracous [Surname/Religious name]
3rd: Ablegate (Cult-sanctioned ambassadors), addressed as Hieracous [Surname]
3rd: Phiton (Cult-sanctioned seer), addressed as Hieracous [Surname]
4th: Presbyter of [City], addressed as Hieropist [Surname]
4th: Abthane (Abbott/Abbess) of [Monastic Estate], addressed as Hieropist [Religious name]
5th: Poimane (head priest) of [Specific Sanctum], addressed as Hiereus [Religious Name]
5th: Suffragan (succeeding assistant) of [Poimane, Abthane, Presbyter, or Pontiff], Hiereus [Surname]
6th: Cleric, addressed as Delphis [Surname/Religious name]
6th: Anchorite (nun/monk/canons), addressed as Delphis [Forename]
7th: Posultant (initiates), addressed as Acolyte [Forename]
Brockshire: One of the hidden counties of wizarding Britain. A region near Scotland where the Smith Family traditionally lives.
Kilnalochan: A large town in the hidden county that the Macmillan Clan's rule as barons; within Scotland.
Westurham: One of the hidden counties of wizarding Britain that the Longbottom Family rules as earls. In north-central England.
Houndsmarch: A town within the hidden county of Swetechester, where the Black Family rule as marquesses. At the foot of where the Black Family's primary holiday home is.
Hispania: Archaic name for the region that's now mostly Spain.
Italia: Archaic name for the region that's now known as Italy.