Few wandered into the woods this late at night, but Jordan had set out, his heart and shoulders heavy with the task at hand. When he arrived at the clearing, the tip of his boots scuffed the loose dirt beneath his feet. It was quiet, and yet, only he heard the ghastly wails beneath the earth, loud and protesting.
His fingers twitched, the demigod’s entire body tense with anticipation. He’d prayed to his father numerous times in the past, hoping for some reassurance that he was meant to be here, and this was the first sign of it in three years. An offering, he flexed his digits, rolled his skull on his shoulders, eyes smoldering with the ambition of a runner at the chalk line.
The solitude was comforting, because if he failed, no one would be around to witness his humiliation. It was an intimate space, where Jordan Hale could finally confirm if he truly was the son of Hades.
“Dad,” he whispered into the wind. Maybe “Father” would have been more appropriate but Jordan was no longer keeping Hades on a pedestal. He so desperately wanted to believe that he was connected to the god in more ways than blood. Hades had saved his life. He’d watched over Jordan’s three years at camp, and quite possibly longer than that, hoping he’d mature into his role of Hades’ heir.
“I have an offering for you,” he said, fingers drifting at his sides. A clump of leaves caught on fire, the flames streaking like a trail of gasoline on the forest floor, lighting the symbol of Hades and miraculously staying contained within the lines. He was confident his father would feel the scorched earth in his residence in the Underworld. “I’m prepared to fulfill your purpose. You, the spirit of justice. You, the fearless and the feared. It’s you that punishes the wrongdoers. You that everyone ultimately bows to in the end.”
Jordan took a deep breath, fingers twitching ever so slightly. Between the flames, the earth rumbled, the surface of forest floor breaking in small fissures. Jordan felt the warmth of blood trickle down his upper lip as he struggled to focus and attempt his first necromancy.
“There’s great evil on this Earth, Dad,” he whispered, the corner of his lip flinching as a bony hand with the necrotic flesh sloughed off tore through the soil. Another broke through, mostly decomposed, the skeleton yellowed from natural degradation. “I’ve brought them to you, the ones that don’t fear your judgment. I’ve brought them all.”
One by one, the many criminals he’d buried six feet under the Earth surfaced, their mortal forms terribly deteriorated, and Jordan watched as the flames engulfed them, reducing their brittle bones to ash. He heard their agonized cries, their pleas for mercy, and remained stone-faced as their souls ripped from their physical vessels to be offered to Hades.
After being out on a solo mission alone, Greyson was left with much to think about. The Nymphs had reminded him that life was a circle, what you took from the earth was given back in death, trees took from the soil, produced the air all living things breathed, food and nourishment for them to grow until one day they passed on and their bodies returned to the dirt to give back to those very plants. He’d witnessed the very beauty of it when the Nymph had become the everlasting tree in her death, humbled by the reminder that even if he were to fail, lose his life on this quest he would give back to the earth he was trying to protect.
With the news that trials were being located, offerings being made to each of the gods, Grey was left to ponder. So far he’d not given much thought to Pan, his father, more focused on the bigger picture than what all of this meant for him personally. As he walked through the familiar forests around camp, a place he now considered more like home than the room he slept in, Greyson’s mind turned to how he might honour a father he’d never known and whether he’d even want to do so.
As he passed through the trees, Greyson came to a giant stone amongst a clearing of trees, flat topped and bleached white from the sun that could pierce through the branches above. He climbed up and sat down upon it, listening to the soft sounds of the wild around him, teaming with life unseen by the untrained or unaware eye. “I don’t know if you can hear me, or if you’d even listen anyway. But I want to do this for the right reasons, not just as some next step on a journey that I don’t believe in.” Grey said aloud to the air as he closed his eyes. “You’re a god, but you’re also my father....I have to believe that matters at least a little, that maybe you care in some way. The wild is your domaine, your blood flows through my veins. It is our kingdom.” As he spoke, the son of Pan stood, starting to strip down from his clothes until he stood bare, inked skin naked to the wild, vulnerable and open. “You need an offering to see if I’m worthy, so I’ll give you one.” Grey promised, his eyes turning green as they opened, the magic within him, flowing through him.
This time it felt different, rather than reaching out to the woodland around him, it coiled inward, touching the very animal spirit that lived within Greyson himself. He doubled over in discomfort for a moment, hands reaching out to steady him as his body seemed to twist and change. Ragged breaths soon turned into laboured pants and growls as the world through his senses changed until eventually Greyson shook out thick fur. He looked down at his paws, could smell every scent around him, hear every sound so sharp and clear.
Throwing his head back the wolf howled loud and proud before he took off on the hunt.
The world seemed to narrow into smells and sounds, seeing everything with new eyes that Greyson couldn’t have imagined before. He searched through each new trail until eventually his nose picked up on that of a sheep. For whatever reason, whatever instinct inside him, told the son of Pan that this was it, this was his offering. To embrace his true wild nature, his connection to the earth and her circle. Any fear or doubt of being unprepared in this new form seemed to fade as instinct took over and Greyson launched himself at the lone sheep when it came into view through the trees. Teeth and jaws snapped at its heels as it ran, driving it back into the forest towards the stone he’d come from.
He’d never given much thought to fate before, to things being pre-set, but something about this moment felt destined. When he had the sheep right where it was supposed to be, the wolf struck, one powerful leap and Grey had it pinned to the stone. A part of his animal mind wanted to savage the poor creature, rip and tear and devour, but he wasn’t an animal, and so he made the sacrifice quick, spilling blood on the alter of stone.
I embrace my nature as the wild flows through me, and offer this sacrifice in the purest form of the cycle of life...
"THERE'S STRENGTH IN KINDNESS AND HEALING, BUT THERE'S ALSO STRENGTH IN ANGER AND DESTRUCTION. I DON'T REGRET WHAT I'VE BECOME. I BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER. WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, I'M STILL HELPING CREATE HEROES."
I am no hero.
Viorel “Rom” Lucaci was not, had not been, nor ever would be a hero. He filled the villain’s role beautifully enough to the point he was born with it. Memories of Iola’s words rendered focus nonexistent as he shifted his vials of poisons and oils and concocted antidotes around on his neat desk. Sorin sat by the drawers, head draped over the bridge of Viorel’s foot while Galen nursed on one of the plants by his window.
He didn’t regret what he became either. Rather than bring people together, he brought them apart. That was his goal, wasn’t it, between life and death, Romania and Norway, and demigods and humans. He was the rift between dichotomies, the very scale good and bad were weighed upon.
Trials were upon them, however; where did that bring him?
He whistled for Galen’s attention while Sorin rose with his master. Viorel took the vial with him as he walked from Voithos to the temple. Never did he want to set foot into it; getting to the stairs themselves was already nauseating. The promise of power was too strong to refuse, however.
Marble eyes locked onto him with the weight of his sins. They layered, stacked, and doused his back in cement until he all but knelt before Asclepius’ statue. The offering bowl was bare. He poured the vial of poison into it, then took a petal of milkweed to drop in its center. The hue was akin to blood, with an almost rainbow sheen like spilt oil in the moonlight. With Sorin sitting behind him and Galen hovering over him, Viorel didn’t trust himself to close his eyes.
“Where were you when I needed you?”
“Where were you when I was lost?”
“I’m here to take what’s mine. You may be my father but I am not your son,” he whispered in the dead of night, coating the poison with another vial’s worth in his words alone. Toxic, hateful, but so, so honest. How else could he bring an offering to his father if not wrapped in grief, anger, hate, and honesty? There was a poison to his words and a potent one in the bowl. Healers knew how to kill the most efficiently, after all.
prayer wasn’t something unknown to him. amadeo had been attending mass since he was was baptized as a baby. the only difference now was that he wasn’t praying in spanish, latin, or german. he was praying in greek and it was to his mother out of all people. the queen of the skies that he desperately wanted to believe had a nice streak.
he had gathered up all of the silver rings that he wore on his right hand. he could always get more, but he had been wearing these for years. before going into the temple, he melted them over an open flame and then collected his other ingredients. fur shaved from his white coat, anointed oil, and a white cloth that his parents had been given during his baptism.
making his way into the temple of the gods felt familiar, but he no longer felt like he had to make the sign of the cross. there were too many gods for that. he kneels down in front of hera’s statue and takes a deep breath in to start praying in greek.
i call to you, hera, mother of gods and queen of skies.
friend to marriage, uniter of family, protector of women.
give me the strength to follow in your footsteps.
connected through our minds, allow me to do your bidding.
amadeo slowly pours in the melted silver, adds the fur, sinks the white cloth in, and then tops it off with the oil. with two fingers he swirls the mixture together and then raises his hand to his head, covering his temple with the same offering. prayers could be conversations with gods and that’s what this slowly turned into. he looks up at the statue again, wishing to connect.
mother, i have always felt like i was half of something.
like a part of me was missing, maybe that’s why i never felt whole.
i am reaching out to tell you that i am ready, i’m no longer broken.
the mental wounds that have been left will be used to charge me.
you gave birth to a natural born fighter and i will not stop.
he lets the cloth sink into the mixture and traces one hera’s symbol down his chest. an upside down cross with an x at the top. as he does so, he could feel the prayer coming to an end as he finally finds his new cross.
take these symbols of my luxury and old religion.
what i’ve worn or had for years and has shaped me.
this is my promise to you, mother, that i will not let you down.
amadeo slowly stands up from the ground and before leaving, closes up the prayer.
i will work on getting ordained and working under your name.
i end this call with a promise, to become a son worthy of claiming.
The clock will strike it’s double digits and a wish will be cast high to the sky to be lost in the endless arches of the night.
In the middle of a field powdered in snow, curtained in darkness that silenced the noises of camp, stood Wren in full reverence. Above the stars winked at him from far beyond the moon’s corona, sequin-silver they shimmered like flashing pinpricks in a veil of darkness. Each light felt like possibilities spilled then sewed along the sky for others to gaze upon, to hope, to wonder.
These stars have wrapped themselves around Wren since childhood. They painted memories that were forever intertwined with him---
They were there watching him when he sat by the window sills in high school wondering of his future....
They shined on the night when he stole his first kiss, where his heart burst with joy...
While others hung dimly on the evenings where his hopes were low, cloistering back into the inky veil.
In a circle where he stood were dozens of selenite clusters aligned specifically around him, along with his mother’s necklace in his palm. Hung from a silver chain was an oval shaped gem, Lapis Lazuli inlaid with silver along with his mother’s name etched on the back. To think he held a piece of his mother in his hands, while standing above another caused his stomach to drop at the thought of what was to come next.
“Hello Asteria.” Wren said in a soft strange voice, “I’ve come before you today with an offering and a wish.” which was one in the same. “Do you know that ever since I was a kid my mother, the one who raised me, told me that I was a gift from the stars. Every time I asked why, she’d tell me how she wished every night for me and by some miracle it came...I never put much thought into that, y’know? Parents always exaggerate about those kinds of stuff but now...” the winter air bite the back of his throat as he paused. The culmination of him knowing what he was going to ask left some trepidation to cling to his words, slowing his speech more than ever. “I got to thinking...maybe that was real....maybe I was sent by you or gifted or something I---” His hands went from relaxed to clenched, the metal pressed harshly against his skin as he choked up the next words. “I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t. Shit I second guess every time I wake up, every time I look up to you...to this...I only can think of one thing I want. So I ask you to hear me clearly.”
Looking down at his wrist, the hands on his watch ticked over as the time had started. It was 11:11, the minute of wishes, and the moment where Wren’s heart warmed underneath his rib cage. Over his life there were boundless wishes he had made, most foolish whispers that were selfish in nature. It was easy to ask the sky for something when you believed they weren’t listening. Though now that the night sky had a name, an image among it’s faint-silver lights that freckled the face of his mother. It dawned on Wren that he only had one chance at this and he was going to take it.
Placing the necklace before him, a token before his offering, he stays knelt while a small beam of light emanates from his chest. It was like diamond-fire, polar-white as it shined to the first selenite and then to the next. Each crystal lights up like a beacon before reflecting the light across the circle, forming then collecting it’s points till from a bird's eye you could see a constellation resonating.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about my life, what I’m doing with it and why I was given it. If I was a gift...a miracle, then I want to live a life worthy of that. I want to give back to the world all that I haven’t. All that I might have been and couldn't be. All the decisions I didn't make. All the things I lost and spent and wasted. I can give them back to this camp, to this new chapter I’ve started. I wished for so many lives to live before this, I dreamed of more and now that I have it I’m uncertain. So here we are right?” he glances up once more, his own magic illuminating beneath his cheeks, “---Asteria who dwells in darkness, star-bright, mother of prophecies I offer you this. I offer me, my life, and your will. I want to be the gift to this world, this one life I was given, and I offer myself back to you. That if I might die, that my last breath would breathe back the breath that made me live. I offer you me and my constellation, that if the day comes I might rejoin you as this...as a star...as your son. Mother, hear my wish and expect my offering. I step into your starlight, and I ask only this.”
Time had come and passed, the dial turned, and 11:12 struck across the watch’s face.
Wren held on for a few more seconds till his magic dwindled then dimmed; his crystals losing their illuminated charge until there was nothing but snow and darkness once more. On his knees he looks down at his mother’s necklace, a token of a mortal life he had now relinquished and he wondered if it was enough. Was he truly capable of what was to come, that now he must stand and walk the path the stars have given him.
All his life he was told that wishes were only granted in fairy-tales and for this night he hoped desperately that this life, his own, was just that. Leaving the forest Wren carried this hope in his heart, hung from his necklace, and head held high for a sign it was meant to be granted.
tw self harm, blood, mentions of abuse, murder, death.
The stones were placed deliberately, a winding maze stretching out of the cave's mouth. He didn't know if Deimos was the god or hero of his people's religion, but it was a vital part of his identity and one of the only ways he could think to explain to his father.
Hudson sets the last stone in place and grabs his bag, pulling out a paper house. "Hey, Deimos..." he calls out to the night sky. "Dad or father. I don't know what you want me to call you, but, uh, it's me? Hudson. Your son." He steps forward into his maze. "I'm not really good with words and I don't know what sort of ...offering you're expecting." He continues on, winding around and into the cavern's mouth, swallowed by its darkness.
"I hope you don’t mind if I explain a few things first.” This wasn’t an offering of fear, because despite the fact that his father was the literal god of fear, Hudson didn’t feel… scary. Sure, people were intimidated by his stature and sometimes his skin color, or the simple fact that he was a man, but for the most part Hudson felt like a hamster in wolf’s clothing. “It’ll make sense in the end, I hope.” His heels click against the hard rock of the cave’s floor, each step accompanied by a soft jingle of the bobs of his spurs.
“My life's been... rough." He murmurs, licking his lips nervously. "The first five years my sisters and I, we were on and off the streets, in and out of foster care. Until we met Craig," he pauses and sets the house down on the floor between his boots. "It was the first real home we had and he was real nice, at first." Pulling his dagger from his belt, Hudson cuts the back of his hand. Blood trickles down, spilling around the paper house. "I was five years old when he married mom, and once that happened, it was like a light switch went off on him."
Shuffling forward, Hudson continues onward, a hand on the cave's wall to guide him. "I met Mr. Floyd a few months after that. Really cool dude. Taught me and my sisters a bunch of stuff. He's got a raccoon, Dipshit." Hudson pauses again, rummaging through his bag until he finds what he's looking for: a paper raccoon figure. "Mr. Floyd taught me to shoot a bb gun." He says, setting it down between his feet and repeating the process of cutting himself.
"We used to practice behind his shop on pictures of famous people. I got really good at it." He grins at the memory, finger gunning the darkness with a soft pew.
The grin slips away and he's back to wandering the maze nature had built into the mountain, a hand pulling out another paper creation from his bag. Calloused fingers rub at the folded edges of a gun. "Craig got worse. Mom didn't want to leave because we'd be without a house or food, which meant we'd get torn apart again... I was scared he might kill her or my sisters one day." He drops the paper gun, pressing the knife to his hand until he feels the sharp stick and the wet slick of blood again. Hudson lets out a hiss of pain. "So, I killed him. Pew!" Hudson mimics the finger gun motion again. "Right through his left eye."(edited)
The demigod grows quiet, frowning in the darkness. "The cops came and took mom away. My sisters and I ended up in foster homes. Separated." He pushes onward, the sound of ruffling wings and soft chirps from the cave's ceiling draw his gaze upward. Bats, he figures. "I bounced around a few homes after that, but the worst house was the Young’s. They used to put stuff in my food at night." His voice dips down to a strained, barely audible whisper. "I dunno if it was so I wouldn't fight back or if they thought I wouldn't remember, but---" Hudson's voice cracks and he stops, heart hammering in his chest. "I remember bits and pieces of what they did to me. Sometimes, I'll remember new things."
Hudson drops a paper cross to the ground, letting more blood rain down. A gust of wind that brushes past him, a soft flapping of fleshy wings trailing it. "Don't worry, life got better after that--- Some law got passed not too long after that and me and my sisters all got to go live with my grandma." He drops a little bird to the ground and continues with his trek. "Then, Mr. Floyd helped my mom get out of prison and they got married!" A blood slick paper ring is dropped.
"Things were good for a few years. For me, at least. My sister Denver had a harder time," he explains. "Craig had beat her real bad when we were young; got nerve damage in her leg. So, she was in constant pain... and," with his bloodied hand, he pulls out a paper hawk. "She lost hope that it'll ever stop hurting, that the chaos in her head will ever stop without the heroin." Kneeling to the ground, Hudson sets the bird down gently. "I got selfish, started spending more time with a girl in school---my first ever girlfriend---and I was barely home. Barely around to see Denver, to listen to her, to be there for her." He draws a fresh cut across his palm, wincing as he deepens it, almost as if he were punishing himself. "She got into a car accident. Killed some wealthy white dude who was out biking and drove off."
For a moment, Hudson simply sits there, letting his palm make a mess around the paper bird. It was one of the best years of his life, but all the good and happiness he experienced seemed small and insignificant when held up next to the heartbreaking events that lead up to his arrest and imprisonment. "We lived in Arizona, so you know, my sister coulda been tried as an adult even though she's just 16 and if that'd happened, then she woulda ended up on death row." A tear streams down his cheek. "So, I took the fall. I got that trial and ended up with that sentencing. She went to rehab, about four times. Then she overdosed five years later. I wasn't there for her again. I couldn't even attend her funeral.”
He sniffs back the avalanche of snot threatening to break free. "Prison sucked. Got stuck in the system for eight years, but thanks to a bunch of laws, my sentence was reduced to life in prison, then reduced again, and then commuted." He hisses as he pushes himself up off the cavern floor and presses onward. "Bounced around between jobs, bought my first house," if a mobile home counted as a house. "I was pretty active in the local anarchist community, and then uh, well, I ran for a city council seat... and I won."
He feels out the paper creations in his hand, and tosses the one he was fairly certain was a rainbow. "I jokingly proposed we legalize gay marriage in the city... as a publicity stunt for gay tourism, and uh... well, my bill passed." He lets out a laugh. "Yeah, the state government sued and apparently, that was the nail in the coffin for it to get bumped up to the Supreme Court." There's pride radiating off him. "Funny, huh? Bunch of scared old geezers suing us because they're afraid other cities in the state would copy cat and they'd be known as a gay state... well, their fear backfired on them real hard."
This was dragging on, and while he knew gods technically had all the time in the world, he suspected they also had the shortest attention spans in the world. "I met the love of my life a few years back," his grin softens into a pained smile. "Gideon, he's the most beautiful man I've ever met. He swept me off my feet with just a smile.” The lawyer was all sharp edges, cool as a cucumber, but there was a softness in his gaze when he looked at Hudson. Even his touches were soft, handling the demigod as if he were a delicate work of art. Hudson had never felt so cherished in his 30 years, and it hurt to think he might never experience that again.
“Dude was a cop---well, a prosecutor, which is just a cop with a college degree. He didn’t want to be one, he wanted do civil rights stuff, but his dad wouldn’t let him. It got him killed---he got him killed." The memory of him trying to stop Gideon from bleeding out comes rushing back to him. He sinks to the ground, a paper daffodil and heart in hand and simply breathes. Moments pass in silence before he speaks again. “I’m not telling you this so you feel bad for me. Life isn’t life without a bit of pain.” Granted Hudson had a whole lot more than a bit. “I just wanted to show you that no matter how many times my life went to shit, I kept at it and I’ll keep fighting because I have hope.” Hope that he could beat whatever evils that threaten them. Hope that he can make the world a better place. And hope that he can get Gideon back, no matter what it’ll cost him. He sets the last two of his paper creations down. “That’s what I’m offering.” He lets his head fall back against the hard cavern walls, staring up at the squeaking abyss above him. “I won’t stop no matter how hard it gets.” Suffering and hope went hand in hand. You couldn’t have one without the other. “I promise.”
A trail of blood, sweat, tears, and fears turned into hope.
kite eklund was no stranger to the ritual of sacrifice; spiritual or not. he’d done it routinely as an indigo child, after all. what was the harm in doing it once more for another parent?
at least this one had palpable claims of divinity.
olympus’ forge never felt as cold and lonely as it did tonight.
he probably didn’t need to sneak himself or his supplies in - but it would be better for all parties, kite knew as much, if the proceedings were held in just as arcane a nature as the son of hephaestus considered himself. his obfuscating veil had came in handy before he’d come to olympus, and his evil eye of intuition told him that it would help him long after he left, too.
so he prepares, and he prepares, and he prepares. from dusk into the early hours into the morning, he prepares. candles are meticulously placed around the otherwise empty room, littering the countertops with the dim light of a flickering flame; hephaestus’ own iconography drawn on the floor in stark-white chalk. every line is deliberate and bone-straight.
the main hearth roars to life with the same all-consuming warmth it always has: and as it does, kite watches the flames lick the ceiling with a quiet intensity. with a twist and a pop, the metal gauntlet attached to his forearm detaches, revealing the scarred stump that lie beneath it.
in a perfect world, kite would’ve already dropped the thing into the flames. his brows knit together with hesitation, however, instead.
another sign of the growth he had to achieve.
“i must admit that i think about you often, hephaestus. what a laughable irony: one lame bastard gives rise to another. the apple never falls far from the tree, but did you know as much when i was conceptualized?”
the son of the celestial smith tosses his prosthetic so hard he can hear it clang against both the back of the kiln and the floor.
“this conditional blessing, father... is this the will of causality, or instead your idea of a cruel joke?”
kite sniffles, one solid time. kite turns on a heel. kite doesn’t look back.
instead, he gathers materials and gets to work, not missing a beat even down a limb. showing weakness, after all, was the first step to being dethroned: shrivelled? hardly. he had come too far, done too much, to resign himself to a fate handed down to him by his progenitor.
carbon fiber, steel, chrome wiring: these were a given. but blood, sweat, the essence of willpower? that was the kind of dedication that only the devout could pour into an offering, let alone attach to his own body.
dawn breaks, revealing candles burnt down to wax stains, but kite’s tallow is near full. his new mechanical digits flex one by one, surprisingly smooth for machinery.
“ i only hope you get the chance to answer before i usurp your throne. “
