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Against
“I don’t want to,” is his immediate response, and he doesn’t need to look up to know that right now his brother’s eyes are turning that dark brown hue he hates so much. Because when his brother looks like that, he’s not the same old Darren anymore, the one who taught him how to play Mario Kart and never missed a Little League game. He becomes this new Darren, the one who quite suddenly appeared once they came to camp. The one whose every word is either hissed through gritted teeth or shouted, as if simply the act of talking to his younger brother causes him direct physical pain.
Somehow he finds it within to look up and stare Darren in the eye without cringing, no matter how badly he wants to. They’re not the bright cheery brown he’s used to; rather they’re dark and foreboding, and downright frightening. The younger brother wants nothing more than to run away, but he manages to hold his ground, praying that Darren will come to his senses. But from the look about him, it seems he’s way too far gone to have his mind changed. “You’re coming with me, Zane,” he states, his growing anger obvious. But Zane is so out of his mind with terror at this point, because the only way he can describe the look in those eyes is evil, and it takes a lot out of him to think of the older brother he’s looked up to for so long as evil.
The petrified boy somehow unfreezes his limbs, but he can do nothing about his own bright green eyes, which are the size of dinner plates. It’s futile for him to even attempt to pretend he’s not frightened beyond belief. Zane feels adrenaline pour into his veins, and there’s nothing he wants more right now than to run, run far, far away from this place, from his brother, until he regains his sanity. This time he stumbles over his words, unable to hold in his fear. “I—I don’t—no. I won’t!” he forces out, and the tears are already running down his face. He is, after all, still a child, not yet eleven.
It is more than obvious that this is not thought of as an acceptable answer in the asker’s mind. Because those evil seeming eyes are focused on him completely, nothing else, and now Darren’s patience is rapidly dissipating, only to be replaced by yet more rage. His cheeks are quickly turning red, and if looks could kill Zane is sure he would be long dead by now. He says only one word this time, a question. “Why?” he asks, voice miraculously even and carrying no hint of his anger. But it’s clear he’s fighting some sort of core instinct of his, one that wants very badly for him to burst out screaming, yelling, and creating a scene. Nevertheless he succeeds, because his tone comes out clear and controlled, very businesslike. The only problem is that this is most definitely not business.
As much as he fears the reaction he’ll receive, Zane speaks the truth; he never was one to tell a lie. “Because the gods have never done anything against me.” Somehow this sentence is not full of stutters, and his voice becomes completely expressionless, giving him an air of composure even though he is anything but composed. Then he becomes a bit cocky. “And frankly, I don’t see what they’ve done against you, either.”
And Darren can feel this whole situation being thrown back in his face. This . . . this was most definitely not what was supposed to happen. In fact, this was supposed to be simple, because his brother would always listen to him. He just had to chose now, when it mattered most, to finally grow a spine and be difficult. Darren berates himself; after all, he should have seen this coming. The plan was too simple, too easy, and much too perfect. Of course he would have to hit a snag in the road eventually, and this just happened to be it.
It’s obvious from the glance being sent at him that Zane is doing this on purpose, though; pushing the exact buttons he knows will get his brother riled up, without a doubt. He should have seen it coming. This whole time it was simply staring him in the face. The possibility of the kid being unpredictable and not agreeing with the plan had never been accounted for when he was plotting. And the only way to put the ignorant kid back in line is to scare him. Not harm him. Just scare him. That was the new plan.
Darren did not have much luck for plans that day. But the part where it inevitably backfires on him comes later.
As confident as he may have been acting, that is not a front Zane is able to put up for very long. Indeed, he regrets those words almost the second he says them, because he knows the reaction Darren will have to them, knows it won’t be a good one. The one thing he doesn’t know is why he did it in the first place. Even during those few minutes when he was able to suppress his stuttering, scared stiff side, on the inside he’s worse than that. In fact, on the inside he’s basically the equivalent of a quivering petrified pile of gelatinous goo. That statement, though, is an insult to quivering petrified piles of gelatinous goo, because even they have more gall than Zane did at that point. Something—what, he doesn’t know—compelled him to mention the one surefire thing that he knows will make his older brother so furious he practically can’t see straight.
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Invictus
They decided to execute me at sunset, which left me feeling slightly disappointed. Watching the chariot of Apollo emerge on the horizon each morning and disappear at night, leaving the mortal world immersed in blackness, was among my favorite pastimes. But at the same time the news caused my heart to leap with joy. My last sight was not to be the faces of the spectators, jubilant at my pain and misery; it could be the sky, streaked with bright reds and deep oranges and traces of purple. And in that, I knew, I could forget my pain and be able to go out of this world adamant in my resolve. I would bow to the Emperor no longer, not even on the verge of death, as he so hoped I would.
The world of Rome is a cruel one, strict in its regime of order. Already I can hear the jeers of the crowds in my mind, waiting for the moment they drag me from my prison and death leers over me, ready to rid me of all life. But now is not the time to back down in fear. Now is not the time to fail my father and the gods of Olympus. I had given all I had to carry out their wishes, but for the cause, the loss of my own life seemed to be necessary as well. For Rome, I would do anything. And if my countrymen needed my death to further the cause, to achieve the goal set to me by the gods, and to restore honor, glory, and greatness to Rome, who was I to deny them?
To the people I am either one thing or the opposite: their leader, soon to be their martyr a man they would die for, or a traitor, the bane of the empire’s existence, a nuisance who brought only disorder, panic, and riots to Rome. To myself, though . . . to myself I am simply the man who has tried, the man who tried to fix Rome, to do what the gods wanted done, and, eventually, the man who failed.
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Of Titanic Proportions
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
The soles of her shoes beat the staccato rhythm on the cold marble steps. It never halts, though it does waver; she simply doesn’t have the time to stand around and marvel at the wonder that is Olympus today, though. After all, she’s been here many a time, and so the initial sense of amazement has mostly evaporated, but on a normal day she’d at least take her time and admire the scenery. After all, Olympus wasn’t going to be here, in her home city of London, for much longer. The gods’ move to America had been procrastinated for decade upon decade, and it seemed now they were finally about to leave England for the first time in centuries. Nevertheless, the move had been put off for years. And so it could surely wait another half hour so that she could tell them all of the vision. Sighing she realizes that she’ll end up pausing for a brief respite soon, and so it’ll really end up being more like three-quarters of an hour, if her laziness kicks in, which it inevitably will.
Morgan, as that is her name, reaches the top of the first mountainous flight of stairs and comes to a landing, only to see even more waiting ahead. She’s far above the city now, but there’s even farther to go still; her journey isn’t half over yet. Thank the gods London wasn’t a city of skyscrapers, or Morgan was sure she’d be unconscious before she could deliver the news. And she had to tell them the news. Too much was staked on that voyage for it to all go up in smoke. Metaphorically, of course. No, the vision dictated that the vessel was to meet its end not in fire, but in ice.
As of now the link between the city of London and Mount Olympus is simply stairs, gigantic flights of stairs that must be scaled if one wishes to reach the peak and seek the audience of the gods. There were two locations from which access to these stairs could be gained: the top of Big Ben, and the top of the White Tower, at the Tower of London. A few thousand (or so it seemed; no one had ever bothered to count all the steps) or so stairs later and a landing could be reached, and where the most panoramic view of the city was. Each and every step was pure white marble edged in gold and perfectly smooth, showing no wear from the footfalls of previous users. That was something the gods had most definitely had a hand in. Of course, they always seemed to have time to ensure that their steps stayed in mint condition, but none for trivial things like child labor and civil rights. Of course.
But Morgan wasn’t on Olympus today to petition the gods again. She’d done it many times before, but today she was here for a totally different reason.
Her full name was Morgan Blett, daughter of Apollo. And in the current age, she was among the most powerful demigods alive. Morgan was gifted with the rare power of prophecy, once uncommon but not unheard of among children of Apollo. Unlike the Oracle, Morgan was more likely to simply have visions of events, visions that were uncannily accurate. The level of preciseness was occasionally frightening, but it made her a favorite among the gods, always dependable. On her first quest at the age of fourteen, those same visions had helped Morgan and her companions succeed in tracking down a particularly nasty monster, since they could always anticipate its next location. Occasionally, the visions were known to fail, with disastrous results.
In fact, while Morgan’s visions were able to warn of upcoming troubles, they also hinted to events happening that never did. Like two years ago, when she was warned of a volcanic eruption that never happened, and everyone went into a panic over nothing. And only last year, the exact opposite had happened: a vision was ignored on the grounds that it was unlikely. A vision of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory burning. The apparitions were both a blessing and a curse, because in occurrences like what had happened at Triangle, she felt the guilt from their deaths.
Huffing for breath, she momentarily slows from a run to a walk, assuring herself that it will be a brief rest. Too many stairs, was the only coherent thought that Morgan was able to muster. Too many stairs. Have to tell Zeus about. They could always get an elevator . . .
She finds a seat on the bottommost step of the second flight of stairs, taking care to stay well away from the edges and not become too comfortable. Heights were not something she coped well with; in fact they completely terrified her. And the railing (golden, of course; what else would it be?) running around the side looks far too flimsy to trust to save her. The drop from here is a few thousand feet, and certain death. A fine way for a demigod to die, she thinks. Able to survive monsters and machines and whatever else Tartarus can throw at you, only to face a death by heights, impaled on St. Paul’s. Lovely. She almost snorts at this notion, and blames her giggling fits on the thin oxygen that is the only available at this altitude.
But now Morgan knows she’s spent far too much time on her “break”, and that now is the time she has to continue. The news is urgent, after all, and the two minute respite she did take was two minutes longer than she should have taken, but it was an indulgence she had been unable to deny herself. Groaning as her exhausted muscles scream in protest, Morgan picks herself up and begins climbing once again, the whole way cursing that the gods didn’t see the point in elevators.
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Fun, riiiiiight? 8D
--Ave
