11:45
LTE 30%
Mickey Kováč
Daughter of Mors
Graecia Cohort Senator
11:45
Mon, Dec 21
Wed, 4:00 AM
11:45
New York
9:45San Francisco
18:45Rome
18:45
Warsaw
18:45Prague
18:45Budapest
♆
11:45
LTE 30%
Publius Vergilius Maro
Anastásia killed her first patient when she was fifteen. He was a young soldier, wounded terribly in the stomach, fully delirious, and by the time she got to him she was exhausted and every last nerve was frayed by the stress of her day. She made a mistake - his death wasn’t intentional; she just grabbed the wrong jar, applied too much of what was in it, and that was it for him.
Sure, he was too far gone for anything beyond pure divine intervention, but that single mistake was enough for Anastásia to swear off patients who wanted to live.
That is, that single mistake was enough for her father to beat her within an inch of her life, which led to her devoting her abilities to those content to die. Her mortal father believed that since she was a daughter of Asclepius, she wasn’t capable of such mistakes, so any missteps she made were deliberate attempts to hurt patients or to spite him, or both.
Anastásia was good, but not perfect, and growing up she was just imperfect enough for her father to drill that belief into her until she started to believe it as well.
As part of her punishment, her father would often send her to care for the patients who knew they would soon pass. She hated confronting her own mortality in such a way, and she couldn’t wrap her head around how anyone could be content with their death. Some of these people - the old, the sick, anyone beyond mortal care - talked so freely and openly about the next life while knowing they were on their deathbeds - it made Anastásia’s skin crawl.
After killing the soldier - once she had recovered enough to use her hands again - she went willingly to help with the dying patients. Her own discomfort was not worth risking lives over, and if she made a mistake here it would likely go unnoticed.
Over time, Anastásia grew to love her newfound purpose. She grew to love listening to the half-dead ramblings of her patients while she did what she could to ease their pain and, ultimately, ease their passing. Their time with her was often short, but after a few years she cherished those moments. Even Marcus, who seemed to decide he was dying every few months despite being in perfect health, was a welcome sight.
Some of her patients asked to pass on early; these requests were fulfilled willingly as they arose, and Anastásia kept poison wine on hand specifically for such occasions. Others wanted to cling to life well past when they should, and for some of those, Anastásia made the decision for them, slipping them poison wine as well.
Was it wrong, really? To end their lives before they could fully lose their minds or control over their bodies? If she saved them from a slow and miserable death, was she not doing them a favor?
Anastásia heard ease their passing and felt it was her responsibility to do so in the most literal way possible. In her mind, she was a savior for these people.
When she turned, no one was there. No one was ever there. But sometimes, just out of the corner of her eye, a figure - familiar, and yet not - looked to be leaving, but she never could find where they went.
Death finally showed herself on the eve after the Gauls sacked the city of Rome. That day, and the handful preceding, were by far the worst days Anastásia had seen in years. It was rare for fit young men to fall into her care, but she was called to comfort many a wounded soldier far beyond healing.
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, but instead of leaving, the figure was walking toward her. She looked up from her patient’s hand, held in her own, to get a good look at the new arrival. Anastásia would know that familiar-but-not figure anywhere by this point.
"That’s Sextus," Anastásia said quietly, nodding at the man in the bed. "Did you know him?" Sextus was one of the untrained young men called to defend the city. It was a miracle he’d survived the trip in from the street, but he was resting easy now after a cup of Anastásia’s special wine.
Death came to a stop a few feet away and glanced down at her wax tablet before speaking. "I will shortly. You’ve made sure of that." Her tone was factual, rather than judgemental.
Anastásia bristled some, but she knew better than to argue as was her instinct. This was a goddess before her, and she still valued whatever remained of her own life. "The barbarians made sure of it," she replied evenly. "I simply eased his pain."
"Yes, I suppose you did." Death fell silent, unfocused for a few minutes, almost as though she’d gone elsewhere. Finally she sighed. "My...sisters have been busy today. Working with them is necessary, but tiring. Places like this," Death motioned around the room with her tablet, "people like you, bringing what peace you can, I appreciate."
Anastásia blushed at the compliment. It was nice to feel appreciated; her patients rarely took the time to thank her. "He’s ready for you," she said, feeling what little tension there was release from Sextus’ hand.
"Yes, he is." Death made a mark on her tablet, which then vanished, evidently traded for something Anastásia could not see. She assumed it was Sextus’ soul.
"Will I see you again? Or will you go back to being a shadow over my shoulder?" Anastásia knew she may regret it, but she had to ask while she had the chance.
Death smiled - only barely, but there was a small one on her lips. "Both, surely, but for now I must take my leave."
Death visited sporadically, and was sometimes nothing more than a fleeting shadow for weeks on end. Anastásia understood, of course, that Death was busy, and she enjoyed every conversation and intimate moment they had. It was winter when Death decided it was time for her to slip back into the shadows, but after their final night together, she promised to leave Anastásia with something to remember her by.
By spring, she had to explain to her husband that they would be having a child come fall. He seemed confused at first, but once he understood just who her affair had been with, he began to laugh with his whole chest and hugged her tightly with his strong arms.
"What a blessing, then, that Mors has blessed us with new life!" Siomachus declared gleefully, grinning from ear to ear. "I will love and care for your child as my own."
Publius Vergilius Maro
Siomachus and Anastásia welcomed their son into the world in mid-fall, and since he would not have his father’s blood, he was given his father’s name instead: Siomachus Aquilius Corvus.
Worsening relations with the Volsci meant the elder Siomachus was away frequently on military business, leaving his young son in Anastásia’s care most of the time. He cared for his family, of course, but he was a duty-driven man, and when Rome called, he would always answer, even if doing so meant missing out in his personal life.
Anastásia was not the worst mother, but her own lack of a decent role model led her to fall into a parenting style similar to her father’s. She consciously kept physical punishments to a minimum, but often used harsh words as a replacement - effective, once her son was old enough to understand what she was saying, but still damaging.
She often brought her son with her to work, where he was doted on by the other healers and sometimes patients as well. She noticed he seemed to get fussy when people died while he was there, but assumed he would grow out of it. He was Death’s son, after all - he had no business being squeamish about someone’s passing.
His mother was never shy about his heritage, so he knew early on where he got his abilities from and how important it was that he knew how to defend himself. By the time he was six, his mother had entrusted him with a small Celestial Bronze dagger and taught him the very basics of how to use it.
Siomachus enjoyed spending time with his father, but his father often spent his time with his soldiers, and being around so many men who had no idea how soon their deaths were was incredibly stressful for him.
Unfortunately, the other option was spending time with his mother, who spent her time with the actively dying. Siomachus preferred to be around people who had an idea of when their death would be - it was like sharing his burden, in a way, since he couldn’t actually say anything - but being around them often meant being nearby when they died and, sometimes, interacting with their spirits, neither of which were activities he enjoyed.
Anastásia was quicker to pick up on her son’s distress than his father was, and often decided she would watch him for the sake of letting him become comfortable with death. Her methods were...well, if Siomachus wasn’t doing as she wanted, she was quick to turn to harsh words, said in an equally harsh tone and often at a very harsh volume.
Of course, she did the same thing at home, so it wasn’t like it was new. The only real difference was that Siomachus was also blamed for making her disturb the patients by raising her voice.
He saw monsters every now and then growing up, as they were attracted most often by his mother or by other demigods nearby. These were quickly dispatched by his parents or by groups of soldiers, and were rarely a major issue.
He was thirteen when he was first attacked while alone. It was dusk, and he was in the woods by himself, not hiding, exactly, but he knew his mother wouldn’t follow him here and he just needed some time away from her.
One moment, the path ahead of him was clear, and the next a hellhound the size of a horse was stepping out of the shadows, staring directly at him.
Siomachus acted on instinct rather than stopping to think about his next move. With the sun as low as it was, shadows were long and plentiful, so he drew his dagger, stepped back into the shadow of a tree, and stepped out just next to the hellhound’s neck. Just as the hellhound began to turn, he thrust his dagger into its throat and watched, half-shocked, as it crumbled to dust in front of him.
Sure, he’d felt deaths before, just as he felt the hellhound die, but he’d never caused a death himself. He’d only been defending himself, so he didn’t regret his actions, but he still walked home with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The older he got, the more it seemed to enrage his mother that he didn’t care to be around her work. He was sixteen when he discovered she was killing people - he was too afraid of her to confront her about it, so he went and joined the military instead.
Siomachus found that, with his life governed by rules and marches and orders, he started to lose track of time. At first, when he realised he’d forgotten where he was in time, he’d end up hyper-aware of time passing for a little while. It was kind of like not being able to get to sleep after almost being asleep and suddenly realizing you are.
Eventually, he trained himself to lose track, and he was able to be much less concerned with and bothered by the lifespans of his brothers in arms. Every now and then, he managed to lose track of time so much that he was almost able to experience grief like a normal person.
He hadn’t summoned them intentionally - and he didn’t notice when they left, either. He couldn’t think. He went through the motions on autopilot - they’d won the battle; the Latians had retreated, he knew that much, but he couldn’t fully process where he was, who he was with, or what was said around him.
When the static started to clear, it was dark, and he was on his knees in a shallow stream, rubbing his skin raw to get the blood off.
It had all washed away minutes before, but he had to be sure. He could still feel it as if it were freshly fallen.
His father found him...later. Could have been minutes, could have been hours - Siomachus wasn’t sure. His father grabbed him firmly by the wrists and pulled him out of the water, putting a stop to his son’s futile scrubbing.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone firm but not harsh.
Siomachus opened his mouth to answer, but the thought of saying it made him sick. He heaved, turning just enough to empty his dinner onto the grass instead of on his father. The two were silent while Siomachus stood with his hands on his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass.
“The blood cannot stain your skin,” his father said quietly once his son seemed steady again. “It’s up to you to make sure it does not stain your conscience.”
Siomachus laughed once, wiping his tears hastily on his tunic. “How?”
His father smiled sadly. “When I find out, you will be the first I tell.”
He was nineteen now, and in the three years he’d spent with the army, he’d become adept at forgetting the time, but the last few weeks he hasn’t been able to shake the awareness. He didn’t want to lose his father - and maybe he wouldn’t be able to change it, but he wanted to at least try.
They remained after most of the crowd had gone, leaving behind only those closest to the fallen. Away from so many prying eyes, Siomachus finally let himself cry.
For all his mother’s shortcomings, she always knew how to comfort him when he was hurting. She held her son while he sobbed, and they watched the fire burn itself out through the night.
He didn’t notice the odd end due for most of his men until it was too late. Their lives would end before sunrise - much too early for a proper battle, but the scouts reported the Hernici camp was quiet. The thought of an internal ambush crossed his mind, but he dismissed it as soon as it came. He trusted his men, they trusted him, and they’d all made the same oath he had.
He told the watch to be extra vigilant and tried to get some sleep. He lay awake for hours, knowing there was nothing he could do but wishing he could stop the coming slaughter regardless, but eventually drifted off.
The sense of several deaths around him pulled him from sleep. The camp was still quiet, and no alarm had been raised. He grabbed his sword and slipped quietly from his tent, dressed only in his tunic.
He found his second, Gaius, exiting one of the tents, blood sprayed across his front and dripping from his sword. The two men stared eachother down for several seconds, other traitors exiting tents further down the line after slaughtering the men inside in their sleep.
Gaius held open the flap of the tent and motioned for Siomachus to look inside.
Siomachus stepped forward, knowing exactly what he would see but feeling compelled to look anyway.
All seven men inside lay dead, their bodies and the walls of the tent a mess of blood. Another traitor stood up from beside the man at the rear of the tent and walked calmly out, spitting at Siomachus as he passed.
“Why?” he demanded, almost shaking with fury. ”Why?”
Gaius shrugged with one shoulder. “They offered a better deal.”
“You betrayed Rome for money?” Siomachus shouted, pushing Gaius roughly with his hands.
Gaius stumbled back, then surged forward, throwing his weight into Siomachus, knocking him to the ground. Some of the other traitors came forward to help dispatch their commander, but Gaius motioned for them to stay back.
Siomachus and Gaius had been friends for over a decade. They’d trained together, and they’d been in the same unit for almost their entire military careers. Siomachus was naturally a pretty trusting person, but when it came to people he trusted without question, Gaius was the first person that came to mind, always. That’s why Siomachus had chosen him as his lieutenant.
Siomachus stood, sword in hand, but he didn’t believe he could kill Gaius, even after this betrayal. Regardless, he wasn’t making it out alive. There were too many traitors still hanging around - they’d simply overwhelm him.
But he could still sound the alarm.
Siomachus took the deepest breath he ever had and yelled from the bottom of his lungs, “Traitors! Traitors in the camp!” And he kept yelling until he had no breath left.
Gaius stood still, stunned for a moment, having fully expected Siomachus to attack, before coming to his senses and ordering the other traitors to signal the Hernici. As Siomachus was filling his lungs to start yelling again, Gaius stepped forward, almost as if to hug is friend, but instead thrust his sword up and through Siomachus’ ribcage, stopping the shout before it could leave his lungs.
“I’m sorry, old friend,” Gaius whispered, lowering Siomachus slowly to the ground before withdrawing his sword and running for the gates.
Siomachus pressed a hand to the wound on his chest, but he knew it was too late for him. The sounds of the camp waking were a comfort - they might survive yet, even though he wouldn’t live to see it.
Death seemed...so slow. The world was fading - or he was fading from it - but the seconds dragged on. His life didn’t flash before him as he expected - but he did consider it. Had he been a good son? Had he been a good soldier?
He thought maybe, maybe if he’d had more time he could have been both.
Would his mother cry at his funeral? Or would she stand solemn and silent like she had for his father?
Would his soldiers remember him as a fair and courageous leader, like his father’s had? Or would he fade quickly from their memories as just another dead man?
The sense of someone next to him drew him from his reverie. His sight and hearing were almost gone, and if not for the hot feeling of his own blood beneath him he might think he were simply afloat in nothing, but this feeling...this feeling was distinct.
Death had come for him.
The realization was comforting, really. Death’s presence was welcome, familiar even, and calmed the uncertainty in his mind.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” he tried to say. It was more of a thought than anything; his body was too far gone for speech. “It’s about that time, huh?”
“It is,” Mors replied, her voice gentle and soothing. “Come along now.”
Siomachus felt his mother taking his soul, and then the mortal world dropped away.
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;
But to return, and view the cheerful skies,
In this the task and mighty labor lies."
Publius Vergilius Maro
Mors deposited Siomachus’ soul in Charon’s waiting area, and the line was long enough that he had time to process the events of the night.
The more he went over the events leading up to his death, the more angry he became. He couldn’t imagine betraying Rome for money, let alone betraying his closest friend. If he’d lived, he would send them straight to Hades with his bare fucking hands.
“You want the chance?” said a man just behind him.
Siomachus turned to face him. “Chance - to what?”
“Punish them for their betrayal,” the man replied, as though that should be obvious. “Show them what happens to men who break their oaths.”
Siomachus guessed the man was a god - he hadn’t voiced his thoughts, so the man had to be in his head. “I wish I could,” he said honestly. “If I’d seen their plot developing, maybe I could have - ”
The man waved his hand, silencing Siomachus. “No ifs, no maybes. They’ll get their due; I’m giving you the chance to give it. Do you know who I am?”
“Orcus…” Siomachus said slowly. The punisher of broken oaths.
“Yes.” Orcus seemed pleased Siomachus knew who he was. “Do this for me, do this for Rome, and I will grant you life in exchange for theirs.”
Siomachus didn’t need to think on the offer. “Yes, please, I’ll do it.”
“Swear to me that you will punish all of them.”
Siomachus didn’t know how many traitors there were, but that was a problem for later. “Yes, yes, I swear it - ”
He ripped his tunic open to look at the wound, sure his body must be tearing itself apart, but all he saw was a thick, pink scar just below the center of his ribcage. Soon, the pain began to dull enough that he could focus on more important things: where was he, and where was his sword.
Siomachus realized he was in a shallow grave, along with the hastily-disposed bodies of his men, and many others - killed in the ambush that likely followed shortly after his death, no doubt. Quickly he climbed out of the grave, dusting himself off before stepping into the shadow of the camp wall and stepping out a moment later from the shadowed corner of the command tent.
He ignored the confusion of the men inside the tent, paused only briefly to fill them in on what had happened and who had orchestrated it. He agreed to go to Rome first and have the city send reinforcements to free the camp from the Hernici’s siege, but after that he would be leaving the legion to dispose of the traitors.
The quartermaster issued him a fresh blade and a clean tunic, and after a quick stop in Rome to muster reinforcements, Siomachus bid goodbye to the legion, and to his mother, before starting his hunt.
After all, once he finished this task, there wouldn’t be any coming back - not as himself.
Most of them he killed in their sleep. Not an honorable way to kill them, but certainly the nicest. It was what they deserved, really - to die the same way they’d killed all those men that night.
It could be poetic, if the mere thought of killing a defenseless man didn’t make him sick to his stomach. He wasn’t cut out to be an assassin; every time he crossed a name off his list, he considered stopping there. Maybe he’d taken enough lives. Maybe he’d chased them across the Republic long enough for them to learn a lesson. Maybe Orcus would be willing to accept failure.
His mother’s harsh words at his every hesitation were always quick to come to mind in such moments, so he kept going just to quiet those memories. What was another life, when he was already a killer, and already a dead man?
Gaius had caught wind he was being hunted and fled, first to Gaul, then into Greece, then all the way to Persia.
Siomachus wondered if his old friend believed the rumor that he’d returned from the dead, or if Gaius would be surprised when they finally met again.
The idea that Gaius knew this hunt was personal made Siomachus feel...a certain way. The feeling was unfamiliar, difficult for him to put words to. Content, but...in a sick sort of way. He shouldn’t revel in the idea of another man’s fear, but god, he did.
And that terrified him.
Gaius didn’t seem surprised to see him, only resigned. Tired, if the slouch of his shoulders was anything to go by. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself, faltering.
He was unarmed, but for a moment he clenched his fists like he would fight, then glanced around for an exit before falling to his knees.
Siomachus thought he heard his friend ask for mercy, but he was far beyond entertaining any kind of request. This was an execution, plain and simple.
“Get up,” he demanded, grabbing Gaius by the arm and hauling him to his feet. “You’re going to look at me when you die.” Siomachus would not afford Gaius the courtesy of looking away.
Gaius clutched at Siomachus’ arms for stability, as his knees were weak from nerves. His cheeks were already wet from crying.
Siomachus’ own eyes stung at the sight, but he blinked quickly to stave off the tears. “Was it worth it?” he asked, his voice quiet now that they were not even arms length from eachother. He wanted to know that much, at least.
“It could have been,” Gaius whispered hoarsely, finally meeting his old friend’s gaze.
Siomachus had hoped Gaius would admit it hadn’t been worth the betrayal and bloodshed, but he wasn’t surprised at the answer. He thrusts his sword, angled up, into Gaius’ abdomen.
Gaius leaned his weight into Siomachus, wrapped his arms around him. Siomachus allowed it, unsure if it was a hug or simply a final attempt to stay standing, but he used his free arm to support Gaius as he took his final breaths.
Did Orcus expect him to return on his own? That seemed like a lot of trust to put into a soul doing a favor, but Siomachus didn’t dwell on his confusion. It could have been a test for all he knew - and he would return, but since he was still alive for the moment, he would bury his friend first.
He carried Gaius to a cliff overlooking the sea and built him a modest pyre from what wood he could find nearby. He was tempted to summon Gaius’ spirit, just for company, or for the chance to apologize, or both, but the idea of facing him again was just too much.
Siomachus was tired. Not for lack of sleep, but he felt a deep tiredness in his soul now that he’d finished what Orcus had asked of him. Emotionally he wouldn’t be able to handle so much as a conversation without breaking down, not for...well, he didn’t know how long. His chest ached in an empty sort of way; he guessed he would just have to suffer until the emptiness was gone or he grew used to it, whichever happened first.
He lit the pyre at sunset and stood vigil while it burned through the night. In the morning, he said goodbye to the world of the living and set off for Hades.
This had to be a sick joke. He hoped someone, somewhere, was having a laugh at his expense.
He paused on the path to Proserpina’s garden, leaning against a tree for support while he caught his breath. He hadn’t eaten in more than a day; he’d seen no sense in stopping for food to fill a stomach that would be gone shortly, but the insistent grumbling from his gut said he should’ve made the time for it.
A high-pitched yap came from the foot of the tree, startling him from his daydreams of honey and dates. Siomachus knelt down to investigate.
A small hellhound pup - tiny, really, from Siomachus’ own experience with the creatures - peered out at him from a hollow in the base of the tree. Historically Siomachus had not had good interactions with hellhounds, but this young one was simply too cute for him to turn his nose up at.
“Hey, friend,” he said gently, holding out his hand for the hellhound to sniff.
The hellhound snapped at his fingers, sinking its teeth in and growling. Siomachus winced, but the dog was tiny and its teeth equally so, so he left his hand where it was. After a few moments, the dog seemed to understand Siomachus wasn’t a threat and let go of his hand, giving it a few apology licks.
“There we go,” Siomachus murmured, smiling as the dog allowed him to pet its head and scratch under its chin.
He hung around with the hellhound for a few minutes before getting back on track. He hated to leave the little thing; it was clearly a runt and probably pushed around quite a bit by the larger hellhounds. He doubted he’d be able to visit, but he resolved to at least try to check up on it later.
Siomachus frowned. He’d completed the task, now his time was up, right? Had he missed someone on the list? No, he was confident he’d gotten to everyone. “Now I’m dead again. Forever.”
“No?” Orcus squinted at Siomachus like he’d sprouted a second head. “I said your life for theirs. Don’t you listen? Go live it.”
“But…” Siomachus couldn’t make it click in his head. “That’s it?”
Orcus sighed, growing impatient. “Would you like a medal? How about a name for you, victor over the oathbreakers.” He pointed at Siomachus. “Periuricus. There you go. Live on. Serve Rome. Betray her, and I’ll kill you.”
“Well, I - thank you. Thank you for that.” Siomachus took a step back, half-turned on his heel. If he was still alive - freely, now - he should leave before Orcus changed his mind...but he did have one last request. “Could I trouble you for one more thing? I saw a hellhound - ”
Orcus snapped his fingers, and the small hellhound Siomachus had passed on the way appeared by his side. “Take the dog, and get out of my sight.”
Publius Vergilius Maro
After exiting the underworld, Siomachus went back to Lupa’s den, Vergilius in tow. Vergilius, despite being a hellhound, was cute and friendly enough to be a hit among the other demigods, and Siomachus had a studded leather collar made for him so everyone would know he wasn’t a wild dog. Siomachus didn’t stay long with Lupa and her demigods and left for the city after a few weeks’ rest and routine.
Siomachus lost track of time - a deliberate loss, and a habit he’d been perfecting for his whole life - and marked it by the changing of faces around him. Vergilius was constant; he’d grown and now reached Siomachus’ waist, but his brothers-in-arms never seemed to stay around for long. The days blended together, and sometimes he’d ask after a friend only to find he’d retired years ago.
Every so often he returned to Lupa to test his skills against other demigods and to help Vergilius grow used to the powers of other heroes. He noticed the change after they conquered Greece - new faces, new styles, old gods all bundled together with the Roman customs he was used to. Siomachus didn’t mind the changes as much as some of his fellow Romans. Variety is the spice of life, after all.
Maybe shadow-traveling to the top of a tree wasn’t the best idea.
“Is he awake yet?” said a child off to his right.
“Not sure,” said another child to his left. They continued gleefully, “This will wake him, though!”
“I’m awake!” Siomachus said quickly, opening his eyes and blinking against the bright sunlight. “Don’t - don’t do this.” He didn’t want to know what this was. “Who are you, and why are you out here alone?” These kids were barely into their teens, if that, and he’d been deep in the mountains before he lost consciousness.
“We’re not alone!” said the boy on his right side. “Your dog found us.”
Siomachus sat up, the extensive bruising across his chest protesting with every inch. “But before that?”
“We were trying to find Lupa. My older brother was going to take us, but he - ” the girl to his left stopped herself short, frowning. “He went ahead and didn’t come back.”
“I can get you there.” Siomachus struggled to his feet. “Then I’ll see about your brother. Do you have anything of his? Do you remember what direction he went in?”
The girl rummaged through her small sack, producing a small necklace threaded through a hollow stone. “This is his. He wears it for luck, but he gave it to me…”
Siomachus whistled for Vergil and directed him to sniff the necklace. “Gently,” he warned the hellhound, “not snack.”
Vergil sniffed the necklace, then the air before letting out a short bark. Siomachus still wasn’t always sure what Vergil’s various noises meant, but he decided - for his own sake and the kids’ - this one was good.
“We’ll track him down,” he said to them with a confident smile. Whether the boy would be alive or not when they found him… “But we’ll drop you two off first.” Lupa’s den was...three standard days’ march? Roughly? He hadn’t been in...a few decades, probably, so that was a very rough estimate.
Taking off time for building and burning camp and preparing the legion for march, the three of them could safely cover the distance in two - or they could if he hadn’t fallen out of that tree yesterday.
The brother - whose name he learned was Quintus - would likely not have that time. Travel-by-shadow with a child in tow was going to leave him drained, but there should be someone in Lupa’s den that could spot him a pick-me-up.
Someone had been kind enough to fix him up while he was out, which he appreciated, but he couldn’t find them to say thanks when he woke up. Instead, he bumped into a son of Athena - a young Greek man, from whom he found out the Greek demigods had set up camp with the Romans after Rome conquered the country.
He knew he’d been separated from his legion for a while, but they hadn’t conquered Greece when he left. Siomachus didn’t bother trying to find out how long he’d been gone - he didn’t want to know.
Vergil whimpered, picking up what had left the new tracks at the same time Siomachus did. A hellhound - a big one - was after Quintus. From the size of its paws, and the breakage of tree branches overhead, it would be a lot for anyone to handle on their own.
They kept looking.
Blood was splattered on the ground nearby, and Vergil was following a trail into the vegetation. Siomachus followed warily, but threw caution to the wind when Vergil started barking. He could see someone sitting against a tree, but couldn’t make out if they were alive or not.
He sprinted as fast as the underbrush would allow, sliding to a stop next to the body and immediately checking for signs of life.
Siomachus found none. Quintus had deep gashes and bruising - those would have needed immediate attention. His body was still somewhat warm, so Siomachus had to wonder if he could have been saved had they just been a little bit faster.
Dying like that - injured, lost, and alone - was horrible. Just the thought of it left an ache deep in Siomachus’ chest.
And Quintus, going through it as a child.
Siomachus wanted to be angry, but at whom, or at what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have direction for that emotion right then, so he pushed it back and promised himself that he’d do better next time.
He hung around for a short time, craving the familiarity of some kind of home since he didn’t have one of his own to go back to anymore. He was sorely out of practice against other demigods, as was Vergil, so the challenge of training was welcome.
Siomachus couldn’t stay. He was restless - not bored, exactly, but being around so many people outside of the military context he was used to left him feeling out of place in a way he just wasn’t used to.
Even so, he found comfort and understanding among the other demigods, so he made it a point to return every now and then. He rarely returned often enough to see many familiar faces, but that wasn’t anything new.
The rest of the cohort teased him for it, but Siomachus found it intriguing.
Iulius was born the daughter of a wealthy merchant in Pompeii, but quickly found his brothers' academic and military education preferable to the house duties that were expected of him. As a teenager, he stole enough money to buy gear to protect himself and fled to the north of the peninsula, where he assumed the name Iulius and joined the legion.
Siomachus knew of such people - those with minds different to the bodies housing them - but to his knowledge he hadn't met any of them before Iulius.
Being so close to such a person made Siomachus think about himself, who he was and the body he was in, but he didn't know what conclusion to come to, or if there even was one.
Iulius, however, was the image of confidence in himself, a trait Siomachus found he couldn't resist.
By the end of the Gallic wars, Siomachus and Iulius were both senior officers, serving in the first and sixth cohorts respectively. If it was retirement they wanted, they were both well-set for it.
The two men were inseparable - the best of friends, at first, then lovers, then so much more. Carrying on a relationship as deep as theirs while in the legion - and during a campaign on top of that - was no easy feat, but they did it and did it gladly.
Iulius wanted to leave the Legion after Gaul, and Siomachus wanted to go wherever Iulius went. Leaving the military for a domestic life wasn’t an idea he would usually entertain, but for Iulius he would gladly take up the till on a little farm all to themselves.
Late at night, they’d plan their future together, and their vision was quaint and peaceful and, most importantly, plausible - until suddenly, it wasn’t.
Cassius found them at the camp that night, intent on exposing his son and taking him back to Pompeii. Siomachus was prepared to kill the man, but Iulius held him back. That was his father, after all.
Cassius only wanted Iulius, but as a businessman, he wouldn’t say no to a beneficial deal if Siomachus was willing.
And for Iulius, Siomachus simply couldn’t say no.
He dry-heaved, and was suddenly glad he’d forgone breakfast that day.
Siomachus had felt love many times, and in many ways. Love bonded him to life, and without it he would have allowed himself to perish centuries ago - love for his family, his friends, his siblings-in-arms, even love for others to have the chance to return to the people they love. But he'd never been in love, not romantically, not until Iulius.
He'd also never wondered if love was worth it - it had always been worth any cost, but perhaps winning the favor of the crowd in this way was finally the limit.
Just as Siomachus was readying himself to renegotiate the deal with Iulius' father, Iulius burst into the room, wrapping his love in a tight hug without a single care to the mess it would make of his clothes.
Siomachus wiped his hands on his tunic before returning the embrace in kind. The day was warm and his body still hot from the fight, but not even the coolest stream could have drawn him willingly from Iulius' arms.
“Thank you for living,” Iulius said, the words muffled against Siomachus' neck.
Siomachus smiled, hmmed quietly. “You are worth every moment.”
Unlike other veteran gladiators, he wasn't burdened by the years weighing on his body or draining his mind.
He fought Lucius the same as his father Septimus same as his brother Titus same as his friend Tullius and so on and so forth and Siomachus tried - oh, he tried - to leave them their lives, but so often Fate simply did not wish it to be.
One moment Iulius was young and spry, sparring with him in the courtyard and counting the stars with him late into the night, and the next arthritis slowed his movements and fatigue took his waking hours. Siomachus, still a young man, watched time make tracks in his lover's face and drain the color from his hair, and still he kept fighting to give them every possible moment together.
It wouldn't last.
Iulius' father may have been long dead, but his older brother Cletus was still alive and well and had inherited Siomachus' contract. Siomachus ignored his demands to go to the arena and pushed him aside to get to Iulius, who was swiftly approaching death's door.
Iulius could no longer see, but he knew the sound of his lover's voice and the feel of his touch, and in his final moments both were a comfort. Siomachus stayed by his side, holding Iulius’ now-limp hand until Cletus’ guards dragged him away.
Cletus accused him of breach of contract, but Siomachus calmly informed him he was incorrect. He'd promised to fight until the end of his life or Iulius', whichever came first, and Iulius died before Siomachus was due to begin the match.
Siomachus was tired. Not physically, no, but in every other sense of the word. He needed to go home, but after half a century in Pompeii, all his friends were surely dead.
Where else to go then, than the only real home for demigods able to withstand the tests of time?
There were few familiar faces - Lupa and Chiron of course, and another time-gifted hero passing by, but even the sacred camp couldn't remain the same forever.
Even so, inhabitants often shared experiences and the aftermath of them. Many recognized Siomachus' withdrawn demeanor, and even more knew better than to ask.
The entire force was strung out for miles, interspersed with civilians and almost no one was on guard for potential threats. Siomachus warned his century to keep a watchful eye, but he knew he would lose most of them over the next few days.
Was it even worth the effort to try and save some of them?
It wasn’t until he led a cavalry detachment from XIII Gemina against Chatti invaders in Germania Superior that he was forced to acknowledge the slaughter decades before.
The invaders had Roman prisoners, including men from the legions that had been wiped out in Teutoburg Forest. Some of them were soldiers from the century Siomachus had led.
Siomachus helped escort them back to Rome. He didn’t want to; he wanted to go back to his legion in Vindonissa and bury his head back into the sand, but after leaving them at the mercy of the enemy for forty years, getting them home was the least he could do.
Logically, he knew the Germanic ambush had not been his fault, but the guilt gnawing at his gut was not subject to logic. There had to have been something more he could have done - to divert their course, to keep everyone on their guard, to find survivors, all of the above, even.
After being too late to rescue Quintus, he’d sworn to himself he would do better, but had he?
That seemed to be all he could ever do.
He always lost men. Always. No matter what he did, no matter how much he trained them, no matter how much trust he built, for one reason or another, his men would die.
He switched legions. He refused promotions. He accepted promotions. He changed combat roles. Every time, it was the same story, just a different setting.
Siomachus ran himself ragged trying to prove to himself he could make a difference. Before, he returned to the demigod camp every few decades, but he couldn’t find the time for it anymore. One war seemed to run into another and his failures kept stacking up.
First against the Germanic tribes and then against his fellow Romans at Bedriacum.
The Dacian wars, then east to war with Parthia, and again against Romans at Cyzicus - Nicaea - Issus - Byzantium - Lugdunum.
And back to Parthia.
Nothing ever changed - just the banner he served under. Siomachus was sick from it all, but he couldn’t stop. Rome, her legions, her wars - he had nothing else.
may I love the waters and the woods, though I be unknown to fame."
Publius Vergilius Maro
Siomache couldn’t pinpoint when she stopped feeling like a man. She did, at one point, she was sure of that, but now she felt...not disconnected, exactly, but certainly changed from whoever she used to be. It seemed that she had changed so slightly over such an expanse of time that when she looked in the mirror to check her blush, her own reflection hit her like - no. Washed over her, like warm waves on the beach at sunset.
There were moments she could pick out, flashes where, had she stopped to think, she might have noticed earlier. Iulius was, undoubtedly, the first of those, as she hadn’t really understood before him that gender wasn’t set in stone. And there were times when, deep in the woods, outside of the pressure of military and city life, she just existed, and the few people she met had seemed as content with that as she was. Who was around to care? The trees? The wind? Vergil?
Siomache glanced at Vergil in the mirror. He was sprawled out, belly-up, by the door, content as can be. He definitely didn’t care how she dressed, or spoke, or what she called herself, not so long as he was given food and lots and lots of love.
Not everyone was as carefree as Vergil, though. Siomache might be detached most of the time, but she wasn’t blind. Nothing seemed to endure the tests of time quite as well as the intolerance of others.
In a way, she was grateful for Rome’s end. She’d spent centuries spinning her wheels in the legions with hardly a moment to just breathe, but now she felt truly free to be her own person, whoever that would turn out to be.
The fall of Rome hurt Siomache more than her own death had - almost eight hundred years of service, and every moment would be lost to history.
And yet the longer she considered her future, the more relief she felt. History could have Rome; the Twelfth could carry its shadow on instead.
She wasn’t one of the first Praetors, but thanks to her experience, she was one of the early ones. The Twelfth in its new capacity was much, much more peaceful, but still...still she lost legionnaires.
Heading up a legion of demigods was not the walk in the park she’d hoped it would be. The last time she’d commanded a legion, the soldiers were all grown men trained to fight Rome’s wars, not kids and teenagers just trying to survive.
After losing almost a dozen legionnaires in one day thanks to a drakon attack, Siomache stepped down from her post. She couldn’t bear even one more dying under her command - mentally, she was at her limit, and she feared what she might find herself doing if she surpassed it.
Her successor was a centurion she’d trust with her life, and the other Praetor had more than proven leadership capability, so she had no qualms leaving the legion in their hands.
Siomache wasn’t yet sure what she would do next, but she knew she wouldn’t stay with the legion. Maybe she would return to the quiet peace of the mountains, spend some time decompressing. Gods knew she needed it.
Hermaphroditus had caught her on her way out, asking her if she could do him one favor before she left, and naturally, she agreed. Now, after weeks of fending off monsters and eliminating the small war band of dracenae that had made a home of Hermaphroditus’ sacred spring, she still had to dive to the bottom of it to fetch the ring he’d dropped in it.
She was almost tired enough to tell the god to fetch it himself, but she needed a rinse off anyway, so she stripped off her outerwear, leaving it neatly folded and stacked at the edge of the spring before diving in.
The spring was deeper than she expected - a few meters, but not so deep she had trouble searching the bottom. It was tedious work, but not difficult now the dracenae had been taken care of. After about an hour, she finally found a simple gold ring caught on a fallen branch.
The ring was nothing special in appearance, but she could sense that it was magical. She grabbed it without another thought and swam to the surface; surely there wouldn’t be two magic rings in one spring, right?
If she had to take one more deep breath for a dive, she feared her lungs might quit on her.
Hermaphroditus was sitting atop a rock near her clothes and armor, casually scratching Vergil’s ears. He tossed her a wave when he noticed her looking.
Siomache tread water for a few moments while she caught her breath, then swam to the shore where her clothes lay and climbed out of the spring.
“Here you are,” she said, shaking water from her hand and the ring before offering it to him. “One ring, and a free spring, as promised.”
“Yes, thank you for that,” Hermaphroditus said, raising his hand not to take the ring from her, but to show her the ring already on his finger. “Turns out I had the ring all along.”
Siomache narrowed her eyes at him, gesturing with the ring. “What’s this, then?”
Hermaphroditus shrugged, smiling at her and cocking his head to the side. “Well, I suppose that would be your ring now, wouldn’t it?”
Siomache lowered her hand, even more confused now. Why couldn’t gods ever be upfront with her? “So this quest was for…?”
“My spring did need a clear-out, that part was true. The ring, less so. I can’t very well be giving out unearned gifts, can I?” Hermaphroditus looked at her like he expected an answer.
She shook her head, let out a dry laugh. “No, I guess you can’t.” She wanted to tell him how sick it was that he’d just wasted weeks of her time and put her life in danger for his own entertainment, but she held her tongue. He’d asked her for one last favor before she left the legion; she wasn’t going to anger a god this close to having peace and quiet. “Does it do anything?”
“But of course!” Hermaphroditus clapped his hands, sliding off the rock to land on his feet. “As long as you’re wearing it, it will...” He paused, seeming to mull over his words for a moment. “Well, it will keep you a special kind of comfortable. Now turn around, I’d hate to roast you before you even put the ring on.”
Siomache had more questions - she didn’t trust special kind of comfortable, - but she turned quickly to prevent herself from seeing Hermaphroditus’ true form as he took his leave.
She set the ring down on the rock so she could dress before putting it on. She’d at least like to be clothed before finding out what the thing would do to her.
She looked down at Vergil as she prepared to slip the ring onto her finger. “If I turn into an animal, you don’t get to eat me for dinner.”
Vergil, eloquent as ever, tilted his head to the side, then barked once.
“Reassuring.” Siomache slipped the ring onto her right thumb quickly, expecting some kind of immediate change but feeling only...nothing. She didn’t feel one bit different, although the sensation of wearing a ring was rather unfamiliar.
Though the immediate effect was underwhelming, Siomache was still wary of the ring, but she left it on anyway, quickly adjusting to the feel of it while she and Vergil went back to the port to find passage on a ship back to Rome.
There was a small settlement a few miles away - close enough for Siomache to gradually make friends with some of the inhabitants, but far enough that most days, she wasn’t bothered.
The peace and solitude of the forest was welcome, and that coupled with the newfound comfort in her own skin thanks to Hermaphroditus’ ring brought her a deep contentment she hadn’t felt in centuries.
She didn’t feel like she had any purpose, which was new, but she couldn’t find the energy to go looking for it. She was going to stay in her little wooden home in the woods and rest, and eventually, whatever happened would happen.
Both were very true, of course, as she spent all her time in the woods and knew them like the back of her hand. She’d always been comfortable in the wilderness, even as a child, but she’d only put it to good use on a few occasions while serving Rome, so having strangers rely on her for it was...new, but not unwelcome.
Soon, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Saving people from a lonely death in the middle of nowhere was a righteous purpose, and one she wished she’d stumbled upon sooner. She was good at it, and so was Vergil, and she was able to put her leadership skills to good use organizing search parties when the situation called for it.
Maybe one day she’d save enough lives to make up for all the people she’s killed.
The Legion wanted ten years of service before legionnaires could retire, so Siomache thought it only fair that she return every standard lifetime and serve her ten years. For the most part, she left leadership to the younger demigods - she’d had her share. Even so, she was always glad to advise.
Every life she couldn’t save felt like a personal failure, but she’d learned to take it in stride. If she gave up, she wouldn’t be able to save anyone at all, and even saving one life was worth the pain of losing a hundred.
As the request wasn’t coming from a god directly, Siomache was incredibly tempted to say no, and had tensions between the Greek and Roman parts of the camp not been so strained, she probably would have.
Though she hoped they’d be able to resolve things peacefully, she didn’t want to risk getting caught up in another civil war.
Pluto assigned her to assist Mors for much of the century of service she signed up for. Siomache was far from a stranger to death and the horror of war, but during that hundred years she saw tragedies on a scale she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
And all she got for her trouble was a fucking watch.
A greater task awaits me."
Publius Vergilius Maro
Mickey went back to Camp Jupiter after her century of service to Pluto was up, but only because she needed the routine and structure of military life - had she gone back to her solitude in the woods, she might have been driven insane by despair.
By the end of her ten years, she was some kind of stable - enough so that she returned to her old home near Zielona Góra only to find it reclaimed by the forest.
She wasn’t sure why she expected anything else, but she cried over it anyway. Then she moved on.
Her life became much the same as before, but she felt detached and empty inside. She was putting on airs for the sake of people around her, but she was missing something and she couldn't pinpoint what that was.
After the death of her husband in 2003, Mickey decided it was time for a change. The gods weren’t even in Europe anymore, and she no longer had anything tying her there. She’d entered a marriage of convenience with a close friend so that he could carry on with his partner in peace, so there were no children, and she had no other close friends.
Besides, maybe returning to the Legion would help her through this rut she was stuck in. Maybe going back to her roots - or as close as she could get to them - would be just what she needed.
After her move to New Rome, Mickey decided that maybe a little bit of change would be okay. She was early for her next term of service anyway, so instead she landed a job with the California State Park rangers - not an ideal job, but it paid well and the work was familiar enough. Between her paying job, volunteer work with search and rescue organizations in the area, and staying involved in New Rome, she kept busy enough to feel somewhat normal.
So she did notice when a new park regular showed up. Her name was Jess, and she was doing research for her Ph.D., and Mickey was picked to be her point of contact.
Strictly speaking, she voluntarily drew the short straw since nobody else wanted to be involved.
Jess was charming and forward in a way Mickey was not at all used to. She didn't often leave herself open to romantic opportunity, and for good reason, but she rather quickly found herself agreeing to meet Jess for coffee, then for dinner, then for a weekend in the mountains, and after a few months of the same, she even agreed to move in together in a little apartment in San Francisco.
Jess was several months pregnant when they entered a domestic partnership in October 2011 - not Mickey’s, just an accident after a fling before they got together - and in December that year, her daughter Rowan was born.
Mickey was overjoyed - this was the first time she’d be able to call herself a parent. She and Jess already had plans for her to officially adopt Rowan in a few weeks, after the holidays were over.
She tried to ignore the fact that Rowan wouldn’t even make it to her seventh birthday.
Mickey hated fighting with Jess, especially around Rowan, but they clashed over the smallest things, like hand washing dishes instead of using the dishwasher, or whether clothes really needed to be separated before going in the wash...issues that had always existed, but had never been a real problem before.
Mickey dragged them to couples’ therapy, but she hadn’t opened up for two thousand years and Jess wasn’t about to start talking first, so every appointment only served to make things worse.
They finally agreed to go their separate ways; the relationship wasn’t remotely healthy anymore and Rowan didn’t need to be exposed to it. Mickey assumed they would have joint custody, but when Jess filed for primary instead, backed by lawyers from her mother’s firm, she could only fight it as long as her finances allowed, which wasn’t nearly long enough.
Mickey quit her job the week after custody was finalized and returned to the Legion. Jess couldn’t get to her at Camp Jupiter; they’d only have to see eachother when they expected to, and training gave Mickey an outlet for her frustrations.
The closer they got to Rowan’s expiration, the more attention Mickey was forced to pay to the passage of time.
But she couldn’t tell Jess why she wanted the extra time with Rowan, so many of her requests were ignored. She gets the week around New Years, 2018, but after that the weeks creep by and Jess is always too busy to set anything up.
Mickey finally gets her to agree to St. Patrick’s Day weekend, but that would be a week too late. Jess wouldn’t budge on it.
The morning of March 12th, Mickey received a call from a panicked Jess that Rowan had been in a car accident and rushed to the hospital.
Jess’s new girlfriend had taken Rowan with her to pick up breakfast, and they were t-boned by a driver running a red light.
Mickey shadow-traveled to the hospital as soon as Jess told her which one, Legion duties be damned. She ignored Jess’s shock at her swift arrival; her focus is only on Rowan, who, while clearly worse for wear, is still alive.
She hopes, for a moment, that she was wrong about Rowan’s lifespan, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind Rowan flatlined - right on time.
Hospital staff rushed in to try to resuscitate Rowan, and all Mickey could do was watch. They couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t do anything.
She wanted to kill the driver of the other vehicle, but he’d died on the scene. It was better that way for the both of them.
The minutes stretch on, but the hospital staff still swarming around Rowan don’t seem to understand that they’re wasting their time.
But then Rowan’s got a lifespan again - a normal one - and Mickey had never been so glad to be confused in her life.
It works. It’s nice. Mickey can breathe. She doesn’t think twice about Rowan’s changed lifespan - if it can change for Rowan, who’s to say it can’t change for other people, too?
She’s willing to believe she just hasn’t paid enough attention for the last two millennia if it means she might get some pleasant surprises in the future.
She’s so optimistic - relative to her previous outlook, that is - that she accepts a promotion to centurion of the first cohort, and she even starts teletherapy with a demigod working in the city.
Still, in the back of her mind, she can’t help but wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.
Jess nudged Mickey out of the way so she could direct the movers. “Yes, New York. Hari’s heading up the northeast region and she wants time to settle in before she starts next month.”
“Okay,” Mickey said slowly, hoping there was a dot somewhere she just wasn’t connecting. “And what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know!” Jess snapped. “Move or something. Figure it out.”
“Not all of us can move cross-country on a whim. I’ve got obligations here.”
“Commute then. They’ve got direct flights - leave Friday night and come back Sunday.”
Mickey scoffed. “You want me to pay for dozens of cross-country flights every year?” It was that or shadow-travel the whole way - either one would cut pretty heavily into her time with Rowan. Whatever - it didn’t matter which she chose; she’d figure it out.
She really hated that she had to find out because there was a moving van in the driveway.
“Why wasn’t I consulted?” Mickey demanded. “Why wasn’t I part of this decision?”
“It’s not - ” Jess cut herself off, realizing she was beginning to yell, and continued in a quieter tone, “It’s not negotiable. Between Hari’s raise, and the bonus she’s getting from taking this on short notice, it’s - there’s no question. Listen, I’ll cover you for a few trips if you want, but a permanent solution is on you.”
Not negotiable. The words rang in Mickey’s ears the whole weekend, distracting her from her time with Rowan, and focusing on Legion duties the week after was a chore when she was trying to figure out a permanent solution.
She didn’t like splitting her blocks of service up - she was still obliged to another six years - but she didn’t think she had a choice. Her savings was respectable, but dozens of flights a year would eat into it quickly, and shadow traveling would leave her a day short with Rowan or a day short with the Legion. Neither option was satisfactory.
The announcement of the Graecia Cohort, and Lupa’s choice of Mickey for a senator, came just in time.
───
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11:45
LTE 30%
Mickey is tired. Mickey is truly, honestly, wholly just so fucking tired. Her life weighs on her constantly. Every mistake, every bad call, every hand she didn't hold hard enough - feels like that's all there is sometimes. The hardships. The pain. The loneliness.
By god, the fucking loneliness was enough to drive her to the edge some days. Nothing hurts more than finding herself alone over and over and over again. Everyone around her dying and changing and leaving and she can't forget any of them. If she does, what becomes of those she once held dear? If she's the last to remember them, and she forgets...well, then it's like every moment they spent together never happened, isn't it? Time washed away almost every physical imprint, and those that remained often had little meaning. No one holding the remnants of Iulius' urn would know of his tenderness, or the outlandish figures he could make from the stars. No one would find her father's name in the annals of the Republic and hear the echoes of his boisterous laughter or feel the confidence he could instill in a man with only a few words. No one would read letters telling of a woman in the city comforting people in their final moments and know she sometimes slipped poisons to her patients, or that her words were sharp enough to still sting even millenia later.
Mickey loves. That's the reason she does anything and everything. The love of Rome, of life, of friends, of a lover, of herself - of anything, that's her drive. Despite all the loss and pain in her life, Mickey's heart remains steadfast.
She joined the army for the love of her father. She came back from the dead - she led men to their deaths for centuries for the love of Rome. She fought and killed for sport for the love of a man. She's spent almost fifteen hundred years trying to rescue people from sad, lonely deaths for the love of life itself. She got tattoos, finally, for the love of Muppets, of all things.
Trust is incredibly important to Mickey. She is willing to work without mutual trust - sometimes necessity simply demands it - but nothing makes her feel more unsafe. Trust is the foundation of every relationship that has ever been important to her and the breakdown of that trust is the only thing that’s ever torn her relationships apart.
She expects to lose people to time, to death, but betrayal sneaks up on her every single time. It’s not that she doesn’t learn anything from being stabbed in the back; it’s happened on enough occasions that - at least in hindsight - she can see it coming from a mile off. She just has this unfailing faith in the inherent goodness of others and she can’t let go of it.
Well, that’s not quite true. She can give up on people, but doing so grates on her soul to the extent she’d rather let them hurt her instead.
Everything changes. Nothing changes at all. Half the time, Mickey wonders if there's any point left to her sticking around. What can she do, aside from the same things she's always done? What is the point to doing anything, when it will all be undone in the end?
Her unfailing love for life and what it holds is not as intense as it once was. Sometimes she looks at the people around her and all she can think about is when they'll be gone. It's inevitable, why fight it, why delay it, why exist at all? But then, she'll see just the smallest connection between people - a shared glance, raucous laughter, a steadying hand - and that would be enough to remind her, just for a little bit, what it's all for.
By god, the fucking loneliness was enough to drive her to the edge some days. Nothing hurts more than finding herself alone over and over and over again. Everyone around her dying and changing and leaving and she can't forget any of them. If she does, what becomes of those she once held dear? If she's the last to remember them, and she forgets...well, then it's like every moment they spent together never happened, isn't it? Time washed away almost every physical imprint, and those that remained often had little meaning. No one holding the remnants of Iulius' urn would know of his tenderness, or the outlandish figures he could make from the stars. No one would find her father's name in the annals of the Republic and hear the echoes of his boisterous laughter or feel the confidence he could instill in a man with only a few words. No one would read letters telling of a woman in the city comforting people in their final moments and know she sometimes slipped poisons to her patients, or that her words were sharp enough to still sting even millenia later.
Mickey loves. That's the reason she does anything and everything. The love of Rome, of life, of friends, of a lover, of herself - of anything, that's her drive. Despite all the loss and pain in her life, Mickey's heart remains steadfast.
She joined the army for the love of her father. She came back from the dead - she led men to their deaths for centuries for the love of Rome. She fought and killed for sport for the love of a man. She's spent almost fifteen hundred years trying to rescue people from sad, lonely deaths for the love of life itself. She got tattoos, finally, for the love of Muppets, of all things.
Trust is incredibly important to Mickey. She is willing to work without mutual trust - sometimes necessity simply demands it - but nothing makes her feel more unsafe. Trust is the foundation of every relationship that has ever been important to her and the breakdown of that trust is the only thing that’s ever torn her relationships apart.
She expects to lose people to time, to death, but betrayal sneaks up on her every single time. It’s not that she doesn’t learn anything from being stabbed in the back; it’s happened on enough occasions that - at least in hindsight - she can see it coming from a mile off. She just has this unfailing faith in the inherent goodness of others and she can’t let go of it.
Well, that’s not quite true. She can give up on people, but doing so grates on her soul to the extent she’d rather let them hurt her instead.
Everything changes. Nothing changes at all. Half the time, Mickey wonders if there's any point left to her sticking around. What can she do, aside from the same things she's always done? What is the point to doing anything, when it will all be undone in the end?
Her unfailing love for life and what it holds is not as intense as it once was. Sometimes she looks at the people around her and all she can think about is when they'll be gone. It's inevitable, why fight it, why delay it, why exist at all? But then, she'll see just the smallest connection between people - a shared glance, raucous laughter, a steadying hand - and that would be enough to remind her, just for a little bit, what it's all for.
───
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11:45
LTE 30%
Siomache Aquilia Corvum Periurica
Full Name
Mickey
Nicknames
Mickey feels comfortable as a woman, but not for lack of exploring the other options out there. She's open to change, but not feeling any right now.
Gender
She/Her
Pronouns
Queer
Sexuality
Relationship Status
Demigod
Species
Mors (mother)
Divine Heritage
Mickey appears about 30, as that's when she became immortal, but she's about 2400 years old. Her guess is roughly based off historians' guesses at the Gallic invasion of Rome. She stopped counting after she became immortal - what would be the point?
Age
Mickey knows she was born on the ides of October not quite a year after the battle of the Allia - it may not be exact, but she considers 14 October 389 BCE her birthdate
Birthdate
Search and rescue specialist, previously a California state park ranger as well. Gotta have a paycheck these days, after all. Over the years she's stuck to careers that keep her in the wild - forest ranger, wildland firefighter, even a guide here and there. Every lifetime - 6 or 7 decades - she returns to the legion for another decade of active duty.
Occupation
New Athens
Current Residence
Legally, Mickey is an American citizen
Nationality
Rome
Birthplace
Mickey's spent most of her time in eastern Europe, and her accent reflects that. Between centuries spent in different areas and the evolution of the languages themselves, her accent can't really be pinpointed to anywhere specific. It tends to fall somewhere in the range of eastern/western Slavic accents. That said, her Latin is still original.
Accent
Latin, Ancient Greek, Russian, Belarusian, Polish, Czech, Hungarian, English
Languages Spoken
O-
Blood Type
Libra
Zodiac
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Paget Brewster
Model
5'8"
Height
Dark brown, typically pulled back into a ponytail. Every now and then Mickey will add bangs for variety.
Hair
Dark brown. Mickey is fond of sunglasses and can usually be found with a pair on her person. She needs reading glasses as well, but often either forgets them or finds them in pieces at the bottom of her bag just when she needs them.
Eyes
Though Mickey has no shortage of scars from battles and accidents here and there, there's only one that really matters. It's a thick scar, only about three inches long on both sides, left by the gladius that originally killed her. The entrance scar sits just below her xiphoid process, and the exit just below her fourth rib and just to the left of her spine.
Scars
Mickey's SPQR tattoo is by far the most noticeable, as the hashmarks run in neat lines all the way up and down her left arm, all the way to her shoulder, but she also has several more recent tattoos. She stayed away from them for millennia - too much could change for her to bother - but since moving to the US full-time, she's fallen in love with a few famous puppets.
- Right wrist, inside: full-color of Animal the Muppet holding drumsticks
- Upper right arm, outside: full-color of Oscar the Grouch, arranged in such a way that when she wears a t-shirt it looks like he's peeking out from the sleeve
- Right collarbone/chest: full-color of Cookie Monster eating a cookie, but the cookie is instead the scar from a bullet wound
- Right ribcage: full-color of Philadelphia Flyers mascot Gritty holding a gay pride flag & trans pride flag
- Lower back/waist: full-color of Kermit the Muppet
- Left thigh, outside: full-color of Gonzo the Muppet leaning against a wall, but the wall is a scar from an old gash
Tattoos
Mickey doesn't often have cause to dress up - which is by design - but when she does, she typically opts for slacks and a button down or a pantsuit. She's not averse to dresses, but rarely encounters an occasion to wear one.
Formal Style
Will vary depending on what job she's using for money, but most recently it has been her California state park ranger uniform. When working freelance or as a volunteer, she typically wears whatever utility-style clothing is suitable for the terrain and climate. Hiking boots, cargo pants, longsleeve or shortsleeved shirt of some kind. If she's doing a presentation, she will usually opt for business casual or dressy casual.
Work Style
Her casual style and work style overlap almost entirely, with the exception of around-the-house or 3am-grocery-trip clothes, which usually consist of gym shorts and a hoodie.
Casual Style
Gym shorts and a t-shirt or tank top, or whatever she happens to be wearing in the moment. Mickey takes a lot of naps, so while she likes to change first, she can't always afford to be picky about it.
Pajama Style
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Three Month locked until 2 January 2022
Six Month locked until 2 April 2022
Nine Month locked until 2 July 2022
Contents
Offensive[]
- Children of Thanatos can use astral energies to make weapons for a short period of time, the larger the weapon, the more energy consumed. Only 1 weapon may be created at a time and it cannot be bigger than 2 or 3 times the size of the user.
- Children of Thanatos have the ability to drain some of the life force out of a person, so that they become weaker, slower, and almost sedated for a short time. However, using this in succession will weaken the power’s effect.
Defensive[]
- Children of Thanatos have the ability to conjure a protective dome of astral energies around them, which will protect the user from attacks for a short time.
Passive[]
- Children of Thanatos can sense any death, whether it be mortal, demigod,nymph or monster.
- Children of Thanatos can communicate with the souls of the recently deceased.
- Children of Thanatos heal slightly every time they deal damage to their opponents.
- Children of Thanatos are able to see the lifespan of others, but are forbidden to share information about the lifespan in any way.
Supplementary[]
- Children of Thanatos have the ability to Shadow Travel, to teleport from shadow to shadow; the further the distance, the more energy drained.
- Children of Thanatos are able to call forth recently deceased spirits to aide them for a short time.
- Children of Thanatos are able to enchant weapons with soul-damaging powers, the effect only lasts for a short time.
- Children of Thanatos can bend shadows around them, concealing them for a short time.
3 Months After Character is Made[]
- Children of Thanatos are able to feast on the darkness around them and empower themselves for a short time, enhancing their strength and speed. After the effect wears off, the user will be somewhat worn out and unable to use the power again for the rest of the fight.
6 Months After Character is Made[]
- Children of Thanatos have the ability to temporarily split their souls in order to create a duplicate of themselves to aid them in combat. This duplicate and can only fight using whatever weapon the user has and possesses a weaker version of their powers. The user and the duplicate will possess a telepathic link. The longer the duplicate is maintained, the more energy is drained.
9 Months After Character is Made[]
- Children of Thanatos have the ability to morph into a spirit for a short time. Whilst in this state, they are invisible (except to those gifted with powers over necromancy), intangible, able to fly, and their powers over astral energies and necromancy are enhanced. Though they are intangible by default, they can make themselves tangible to attack others or if they wish to be seen. If they attempt to attack anyone while still intangible they will automatically become visible and tangible. While in this state they are also able to drain the life-force of anyone they touch to a slight extent, however they cannot completely drain the life-force of the person. The user is extremely drained once the transformation ends, unable to move and could possibly faint.
Traits[]
- Children of Thanatos generally have morbid personalities.
- Children of Thanatos are generally not frightened of death.
- Children of Thanatos normally prefer the idea of a quiet, peaceful death. They also tend to dislike the idea of people losing their lives violently.
- Children of Thanatos can grow up to make great morticians.
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Outside of official settings, Mickey opts for her magic shield - usually in its Captain America shield-esque form
Weapon of Choice
Even though Mickey doesn't like to fight, she does like to be prepared for any that arise. Living as a demigod...isn't always safe, plus there's other people and sometimes wildlife to worry about as well. Mickey's made a point of familiarizing herself with different fighting environments over the years, but she's most at home in temperate forests, where there's generally a lot of cover and plenty of shadows.
Combat Preferences
Mickey is a big believer in blunt force trauma
Melee
Mickey has never had a taste for ranged combat. She can throw a pilum with the best of them, but her accuracy level is better suited for deterrence than anything else. She's tried her hand at slings and bows and crossbows and even rifles when they came along, and they were well enough for hunting...sometimes. She won't shy away from ranged weapons in a pinch, but she prefers to leave it to those better qualified.
Ranged
Other Combat Skills
Wile not strictly a combat skill, Mickey has trained Gilly to shadow travel people to safety, which can come in handy in a fight.
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- History: This magical Stygian Iron watch was given to Mickey by Pluto upon completion of her 100 years of service in 1966.
- Form and Function:
- The watch cannot tell time. It is only ever 8:56, 6:09, or 11:45, and it can't be set to any particular time either. Mickey's not sure why it shows those times, but she's not about to complain. She hates knowing what time it is anyway. However, it does correctly display AM/PM, so...that's something.
- Each number on the day-of-the-month dial corresponds to a different style of shield, and the watch transforms into the selected style when the top button is pressed. Its shield forms also have a similar button that will turn it back into a watch.
- Beyond turning into a shield and back again, it has no other abilities.
- Preferences:
- Though Mickey is proficient in offensive weapons, she's always preferred shields over them. Shields are versatile, great for defense, great as a raincover, great as a plate in a pinch - but they're good as a primary weapon in a fight, too. She can usually knock her opponent out without injuring them too gravely, but with the proper force she's more than able to take a life if she has to.
- Beyond her own powers, the shield is the only weapon she carries. Though it can take a lot of forms, she mostly sticks to three favorites:
- Greek-style shield, as that's what she first learned to fight with from her father
- Standard Roman legionnaire shield, thanks to centuries of training with the style
- Captain America-style round shield, because she enjoyed the comics when they first came out and the style is less cumbersome than her other go-to styles while still being quite useful
- History: The Ring of Gender Euphoria is a gift from Hermaphroditus, given to Mickey a few decades after the fall of Rome. She agreed to free the Spring of Salmacis from the control of some dracenae and fetch his ring, which he said had been stolen and hidden at the bottom of the spring. After completing both tasks, Mickey found out that the quest had been more of a test for her than anything else, and Hermaphroditus let her keep the ring she'd retrieved as a gift from him.
- Function and Limitations:
- Hermaphroditus described the ring's power as the ability to bring a "special kind of comfort," which, while not inaccurate, was vague enough that Mickey didn't figure out what it really did until she'd been wearing it for weeks.
- The ring automatically induces physical/biological changes in the wearer's body according to whatever gender feelings the wearer is experiencing. It must be worn as a ring in order to do this, and if it is removed any changes in-progress will stop until the ring is put back on.
- These changes are gradual, taking weeks or months to complete depending on the complexity/degree of the change.
- Because the changes are so gradual, the ring is not particularly useful for disguise. The ring also does not have any injury-healing powers.
- This ring is truly a godsend - no pun intended - for Mickey, as she's genderfluid in a very gradual way. Since she's immortal, she often spends several mortal lifetimes feeling very concretely one gender or another before those feelings start to change into something else...usually without her consciously noticing it's happening until she's neck-deep in a new gender. The gradual-but-automatic changes aren't always perfect - there have been times where she's flowed faster into a new gender than she usually does - but they're damn close.
- History: Vergilius is not exactly a gift from Orcus; he was more a bribe to get Mickey to go away. It worked very well, too - Mickey stayed out of the underworld for almost two thousand years after that.
Mickey found Vergilius in the hollow of a tree in the underworld, and took him with her on her way back to the land of the living after doing her part for Orcus. The two have been inseparable since. - Form and Function: Vergilius, affectionately called Gilly, is a runt of a hellhound and looks like a pitch black German Shepherd with red eyes, except...he's the size of a large Irish Wolfhound. Still the size of a normal dog rather than the size of a pickup truck like his littermates, but his size does often surprise people.
As a hellhound, Gilly is able to shadow travel, and can shadow travel with a passenger. He is also stronger and faster than mortal dogs, but due to his size, he is still weaker than other hellhounds.
Mickey puts a lot of time and effort to make sure Gilly is well-trained. For the most part, he's an obedient dog, but he won't take commands from anyone except for Mickey - and Rowan, as Mickey has recently found out. He follows the standard dog commands, like sit, stay, heel, etc, but he is also a trained search-and-rescue dog.
Although Gilly can be intimidating and has enough power to really hurt someone if he tries, he doesn't like to fight or be in fights. Typically he will just run or shadow travel away, and Mickey is fine with that. Actually, she prefers it - she doesn't know what she'd do if she lost him. Thanks to his shadow-travel abilities, she's been able to train him to shadow travel away on-command, and to shadow-travel with a passenger on-command as well.
Despite his size and threatening appearance, Gilly is a very loving and gentle dog, and gets along very well with kids. He's protective as well, though generally he's more bark than bite. He's very insistent about being the center of attention during downtime, and still thinks he's a lapdog despite his size.
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