Rewriting Our Story Ch.15
“Hey, new around here?” said the voice.
Charlotte turned to see a tall, muscular young man with slightly tanned skin, purple eyes, and a warm, open smile approaching her. He was wearing Auradon athletic wear and holding a clipboard. He had an air of calm confidence, far more approachable than the arrogance she had seen in the cafeteria. It was Terímaco, son of Hercules and Megara.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied, feeling a little self-conscious again under this new gaze, though it seemed more curious than critical. “I just arrived. I’m one of the new students and… I wanted to look into some extracurricular activities.”
Terímaco nodded, his eyes scanning Charlotte’s unique figure, resting briefly on her ears and hooves, but showing no trace of surprise or negative judgment. He seemed to be assessing her in a practical way, like a coach observing unusual potential.
“I thought you were new,” he said with a smile. “We don’t have many… physiques like yours around here. I’m Terímaco, son of Hercules, by the way. My siblings and I help organize the school’s sports activities. We’re always looking for new talent… or just people willing to try new things.” He glanced down at his clipboard for a moment, as if mentally sorting through possibilities. “I’ve been thinking… your physical form is pretty interesting. It could be very suitable for certain sports.”
Charlotte was surprised by his frankness, but she didn’t feel attacked. Terímaco wasn’t judging her; he was seeing her difference as a factor—maybe a positive one.
“Really?” she asked, with a mix of skepticism and hope. The conversation with Petra and Zephyr had planted the idea, but hearing it from someone “inside” Auradon’s sports world felt different.
“Absolutely,” Terímaco affirmed. “You have a lower body that looks incredibly strong. And that build suggests a lot of endurance. I was thinking… long-distance running, maybe cross country. Or anything that requires stamina. Or sports based on pure strength.” He brought a finger to his chin thoughtfully. “What kind of exercise… or physical work did you do on the Isle?”
Charlotte hesitated for a moment. How could she explain life on the Isle to someone from Auradon? It wasn’t “exercise.” It was survival.
“On the Isle… life is physically demanding,” Charlotte said, choosing her words carefully. “It’s not exercise for sport. You have to… move a lot. The terrain is difficult. You have to be able to go far. Carry things. Sometimes run… out of necessity.” She thought of alleys, of escapes. “And my… my form… my donkey part gave me extra strength. And endurance. The Isle… toughens you. Physically. If you’re not strong… you won’t do well. Unless you have magic, of course.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s the kind of physical activity I did.”
Terímaco’s expression shifted as he listened to her description. His sports-organizer demeanor gave way to a deeper, genuine curiosity. He let the clipboard drop to his side.
“Wow,” he said, his tone one of genuine amazement, free of any mockery. “The Isle… demands so much from young people just to survive daily life? That’s… that’s much more intense than I imagined.” He looked at Charlotte with a new perspective, seeing not only physical potential but someone who had had to be strong to survive in a harsh environment.
The conversation had unexpectedly shifted from Charlotte’s athletic potential to the harsh reality of life on the Isle for its young inhabitants. Charlotte met Terímaco’s sincere gaze, the son of the hero and the strong woman who had faced her own challenges. She felt that perhaps he could understand a little, someone who didn’t just see a “creature” but a person forged by adversity. Terímaco’s question opened the door to a much deeper conversation than Charlotte had expected on her first day in the gym.
“Yes, well…” she tried to speak. “I’m looking for a sport to distract me from classes, something with strength or endurance.”
“Did you have anything in mind?” he asked, as was customary when meeting a new member of the school’s sports activities.
“Maybe…” she thought hesitantly. “Something that builds strength in my arms; my legs are strong, but not on the same level as my arms.”
“Have you ever tried boxing?”
Charlotte thought of a few fights with other villains and henchmen on the Isle. Although she had some arm strength from chores at the coachman’s house, escaping, or kicking had always been a better option.
“No… not exactly,” she said, remembering the occasional punch in a tavern scuffle. “I have strength, but I haven’t really trained it much.”
“Would you like to try? If you don’t like it, we can always try something else.”
“Yes… sure.” She smiled at the unexpected kindness.
“Good, follow me. We’ll do a first trial.”
Terímaco guided her through Auradon Prep’s impressive indoor sports facilities to a small padded ring. The smell of freshly cut grass and rubber wafting in from the new courtyard was a stark contrast to the air of the Isle.
“All right, the locker room is just through this door,” said Terímaco, pointing to a changing area. “There will be women’s sports clothes—put on something comfortable and short, so you can move freely. I’ll wait here.”
Charlotte simply nodded before heading to the girls’ locker room. The interior was tiled in blue and white on both walls and floor, with several wooden benches and hooks in the corners, contrasting with the other half of the room, organized into cubicles with curtains for individual showers. She entered a side door, a small storage area with some training equipment already there. She looked around hesitantly, alone, knowing no one would see her. Quickly, she changed, placing her clothes in her backpack and putting on a sports outfit: a tank top and red shorts with the Auradon crest—the first shorts she had worn in years—exposing her arms, legs, and torso. Once changed, she stepped back out into the main area.
When Charlotte returned to the training area, Terímaco was adjusting a weight bench. He looked up as he heard her approach. His gaze swept over Charlotte’s figure, now dressed in clothes that revealed more of her physique. Her donkey ears and hooves were still unique, of course, but what caught Terímaco’s attention went beyond that.
“Wow, Charlotte,” Terímaco said, pausing on her defined, strong arms and then tracing the line of her visibly toned abs beneath her sports top. His expression was genuine surprise, mixed with professional admiration. “You… you have remarkable muscle definition. Especially in your arms and torso.” He scratched his chin. “Most girls here… don’t train at this level. It’s… unusual. Did you do a lot of strength training on the Isle?”
Charlotte felt a twinge of self-consciousness being observed like this, but also a strange sense of validation. Her body, which she had often felt as a mark of her trauma and exile, was now being appreciated for its strength.
“Ah, that,” Charlotte said, shrugging slightly. She hadn’t thought of it as “strength training.” “I guess… I helped move heavy objects on the docks. Move things. Carry supplies. Boxes. It was physical work. Every day.” She explained, her voice simple and factual. “Donkeys are strong animals, but carrying… handling carts… and the loads… requires strength. And endurance. And sometimes you have to move fast even while carrying things.” She thought of long workdays, the need to be strong so as not to be a burden. “It was… my ‘exercise,’ I guess.”
Terímaco listened attentively, the initial surprise giving way to reflective understanding. This wasn’t the result of a gym, but the product of necessity—a life of hard work in an unforgiving environment. He saw her strength not as something cultivated by choice, but forged by sheer survival.
“Physical work… every day,” Terímaco repeated, absorbing the information. He looked at Charlotte’s defined muscles again, seeing them not just as an athletic physique, but as a silent testament to the harshness of life on the Isle and to Charlotte’s resilience. “That explains a lot. That’s a kind of strength you don’t get easily here. All right, let’s see how you handle yourself in the ring.”
The energy in the gym that afternoon was electric. Word had spread like wildfire that the new girl from the Isle with strange legs was going to spar with one of Hercules’ sons. It wasn’t a real fight, of course—Terímaco made sure of that. It was a friendly test, a challenge to measure Charlotte’s upper-body strength and endurance in a controlled environment. But for Auradon students, it was an unusual spectacle.
The space quickly filled with a crowd of students: some Auradon athletes, others curious spectators, and a fair number of young people from the Isle. The murmur of the crowd grew as Terímaco and Charlotte took their positions in the center of the ring.
“All right, Charlotte,” Terímaco said, his voice clear above the chatter. He wore a smile, but his eyes were focused. “Simple rules. This is a strength and endurance test, not a boxing technique match. Don’t aim to knock out. It’s about pushing, using your strength, trying to unbalance. We can do short rounds. When one can’t continue or steps out of this zone, the other ‘wins’ the round. Got it?”
Charlotte nodded, feeling the gloves awkward but her muscles tense and ready. She looked at Terímaco, Hercules’ son, a symbol of Auradon’s legendary strength. The match began.
The first round was a mutual test. They approached, measuring distance. Terímaco used light footwork, something Charlotte, anchored by her hooves, couldn’t replicate. But when they connected, the impact was surprising. Charlotte used the stability of her base and the raw strength residing in her torso and arms to push. Terímaco felt the sheer power behind her—a steady, resilient force that didn’t rely on explosive technique, but on pure capacity to apply pressure.
“Wow…” Terímaco breathed, astonished.
The crowd reacted. The impressed group cheered. The prejudiced group grumbled.
The rounds continued. Terímaco used his agility to try to flank her, employing his training to look for openings, gently tapping with his gloves to wear her down. But Charlotte was incredibly difficult to move. Her hooved legs and donkey base gave her astonishing stability, and her strength in clinches and scrambles was monumental. She absorbed Terímaco’s pushes with surprising resilience—the toughness forged on the Isle allowing her to endure the pressure in a way that impressed everyone. She wasn’t a dancer in the ring; her movements were more direct, more based on brute force and endurance than finesse. Yet, she was effective.
Sweat began to glisten on both of them. Terímaco was breathing heavily, surprised by Charlotte’s stamina. She, too, felt the effort, her muscles burning, her hair plastered to her head and tied in a ponytail, but the endurance that had carried her through long days helping the Coachman allowed her to keep going, absorb, and push back.
The crowd was riveted. The doubters began murmuring in awe. The girl from the Isle—the donkey—wasn’t just daring to spar with a son of Hercules, she was giving him a real fight! Cheers grew louder, the jeers less confident. It was a display of raw strength and endurance versus trained power and technique.
The air in the gym crackled with anticipation. The rumor had spread, drawing a crowd of students surrounding the makeshift ring. The overhead gym lights bathed the training square, creating a spotlight on Charlotte and Terímaco. The murmur of the crowd was a hive of speculation, divided between awe, disdain, and pure curiosity.
“Come on, Terímaco! Show her how it’s done!” shouted a blonde, muscular athlete, clearly from the group that saw Charlotte as an intruder.
“You can do it, Isle!” shouted a more enthusiastic voice from the other side, probably a VK or someone impressed by Charlotte’s audacity.
Terímaco and Charlotte tapped their padded gloves together. Terímaco’s eyes shone with a mix of focus and respect. Charlotte’s, with determination and a hint of nerves.
“Just strength and endurance, right?” Charlotte panted, feeling the weight of the gloves. She felt adrenaline and euphoria in her body in a way she had never experienced before.
“That’s right,” Terímaco nodded, taking his stance, his footwork light and fluid. “And see who lasts longer. Don’t hold back, Charlotte.”
The following rounds merged into a demonstration of exhaustion and pure willpower. The pace slowed slightly, but the intensity increased. Every push, every attempt at maneuvering required monumental effort. Charlotte felt her muscles tremble, but the familiar sensation of extreme physical exhaustion—the one she had felt countless times on the Isle—was manageable. She knew she could keep going.
Terímaco, despite his elite training, began to show clear signs of fatigue. He wasn’t a demigod like his father; he was human, albeit with above-average strength. His footwork slowed, his breaths became labored. He was used to strength tests, but the combination of Charlotte’s relentless power and her incredible, unusual endurance was pushing him to his absolute limit. He tried to use the remaining speed he had, but Charlotte held firm, her base like an immovable anchor.
“I’m so tired,” Terímaco thought, panting. “But she… she’s still there. Pushing. Breathing. I can’t believe her stamina.” The admiration in his eyes became more apparent with every passing second.
“It hurts,” Charlotte thought, every muscle protesting. “But he’s at his limit too. I can’t give up. Not now. Not when he sees me… not just as a donkey.” Determination drove her onward.
The crowd was silent now, watching with intense focus. The division between groups faded. Everyone was amazed by the unexpected battle of wills and strength.
The final round began. They met in the center of the ring, pushing, their sweaty bodies straining to the utmost. Their movements were slower now, but the force they applied remained immense. The sound of their labored breathing was audible even above the subdued murmur of the crowd.
Terímaco made one last push, gathering all his strength for a decisive shove. Charlotte, with a grunt, responded, her hooves firmly planted on the mat, using every ounce of her endurance to match and resist him. The struggle continued—a static battle of pure power.
But after what seemed like an eternity, both bodies simply… reached their limit. The mutual pressure held, but movement ceased. They stayed pressed against each other, panting, leaning on one another as much as pushing. Their heads drooped, their arms trembled. They couldn’t take another step, couldn’t exert any more force. They were completely spent.
The timer sounded, marking the end of the round, yet they remained there, stuck together from sheer exhaustion, gasping for air.
Terímaco was the first to find his voice, his breath coming in ragged hisses. He didn’t remove his gloves, but the pressure stopped. He looked at Charlotte, his eyes shining through sweat. Both separated and sat down on the padded ring, causing awe among the onlookers—some gasping in astonishment, whispering among themselves, others realizing the fight wouldn’t continue and leaving the gym.
“Wow,” Terímaco panted, a smile of amazement and respect crossing his face. “Charlotte… you… are… incredible.” He laughed, a strained sound. “My stamina… is… gone. And your strength… your endurance… It’s amazing. You pushed me… you pushed me to the limit.” He released the pressure and leaned heavily on the ring ropes. “I can’t… I can’t go on. You can’t either, right?”
Charlotte stepped back, wobbling, her donkey legs feeling like jelly despite their strength. She leaned on the opposite ropes, bending forward, panting. Every muscle burned, but the familiar exhaustion from the Isle was different—less overwhelming than this. Still, she was spent.
“No,” Charlotte panted, her voice trembling. “You’re… strong too. Son of Hercules. I didn’t expect… I didn’t expect to last this long.” She looked at her gloves, her arms shaking. She hadn’t won, but she hadn’t been defeated either. She had matched the strength and endurance of a son of Hercules.
The crowd was silent for a moment, processing. Then came the eruption—not from a single group, but from the entire audience. A roar of cheers and deafening applause filled the gym. Shouts of “Incredible!”, “What a fight!”, “That girl’s got endurance!” rang out. Mockery had drowned in awe, at least for most of them.
Terímaco straightened slightly, with effort, and looked at Charlotte with immense respect.
“That was… a tie,” he declared, his voice still breathless but firm. “A very well-deserved tie. You are a force… a real force, Charlotte. A force from the Isle. You’ve been the first person to come this close to beating me—or one of my brothers—in years.”
Charlotte lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes. The fatigue was overwhelming, but the validation in his look, the respect from the crowd… felt like a victory in itself. She had arrived in Auradon fearing judgment for her physique, and on her first day in the gym, she had used it to earn respect through sheer effort and the strength forged in adversity. Her journey in Auradon sports—and in accepting herself—had just taken a giant step forward.