“Well, a few others have found their trial site already— Credence, Ki–,uh, Greyson, Jules, and myself, but,” he pulls back, nose wrinkling. “We’re gearing up to do Credence’s next, unfortunately. Mine’s probably not for a while.” Hudson runs a hand down Gideon’s chest, smoothing out the fabric that separated them. “I’m kinda scared no one’s gonna wanna go, honestly.” Shoulders droop as he says that, only to bunch up the next moment, a bright smile crossing his face. “But hey, enough about that, did you know I found two new sisters? From my father’s daughters.” He cringes. “Well, he doesn’t call them that. Turns out, he’s a jerk and calls them his… his creations.” Taking his hands into his own, Hudson gives Gideon a small smile. “Lamia—the first sister I found— has been wanting to meet you for seven months now. Do you—” he freezes, looking terribly ashamed. “I was going to ask if you want to head down to her shop but, are you tired? Hungry? Need… anything? I know I was when I first came back from the underworld.”
gideon nods his head along with hudson’s words. piles and piles of information, of names that he recognizes. he catches the way that hudson almost stumbles over a half-said name before it’s abandoned, tossed to the way side. maybe he did start moving on. he thinks to himself, the smile still resting on his lips.
then the time frame hits him like a truck to a wall.
seven months.
his smile cracks, shatters to pieces like a rock to a mirror. it takes him only a millisecond to pick up those pieces and shove them back into place. he hopes that hudson doesn’t notice.
“maybe after i’ve settled in.” he says with a half-smile, though it’s not said in the same promising tone as anything before. he already broke one promise, he doesn’t want to make it a habit. “you found your trial? you don’t hate your powers anymore?”
So there is no true afterlife, then. A perpetual state of non-existence, an emptiness. Maybe a suspension in time for the rest of eternity–if it never ends. That is the meaning of eternal, isn’t it? Julian looks–to him, at him, through him–and frowns. He feels that icy chill trickle down his back and slowly seize his nerves. It spreads to wrap around his chest, lungs, and heart to squeeze what warmth he kept to himself out and snuff it.
Not for good; it’d come back as always, like an abandoned pet left to the wild. Julian moves his other arm and brings Gideon in for an embrace. There’s an initial hesitation for the act, debating whether to give in to his desires and cravings for touch or abandon it for something harder: distance. Run a mile away and leave his heart in the dust once and for all. “I’m sorry.” This isn’t Gideon the smirking, determined man that sways their camp and bolsters camaraderie. It isn’t the same man from capture the flag that has unwavering loyalty from his team. This Gideon has that same charisma and influence, but that determination and supernatural stubbornness is broken.
“I’m sorry we’re not done here, not without you.”
the hug is unexpected and he freezes against julian. his arm comes up reluctantly to hug him back. there’s a desperate need for warmth that doesn’t come, not yet at least. he wonders if julian can feel it radiating off him in waves, if his own cold chill would infect the rest of them.
“it’s not your fault, don’t be sorry.” i was the one that died, i was the one that was too stubborn to back down. his mind tells him. “there was something else. after. a warmth.” he admits. what he doesn’t say is it’s a warmth he wants to chase again, wants to feel and bathe in. “i think, wherever i was, when i came back, it made me forget about it. i don’t know where it was.” he says slowly, a frown creasing his brows.
“you guys never needed me. you’ve all lasted this long.”
He’s upset, but he’s understanding. He’s tired, but he’s kind. Is he unrelenting, stubborn to the death that Gideon had been? Still is, perchance? Maybe so. Julian is so many things, but after the same routine, more or less, in such a short time? It’s best to leave his heart in his chest, where it belongs. Good thing he buried the ring months ago. He can sense the truth off the son of vengeance, justice. Gideon’s not steered him wrong and he doesn’t think anyone–once dead–would dream of returning so soon. Or at all; isn’t it better on the other side?
At least Gideon can answer that. He softens his gaze, features domesticating themselves from a sterile shape that it’s almost alien to his kind nature. “I don’t think anyone asks to be back, but there’s a reason you’re here,” he says, tone shifting to a kinder note, as if it’s an olive branch between them. So he nears at last, reaching a hand out to rest on Gideon’s shoulder. He’s tired, he’s weary, and his heart’s far to weak to handle another blow. Maybe he’ll come back too, right? But we broke up. He gave me his violin bow; I’ve not gotten a text from him even when I travel to the cities. I’ve not heard anything.
He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.
“What do you remember?”
what is the reason for his returning? a need to appease someone? the fact that dexter had stayed so long in the underworld and didn’t know about those up top? the fact that he was the only demigod that they’ve lost—that dexter knew about—and that was why hades allowed it to happen? was he destined for more? what was destiny but a fickle bitch who toyed with their emotions and teased them time and time again?
gideon inhales and holds the breath in his lungs. the icy chill of it doesn’t make him feel any better.
“an emptiness.” he answers honestly. he catches julian’s gaze and holds it, letting the heavy words sink like an anchor.
Blues meet brown and never does he feel such a strong, visceral recoil in his gut. I saw your soul, I watched you move on in the underworld. I watched the camp grow restless in your absence. I watched Dane and Dexter share what you wanted us to do. I did my damnedest to keep us and the new recruits in the fight for you, yet here you are. None of that spills past his lips, for his heart acts as a dam and quells the typhoon to one, strong, current: we missed you.
Julian wrinkles his nose and doesn’t need to consult the next hex-witch nor Dexter for this one: Gideon Knight is, in fact, alive. He all but drops the crate of clothes, wraps, and trinkets on the snow ground as he makes his way closer. Julian’s eyes are unrelenting, however, as they look over the man before him. Sad, too, if the anchor sinking in their icy depths says so. “What happened to you?” Why are you here, are you going to leave tomorrow?
gideon knight is not ready for the storm that is brewing in julian dorado. he is not ready for the questions. he is not ready for the guilt, the anguish, the unrelentling waves of it that would beat him like water against rocks. he can see it in those icy blue eyes, can see the depth of his frustration and sadness. it’s palpable. if it wasn’t snowing already, the air around them would turn to ice.
there’s a scorn to julian’s gaze, he thinks, as if there’s a score to settle, a vendetta that must be sealed. the question punches a hole through his chest and gideon does his best not to flinch at it. between credence and hudson, he knew he would be safe with his return. this is what he wasn’t prepared for.
“i—” he starts, not knowing where to go, where to start. but he knows that julian wants and expects truth. so he’ll give that to him. “i didn’t ask to come back. i was happy.” a pause, a palpable silence. “at least i think i was.”
Sanity was an easily-defined state of mind before flying off to Norway, pegasus-bound. Any mortal definition was overshadowed by greecian myths and olympian challenges consuming their new lives. In Julian’s case, after another night by the trails and staring down a patch of bluebells, he took himself away. The lake was off-limits, just as much as the forge, Magiea, and training grounds. Aspida’s steps weren’t allowed for him, neither. On the same note, nor was his own room.
Julian was constantly waiting for a voice or two during his time at camp. Be it a smooth, controlled breath bated with a smirk or a soft, honeyed lilt romanticized in southern films, he misinformed himself that people came back from the dead. That, in fact, they returned from a world of amnesia to one of immortal memory. He didn’t think it should bother him so much, yet it still grew on him. Festered, bloomed, consumed him like hellhounds would have if it weren’t for him. Another concern for another day. Julian didn’t hear anyone as he carted belongings off to the little village and supplies to the infirmary; he did, however, see someone in the corner of his eye.
“If you’re looking for someone, I don’t think I can help you.” A first for everything, wasn’t there?
the cold winter night was a biting reminder of his mortality, of his presence back at camp. the nothingness that was the blink of an eye stretched to months of time lost, precious time that he no longer had with those that he was getting close to. it still feels strange to be here, to be back, and, for the most part, he’s kept to himself outside of the handful of people he knew he needed to see.
it’s not as if his presence could be missed. it’s not every day that someone returns from the dead. it’s not every day that more beliefs are upended by their godlihood.
gideon folds his arms over his chest, hugging his large coat around him. it’s so difficult to stay warm now. the fever that was once in him is gone, he’s been cold since he left. he looks up at the voice that cuts through his muddled thoughts. honey eyes meet sky blue. “oh.” he shakes his head. “i wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. just alone with my thoughts.”
Hudson studies his face silently, trying desperately to find some kind of discrepancy, something that could prove this was all in his head. His hands trace over the sharp edges of his cheek bones. “Good,” he says, seemingly satisfied, closing the space between them for a kiss. “You’re not allowed to do that ever again! You hear me?” He presses his forehead against Gideon’s and gives the taller man a tight warning squeeze. “You’re going to meet your spirit guide, we’ll find you your trial site, and you’ll beat all the crazy ass puzzles and monsters your mom pits at us, and you’ll get some badass weapon out of it.“ A grin tugs at the corner of his lips, rubbing his nose against the other’s. “And then we can do that whole accenting thing.” Hudson freezes, a look of confusion crossing his features. “Accenting? Axe-ending? …Ass-ending? None of those sound right.”
it’s easy enough for hudson to believe the truth of the matter and it doesn’t take long for the icy moment between them, the disbelief, to thaw. the kiss catches him off guard but his eyes fall closed and the warmth of hudson’s lips on his sends a shock through his system. he’s been dead for months and just like that, hudson picks up where they left off. had he thought about moving on? had he started to and then he showed back up? question after question fills his mind but he pushes them to the side when he’s bombarded with word vomit. he nods along, half-heartedly agreeing, and when hudson stops for a breath, gideon chimes in, serrated smile on his lips. “don’t think i’ll be doing that any time soon. there’s plenty of you who are more ready than i am.” he gives hudson’s shoulders a squeeze. “like you, i’m sure.” he wonders if hudson is still fighting with the demons of his powers or if he’s overcome them.
i’ve missed so much. he thinks to himself, the smile never faltering on his face, at least not until he’ll be alone.
he said thank you to dexter because it was the polite thing to do. it’s what his parent’s taught him,
he should be thankful for it. a second chance at a life that he only just begun, a life that would lead to adventure and glory, to have his name written in the myths and legends that would one day be told—hopefully.
but there’s a void, an emptiness, a nothingness that threatens to consume him.
there were ghouls and a woman with a fiendish sword that cut him down like he was nothing.
then there was warmth, peace, a knowledge that those he left behind would be okay and that they’d succeed where he failed, an absence of time and space, and a never ending feeling of completion.
then there was nothing.
maybe that’s all he is in the end: nothing.
maybe that’s what it means to be back from the dead: nothing.
nothing. nothing. nothing.
a void.
his fingers grip the hilt of his great sword and he hefts it with ease. it feels both familiar and foreign, like it belongs to him and also doesn’t. he rotates the blade side to side, admiring the cold steel of it, the sharp edges. he molded himself after a blade once and it got him killed. his confidence now as serrated as his smile.
no one else has died since him, at least as far as he knows. does that make him weak? does that make him foolish for having this fearlessness that radiated from him, that drew others to him? would that mettle get others killed? he can only imagine the dangers that they have faced since his death, more gruesome and foul than his own quest, and yet he was the only one to falter and fall.
maybe it was the fate’s way of saying that it was his time. maybe his destiny was meant to be cut short.
yet, someone he called a friend helped make a bargain to get him back. how could he turn that down? how could he say no to a god?
he brings his hand to his chest and rubs at his pec, over his heart, where a jagged scar from that devilish sword still stains his skin, puckered and gruesome. it’s a constant reminder of his own hubris, of the very thing that his mother smites.
maybe she wanted him dead, too.
maybe that was her plan to show that no child of hers would succumb to foolish ideologies of glory. he is to be the balance, the scales, and he tipped his own too far and toppled to an early grave.
he swings his great sword and imbeds the blade into the trunk of a dying tree. he leaves it buried there for a moment, panting in the cold winter air. his breath forms wisps around his face. his honey colored eyes almost glow like magma, molten and furious.
that fury is directed inward, toward himself.
he should be happy that he’s back, and some part of him is, but there’s a part of him that resents the second chance. there’s so much pain, so much anguish, so much uncertainty. there’s too many emotions when, wherever he was before, made everything feel so simple.
he closes his eyes and there’s flashes of moments that he doesn’t quite remember: a beautiful garden, never ending warmth, the sound of angelic singing, lush golden apples that made him feel full.
he shakes his head and he’s back to the cold, bitter winter of norway. he doesn’t realize the few stray tears that run down his cheeks, turned to icicles against his winter kissed skin. he wipes them away with his thumb, lets those tears crumble to dust just like he should be now. somewhere, in the graveyard dedicated to the demigods, there is a tombstone with his name on it.
yet, here he stands.
he collapses onto his knees in front of the tree and rests his hands on his knees. his chest hurts, a spiderwebbing pain that trickles out from the scar to the tips of his fingers and toes explodes through his veins.
“i can do this.” he tries to sound convincing, if only for himself and the quiet wilderness around him. “i can still be strong for them.” he runs through a list of names in his head, both new and old. “i have to be.”
he grabs his sword from the tree and sheaths it, looking at the scar he’s cut into it. “they can never know.” he says to himself. “that’s my vow, my own oath of vengeance.” he looks up to the sky, hoping his mother can hear him.
“they can never know that, wherever i was, i was happy.”
he closes his eyes and lets the snow fall upon his face before he bundles himself with his coat and walks around the camp’s perimeter once more, left alone with his thoughts.
𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐘𝐀𝐖𝐍, pulling out the metaphorical ‘big guns’. it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that insult, nor would it be the last, he figured. “i talk like kite eklund, because i am the very same demon.
“spout all the trash you’d like, while i smoke a cigar over your corpse.”
the psalm, however, manages to shake his secret technique - two furrowed brows later, kite’s stern gaze watches the knife as it glides between gideon’s digits. “danger, delight… two sides of one coin,” he replies, pulling his turtleneck up over his mouth in order to look as mysterious as possible, “and i take pleasure in both. perhaps i was wrong… perhaps we shall clash on the fields of battle: a deadly test of bone, sinew, and metal…”
kite forces a single chuckle, unfazed by gideon’s show of strength.
“death is nothing compared to vindication. you shall die twice, as do shadows.” the son of hephaestus stands, too - nearly eye-to-eye with the other man, but just the tiniest bit shorter. “my intention is not to scare you, fool: if it was, i would’ve already gouged out the fourth eye of destruction… it would take me 2.5 seconds if i were to remove the weights slowing me down.” kite answers, resolute, and doesn’t back down from their little perceived pissing contest. “and that is the absolute truth, lich.”
quite frankly, gideon knight has had enough of this strange, wannabe demon man.
“we’re gonna clash, don’t worry about that.” he makes a mental note never to go on a quest with kite eklund, mostly because he’s ten out of ten going to make sure that the man dies so he won’t have to come back to camp to deal with it. his mother is the lady of vengeance after all, what’s a little personal vendetta if not in her honor?
gideon smiles and rolls his shoulders. “here, let me help you remove those weights.”
and then gideon knight grabs kite eklund by the shoulders and throws him through the side of the banquet hall. “looks like you didn’t have much weighing you down!” gideon calls out as he walks the other direction, out the door and into the openness of the camp.
“𝐊𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐇𝐄… 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄…” kite finally turns to look gideon in the eye, turning his face upwards with what could only be described as a crazed grin, “…but you’ve activated my trap, fool! BEHOLD!! my SECRET TECHNIQUE: AURA OF WAXING INDIFFERENCE!!!”
thank god he’d had that chat with genaro oberon wardwell. thank god he’d figured out the failsafe way of defeating other holders of ancient eyes.
kite’s gaze instantly becomes aloof, supporting his head with a palm. “hmph… nice line, but here’s a better one: ‘beware the fury of a patient man’. or, perhaps, ‘everything comes to he who waits’. your eye is as good as mine, foul wretch.”
he turns himself back to his food, and tries his hardest to fully ignore gideon knight, ‘fufufu’ing into various meats and cheeses. “i can feel your mediocre power draining, even as we speak…”
another person who’s indifference could be weaponized. if only this moron knew who he was dealing with. casually, gideon leans back in his chair and waves a hand dismissively. “you talk like you’re some 90s anime antagonist.” he gives him a smile, a curt nod. “it’s laughable.” gideon does not, in fact, laugh.
his hand reaches for one of the steak knives next to his plate. he picks it up, spins it between his fingers—some things just seem natural to him and, even after being dead, using a knife doesn’t seem like a foreign concept to him. not like dealing with people is. “fear the man who can out wait the most patient, for he is the one they consider most deadly.” he makes the words sound like a psalm, some sort of ancient text that only he would know. he’s bullshitting, but his face doesn’t show it.
“my power is waning, huh?” gideon tosses the table, with their plates, clear across the banquet hall, sending it crashing toward the wall before it splinters to pieces. he stands up, dusts himself off, and looks down at the wannabe villain. “i’ve already died once. you don’t scare me.”
being new around here seemed to be enough grounds to cause panic. already in the matter of a short while he was compared to two other demigods, asked if he belonged, and some people said they already knew him. if spidey senses were a thing, he would feel a shiver crawling up his spine, through his neck, and resting in the back of his brain.
still, he offered the man a curt nod while shaking his hand just as firmly. his eyes never wavered away from gideon in the process, making sure to keep his confidence up. he had to remember that he wasn’t always meeting a political figure in his mother’s campaign.
“as new as this week.“ then he dropped his hand back down to his side. it was probably obvious that he wasn’t a veteran at camp, especially if gideon was. “my mother is hecate and i’m representing house aspida.“ that seemed to be the basic information everyone needed. “goddess of retribution, correct?“ he asked when hearing the name nemesis.
son of hecate, house aspida. a cool dread trickles down gideon’s spine and he removes his hand from the other’s grip to look him over, almost sizing him up. “where’s dane?” he asks, although he doubts the other man would know. was he dead? how many had they lost since his own death? one of his closest friends, someone that he could let loose around, someone he could just sit in darkness with, was gone. he buries those feelings for later, when he’s not in front of some stranger.
“vengeance, retribution, justice. it’s called many things.” he answers back. “house pali.” even if this man is to be one of the ‘tanks’, he doesn’t look like much. gideon could probably bench press four of him easily and then throw them off the nearest mountain.
the thought wasn’t running through his head or anything. not because he’s angry, but more so because he’s feeling overwhelmed. months on months and everything has changed. new people, old people. people that he thought he knew who had moved on and changed themselves. “nice to meet you.” he grits out, offering the most genuine smile he can muster—serrated, made for war, ready to slice him to ribbons.
Hudson’s eyes flicker between the amulet and Gideon’s face. He feels light headed, scared, a frown creeping its way across his face and for a brief moment he almost looks like he could cry. Was this real? With shaky hands he reaches out to touch the man, to feel him. This could be a dream, a voice tells him. You could be trapped in some being’s elaborate mindfuck, another voice pipes in. Maybe Kian and the others are right, maybe he’s lost it. Or maybe… “Am I dead?” he asks, voice strained but as he pulls Gideon in for a gentle embrace, pressing his ear against the man’s chest, his frown slowly changes to a smile. “Are you here to take me to that… that garden?” His gaze turns to his room around him. Or maybe, this was someplace else in the underworld, someplace for those less deserving than the beautiful garden he had seen Gideon enter. “Or…” his face falters, “is this the bad place?”
gideon’s arms instinctively wrap around hudson when the son of deimos pulls him closer. the embrace is light, gentle. somehow, even though he’s only just returned from the other side, hudson seems more fragile than him. he huffs out a small laugh at the words and shakes his head. “no, you’re not dead.” he pulls hudson away to stare at him, to offer him a smile. “and neither am i.” a brighter smile, the blade’s smirk sharp, but soothing. “not anymore.”
gideon’s outfit is mostly based around comfort. dress pants that are loose fitting and breathable, a shirt that will show off his chest and arms, comfortable loafers, and a large coat to keep the biting winter at bay. in all black and grey, of course.
the quiet confidence that radiates off the son of nemesis is nigh palpable; much like the ‘secret barrier’ that kite clearly possessed.
“i know exactly what you are, devil.”
he sits next to the man in the dining hall, leaving a single seat between them. despite this, he doesn’t look at gideon - instead peering down at his plate.
“your silent intensity is befitting of the holder of the fourth eye of destruction… and genaro oberon wardwell already informed me that they are here, too.”
the implication is obviously there.
“know this: i am kite eklund, ultimate genius, destroyer of nefariousness & bearer of the evil eye of deduction.” the son of hephaestus frames his left eye with a dramatic flair of his hand. “i would never cast a spell against you while we are allies, but when the time comes… i shall gouge the legendary fourth eye of destruction from your skull and ascend to my final form.” he takes a bite of his food after he’s done monologuing, and only then does he actually bother asking questions.
“and what is your true name, devil? spit it out.”
@swordofvengeance.
as soon as the man addresses him, gideon stops moving. his fork hovers over the plate of food he has before him, mostly untouched, and he gives the man a beat before he slowly turns his attention to him.
he sounds delusional, as if he’s stuck in some sort of video game or some bad anime. does he think that all of this is a joke? he places the fork down beside his plate and leans back into the chair, giving the man his full attention.
for now, he’ll humor him.
“i don’t care who you think you are.” gideon responds after the other blows his hot air. the smile that cuts across his statuesque features is sharp, serrated edges and teeth that could kill. his honey brown eyes almost blaze with that silent intensity that this clown says he has.
“know this,” he mocks, leveling kite with an unimpressed, indifferent gaze. “if you threaten me again, it’ll be the last thing you do. do you understand or do i need to leave a better impression?” the smile grows, his head lilts to the side and he leans in, imposing in on kite’s space to intimidate him.
the tips of his fingers felt like they were charged. for a brief second he thought back to a spell jar in his room that had exploded once. of course, that wasn’t good, but finally he could know what it felt like.
as he was going to go out to explore the new land, the power running through the soil, he almost bumped headfirst into the tall male. genaro jumped back on his heels and his expression quickly changed to that like a criminal caught by the police.
“i’m so sorry, i should have been looking where i was going!“ then almost like a switch, his demeanor changed. he was much more poised as he extended his hand out. “genaro oberon wardwell, a pleasure to meet you.“
the camp hadn’t really ever felt like home to him. it hadn’t been enough time for it to feel like a place he belonged, but coming back to it gave it that sense of meaning, that sense of purpose. it felt like homecoming. he’s standing in the winter chill, his coat fastened tightly to his chest. his eyes are closed and he’s just being.
that’s when he feels someone bump into him. he turns around slowly and looks at the man. it’s like two sides of a coin the way his expression shifts from one to the other, like both are him, but it depends on who he’s speaking with.
“you’re new.” gideon states. too many months have passed, he’s glad there’s some familiar faces. he takes the hand, shaking it tightly—just like he was always taught—and introduces himself. “gideon knight, son of nemesis.” then, a raised eyebrow and a sharp smile. “who’s your parent?”
“i am too self-absorbed to be addicted to something,” he said, then made an eye-roll as the bottle went rolling across the bedsheets.
gideon knight had been here for seconds and credence wanted to break something, possibly himself. in the other’s presence, it was almost instinctual for him to want to pull his old armor up once more, hide behind the cold iron he knew well.
but, they were way past hiding, weren’t they?
at his next comment, credence carried his blue eyes back over towards him, appraising. for a dead man, he looked alive. credence wouldn’t know what to compare this gideon to though, because the casket was a closed one and there was no body, no crime.
“i didn’t,” credence answered briskly when questioned.
no more secrets, no more hiding.
“i had a little case of feelings for you, did you know that?” a laugh, coarse as sand. credence reached for the ambrosia bottle again and did a mock toast. “another thing to take back to your grave.”
“fair point.” gideon agrees. credence wright is many things, but an addict isn’t necessarily one of them—attention and validation seeking, maybe, but not an addict.
he keeps his distance, seated on the frame of the window. the winter’s chill feels welcome. there had been a warmth where he was—the underworld and all—and that’s all he remembers after the blade sank into his chest, after his soul was ripped from his body. he didn’t know why he came here, to see credence, after seeing hudson. was it because there had been feelings on his behalf, too?
of course. but they both played games, they both denied it to one another and hid behind steel armor and sharp blades.
he lifts an eyebrow when credence goes for the ambrosia bottle again. maybe he is an addict for something. demigods could have some sort of alcoholism in their blood. his honey brown eyes move from the bottle to credence’s face and he gives a mock, two fingered salute.
“wishing me back into the grave already?” gideon questions, though there’s no sharpness to his words. he swings his other leg over the windowsill. “it was nice seeing you, credence. i’m sorry if i ruined your night.”
with that, he pushes himself off the window and drops the few stories to the ground. he lands easily, agile and strong, and begins to walk through the winter chill that blankets the camp.
He felt one of the amulets beneath his clothing shift beneath his shirt and armor, startling the demigod. It isn’t until Gideon pulls his hand away that Hudson realizes which amulet was awakening, the ridges of the scales poking out from beneath the layers. “Don’t say that, it wasn’t your fau—” Hudson’s brows crease as he felt the metal against his skin grow more restless by the second. He pulls it out, letting the thing tug him closer to the son of Nemesis, noting the dullness of the gem was gone. “Gids?” he asks, just before another sharp jerk of the chain. “Ow! Okay, okay! I know, ma’am!” Hudson struggles with removing it, cursing at nothing in particular beneath his breath. “It’s him. Give it back, I get it!”
the crease in his brows doesn’t let up. he stares at hudson, honey brown eyes like shifting magma never leaving the man’s face. that’s when he sees it, the subtle movement beneath hudson’s shirt before hudson pulls the chain of his necklace. it’s reacting to him, his presence. he nods his head, slowly at first and his serrated smile dulls into a soft upturned edge, a gentleness to it. he steps forward, helping hudson remove the son of nemesis’ necklace. it feels warm in his hand, the grey pyrite glows lightly, almost like moonlight, against his palm. then, as if agathys was doing it herself, the necklace levitates into the air. the chain unbinds and glides up to gideon’s throat before it hooks itself together and rests against his chest. “yeah, huds, it’s me.”
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒
𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄. gideon alistair knight.
𝐀𝐊𝐀. gideon, gid, giddyup, gids.
𝐀𝐆𝐄. 27, born november 21st, 1993.
𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 & 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒. cis-male. he + him.
𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. bisexual / biromantic.
𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐒. demigod. formerly dead.
𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. former bartender, mma fighter, law school student.
𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄
𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑. brown
𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒. honey brown
𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. 6′4
𝐁𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐃. mesomorph / athletic.
𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒. one on his chest where he was stabbed in japan..
𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒. none, yet.
𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. right nipple and tongue.
𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌. brenton thwaites.
𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋. used to see a therapist once a month during his teenage years for slight anger issues.
𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋. good health.
𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐀𝐒. he’ll tell you he’s not scared of anything but he’s scared of his loved ones dying and enclosed spaces.
𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. 20/20.
𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃. right.
𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐆 𝐔𝐒𝐄. recreational marijuana.
𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐇𝐎𝐋 𝐔𝐒𝐄. yes.
𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐓. healthy food. occasional junk one off days, but pretty healthy.
𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃
𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄. perth, australia.
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. holden knight (biological father), electra knight (non-biological mother), nemesis (biological mother).
𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. jaxon knight, older brother.
𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒. a tuxedo cat named harper.
𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. was attending law school.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒. mixed martial arts, gymnastics, painting.
