eight months of static. eight months of nothing. a fool of unparalleled measure, andrew is not, though the pariah of hopelessness? perhaps. for no hope is held for the return of a boy labelled idiot, trouble, disdain, and as the months continue to fly on by, it seems the abilities of kenneth vareck waxed poetic are questionable at best. this stone-cold silence is sobering -- is anger-inducing and mind-numbingly boring, licking at his heels like some kind of untethered animal itching for release.
he learns to hate the name; hate sunshine; hate apollo, and all things golden. you took him away, see -- that one person capable of providing enough distraction amidst this menial life. heaven and hell both know this life is an undignified one; of warring gods pitting children against monsters and telling them to die heroically.
as far as he’s concerned? camp jupiter can suck a fuck.
or at least, that’s the general consensus until he overhears the news.
vareck is back. vareck is alive.
hell hath no fury like a psychopath scorned. god help the people that get between him and his destination, they’re likely to meet the cool end of a blade, kissed before it cuts. it certainly won’t be kissed before it’s buried in ken’s chest.
- ̗̀ @sunbruise ̖́ -
