Chapter Text
If Meg had to guess, she’d say the dying animal in the middle of the road was something of an omen.
The journey to Indianapolis was about as dreadful as it could have been, even though Meg knew it was supposed to be an opportunity, a chance to redeem the carefully constructed “normal” she had lost. Every time she thought about that, shame flooded into her stomach, ice cold and sharp. What didn’t help, for the record, were Marcus’ quick looks of jealousy and distaste that did not go unnoticed by her. She wasn’t dumb, she knew he envied her and felt anger toward the fact she wasn’t exactly as eager as she should’ve been to help out their step-father. This was not an uncommon occurrence when it came to her siblings, either. As for Vortigen- well, he wasn’t one for words. It was the only common ground they shared, and Meg wasn’t up for finding more.
In the driver's seat, Marcus’ eyes drifted to the rearview mirror, zeroing in on her. Out of all of her brother’s (that word, that one word that felt so wrong to say) traits, Meg decided she hated his eyes the most. Throughout her childhood, she had read many books on the gods- if only mandated by her lessons- and Hades’ eyes, described as dark and sunken, did not sound unlike Marcus’ own. Maybe that’s why they never got along. Demeter and Hades weren’t exactly the best of pals, let alone siblings.
“You’re rather quiet, back there,” Marcus said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, smiling coyly yet un-amused. “You look like a plant wilting in the winter.”
His word choice seemed bitterly ironic. Instead of answering, which was one thing she found herself doing more and more since returning to the Tower, Meg turned her head to the window, watching the scenery rush by. After a few beats of silence, Marcus tried picking up a conversation again. He was chatty, always had been. Apollo would’ve-
Clenching her fist slightly, Meg frowned.
Upon returning to New York, Nero- her father, as Marcus insisted on addressing him, correcting her when she called him anything but- seemed keen on the topic of Apollo, despite it being the one thing she absolutely didn’t want to discuss. Their “meeting” was still at the forefront of her mind.
She had been sparring with her siblings, a mandatory event to be held every week by request of the Imperial Children's trainers, or every day, if Nero had anything to say about it.
Which he did.
Fighting didn’t feel as good as she hoped it would have, not the escape from her thoughts she wished it to be. Cries and yells rang out through the room, injuries laughed at, victories without reward. With her stepfather's servants in the room, Meg couldn’t risk being sloppy. Any mishap said or done would be taken out of the room at once, brought right to Nero’s ear. Her blades danced widely, finding opponents with a mind of their own whilst she only went through the motions, expression far-off along with her head. You would think her siblings would back off, deterred by the state she was in; it was harder to control herself when she couldn’t even control the thoughts that ran circles around her. Their hearts, however, were not so keen on that courtesy. They charged at her, intentionally side-stepping and moving away to draw her in, hoping, praying for a one-on-one fight. But Meg was not looking for one, so she, in a similar fashion, made a show out of denying them, going back to simply striking at one person before moving on to the next. It was a “fun” little game they played, and the Instructors took this as defiance from Meg, lips curling upward at what they thought was her superiority. Who was she to deny them that?
Besides, she had to make everything okay, and pull her life back to how it was before, well, everything. Was that not what she assured herself, back at the Grove? And oh, gods, the grove…with every strike done by her golden blades against her sibling's weapons, a line of the prophecy boomed through her ears.
Her efforts to forget were not fruitful. Every bit of wisdom the trees had spoken stuck to her mind, a “gift” thanks to her title as the daughter of Demeter. She barely heard the large double doors to the training grounds open and shut, and certainly didn’t hear the servant, her maid, technically, address the room. Maybe address wasn’t the right word. Silvia, the maid, could barely stutter out her message.
“Meg is to report to the library, “ Silvia said, before adding, “by request of her Father.”
It was stupid how fast all eyes could make their way to one person. One of Meg’s older siblings, Lucius, disarmed his opponent before standing tall, gaze not on Silvia, whom he addressed, but rather on the person everyone else was looking at.
“And does Father call upon all of us, or only Meg?”
Shrinking her scimitars back to their dormant state as rings, Meg held back a snort. Lucius, of course, already knew the answer. He just wanted to get the exact words out of Silvia, to show everyone in the room that despite Meg’s mistakes, despite her disappointments, she remained in their caretaker's good graces. Meg could see the question in his eyes: How is that fair?
She didn’t know the answer.
“Only your sister, sir,” Silvia replied.
Lucius nodded in reply, his point already made. With nothing to say, Meg walked toward the door out of the sparring room, trying to look somewhat confident. It wasn’t too hard; Lucuis was annoying, all she had to do was channel her irritation toward him onto her expression. At least she knew she came off as brazen and unafraid. Over time, she had learned to work emotions- or rather, the lack of them- through her face and her movements, a barrier that wasn’t easily disturbed. But around Nero? That was a completely different story.
Silvia just barely led the path to the Library. Meg couldn’t blame her. The maid was hardly accustomed with the Tower, on account of her servitude having lasted only a week or two. Staring at the back of her head, Meg wondered, how long until Nero asks me to get rid of you too?
Because it was never a matter of if, only when.
Speaking of her stepfather, an uneasy feeling began to creep around her at the thought of him. Silently, she berated herself for it. Nero cared about her- took care of her. A debt she couldn’t repay. Why was she so nervous?
Silvia noticed her mood- Meg could tell- but said nothing of it. Instead, she briskly walked to the end of the hallway, opening the door to Nero’s Library, holding it open for Meg.
Not wanting to keep her stepfather waiting, Meg picked up the pace just a bit, entering the weirdly sunny, circular room that was the Tower’s Library. A room out of a fairytale, the Library’s walls were covered in bookshelves, mirrors, and grand architecture. Statues at every corner, a large oak table made for meetings in the middle- so different from the rest of the Tower. At the far end wall, a desk, covered with blueprints, parchments, and relics that looked like they had survived multiple wars. Behind the desk sat Nero, messing with Newton's cradle. The clacks of the balls were exactly in tune with the ticks of the grandfather clock behind him.
Silvia bowed as she announced Meg’s arrival. “Your daughter, sir.”
Doing the smart thing, Silvia quickly exited, letting the door slam shut behind her. Meg did not keep waiting for long, as the voice of her stepfather filled the Library as soon as Silvia was five steps from the door.
“My dear, don’t just stand there.” He said, voice awfully cherry. “Come sit, please.”
Once she was seated, Nero put a halt to the sound of the cradle on his desk.
“Do you know why I’ve called upon you today? Only you?”
Meg shifted in her chair, folding her hands onto her lap. Her rings flashed with the incoming sunlight that flooded into the room, revealing Demeter’s symbol- her mom's symbol- across the golden band every few seconds. Raising an eyebrow, Nero frowned, apparently realizing Meg was staring at her rings.
“Perhaps…” He ventured, bringing Meg’s attention to him. “The sickles were in ill taste. How terrible a reminder it must be, to look down and see the symbol of the goddess, the mother, who is so absent, so unwilling. A goddess of nurture, she calls herself!”
He sounded so angry for Meg’s sake, bitter at Demeter for not being there for her. It made Meg want to feel angry, too.
“That is exactly why I asked you to meet with me today,” Nero said. “To talk about the gods. Or, more specifically, a god. Apollo.”
The queasy feeling in Meg’s stomach returned abruptly. It never really left, just jabbed into her at certain times. Her stepfather waited for her reply, then took no offense when she stayed silent.
He sighed, plucking a grape from the glass bowl to his right. “I don’t blame you, Meg, not in the slightest, not ever. Apollo has been known throughout time as a harsh, brutal being. The stories I have told you, about myths and monsters, who seemed more like the enemy? The Gods.”
Answering the one question he had asked, Meg wanted to believe she didn’t have to speak anymore. But, as they always did when she was with her stepfather, her words poured out of her, however short they were.
“Apollo was nice to me. He saved me from the Ant's nest.” Her voice was small, and fragile, as if she didn’t believe it. That kind of tone could warrant pity from Nero, which she didn’t need (and who had told her she didn’t need that?). She tried convincing herself what she knew about Apollo: he was dramatic, loud, and a dummy but he cared, didn't he?
Nero wagged a ring-covered finger. “That’s where you fell victim. Often do the gods play nice, when they only care about how we can serve them. Apollo, well, he only wants to regain his place on Mount Olympus. So fickle, as gods are. They never change.”
Meg couldn’t look him in the eye. Before her time with Apollo, she would have agreed with Nero, having only read about the golden deity in his glorified, cold text. But now, a seed of doubt was within her. It made her sick. Why couldn’t she just trust her stepfather, the one constant in her life, who always told her he’d be there? Was she that bad of a daughter?
“My darling, please look at me.” Nero’s request was sincere, to where Meg could barely, just barely, bring herself to eye level with him.
He smiled, but there was something in his eyes. Disappointment. Meg hated that.
“I know you don’t want to let me down,” he crooned. “ I know you don’t want to fail. The incident at the Grove of Dodona…we can’t have another slip-up like that, can we? If the Beast were to awaken again, I don’t think it would be in my control.”
But it would be in mine, Meg thought. I can prevent it. I need to prevent it.
Nero continued. “Peaches, for example. Such a rowdy spirit. But you can understand that you were unable to keep him controlled. Your misbehavior…I apologize, I really do, and you must feel so much shame at the fact that you were responsible. This is why it’s much easier for the Beast to not be involved, you see? No one has to suffer more than they already have.”
Peaches seemed to drive things home. Meg’s grain spirit friend was somewhere in the Tower, most likely in the room she was never allowed to go into.
Nero was right. It was her fault. She had to do better.
Is it? A voice said in her head, a voice that had been growing stronger. Meg told it to shut up.
Something in her demeanor must have changed, because Nero grinned.
“There’s that willful expression I love. So determined. My dear, let me remind you: Apollo may think himself the god he once was, but you are the one to control him. An entire deity, right under your finger! He is the enemy. We must fight against this, and build a new day and age. Bigger. Better.”
The pride in his voice was unmistakable. His way of speaking, the clear, defined, “us” and “them” nearly picked Meg's side for her. Maybe that was for the best. What did she know? She was strong, yet somehow Nero was stronger, and the desire to appeal to him was the strongest of all.
Finishing off the last of his grapes, Nero nodded contently, perhaps contemplating the conversation.
“I knew I could count on you, Meg.” His praise felt uncertain, breakable- a balance that she had to keep. “I’m very glad we had this talk. It’s important to refresh your mind, to remind you of what is right. And I will always be here to give you that guidance, so please, always come to me. I want what's best for you.”
The air in the room had turned cold, the sun hiding behind the muddy, dark clouds. Nero opened up a drawer on the side of his desk, pulling out a bell. The shrill sound was not too loud, yet as soon as he put it down, a servant was in the room, awaiting orders.
“Escort my daughter to the rest of her lessons,” He yawned, barely sparing a glance at the servant. Meg remembered something Nero told her once: A servant knows their place, and a Master knows theirs. That is how it should be.
This was her cue to leave, and she was more than relieved to take it. She stood, half-mindly pushing her chair back into the desk. The weather from outside seemed to follow her, hanging over her head, churning and swirling into one big storm. She was halfway to the servant when Nero called out behind her.
“One more thing, Meg.”
She blinked. Turning around, she saw Nero spread his arms out, smiling, beckoning for a hug. It had been quite some time since he had done so…not since the Grove of Dodona. Was this, then, his way of showing his forgiveness?
Her feet moved almost automatically, like clockwork. The same routine she had fallen into, and would always fall into. She took in the smell of his cologne and the sight of his perfectly tailored suit. A hug should be comforting, yet something about this was not. Meg would not let her stepfather know that, however. Just after she parted from his embrace, he looked at her as if he were expecting something.
“Thank you,” She mumbled, assuming that was what he wanted.
Nothing in his expression changed.
“Thank you, Father,” Meg amended, and shouldn’t it have made her happy to see his face light up?
Nero retreated to his desk, sitting down, resuming whatever paperwork he was doing before. The servant called to her in Latin, asking her where her next lesson was. Almost numb, she swayed under the weight of the conversation, leaving the Library dejected and unfocused.
And that was that.
Later, during the night, she retched into the toilet for at least 15 minutes.
Silvia was by her side, even though Meg tried to push her away. On and on the maid went, speaking nice words to distract Meg, fretting on how she could’ve gotten sick, rubbing her back- actions all done in a comforting, parental manner. Those gestures almost made her want to cry. Who knows, maybe she did.
Fortunately, Silvia didn’t mention Meg’s slip-up of weakness to anyone, not even her. Silvia did, however, remain doting and tender. When Meg came stumbling through the door into her bedroom after a long day at combat practice, Silvia (who had been in her room to apply a fresh set of sheets to her bed) actually looked concerned for her.
“You do this every day?” said Silva, after successfully coaxing Meg into drinking some water. “You’re exhausted. If you “trained”- she said this in a way that marked her disapproval of the choice of words- “any longer, you would have no doubt passed out.”
Meg drank more of her water to prevent herself from blurting that yes, that’s what usually happened. Besides, her exhaustion was made out to be a good thing.
Silvia stayed silent for quite some time. By the time she spoke, her expression had morphed into that of determination.
“I’ll talk to your instructors,” she said. “This is no way for you to live! You’re twelve, Meg. Nero might listen if-”
“No!” Meg interrupted, broken out of any fantasy that Silvia might possibly convince her instructors to loosen up at the mention of her stepfather. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. You can’t talk to anyone about this, especially not Nero. He would… if he figured out I was complaining, the Beast would…”
She trailed off, unable to finish. Nero wouldn’t do anything; he assured her time and time again that any misdemeanor she made would not be punished by him. Only the Beast, which he couldn’t control. Silvia didn’t need any involvement with the Beast, and even Meg muttering his name put the maid in danger.
Silvia wore her heart on her sleeve, which is why Meg could tell that her words had done nothing to convince her. In truth, all she had done was add more fuel to Silvia’s fire. She should’ve just stayed silent. Or, better yet, she should’ve been able to satisfy Silvia’s concern completely. She was always messing up at one thing or another, wasn’t she?
Once Meg downed all of her water, Silvia gave her a quick “goodnight”, then slipped out of the bedroom into the darkness, promising that tomorrow would be different.
Meg had seen this scenario play out too many times before, and she wanted to call after the maid, but ultimately stayed silent, in fear of what would happen if she didn’t.
Above all, Silvia was right: she was exhausted, and in more ways than one.
Kindness was not something Meg received much in the Tower, and she had convinced herself long ago that that suited her just fine. Better to keep someone at arm's length, just in case the worst happens.
News flash: it always did.
The day after their little heart-to-heart, Silvia was not the one to attend to her in the morning. Instead, another woman popped her head through the door, asking if she could come in. Phoebe, her name was.
“Where’s…where's Silvia?” Meg asked, dreading the answer.
Phoebe looked nervous, which was probably because Meg made no effort to hide the desperate look on her face. “Who? I’m sorry, I was only hired just last night.”
"Oh,” Meg said, words hollow. “Forget I asked. It’s no one.”
But that wasn’t true. Just a day ago, Silvia had been somebody. Meg should’ve started referring to Silvia like she was already dead long ago, and now, she was. There was no point in Meg deluding herself into any other option, and she berated herself over how upset she was over it. A stupid sense of judgment on her part; had she not just told herself that it was crucial to keep everyone at arm's length? This was how it had to be, and so it would be.
Surprising herself, she walked straight to Nero’s library after her encounter with Phoebe. He was there, of course, almost as if he were awaiting her. His eyes gleamed with something she couldn’t place as she stood before him.
Meg fought to keep her voice from cracking “Silvia. She’s…been taken care of?”
That was what Nero liked to call it. Kill or murder sounded too inhumane, and certainly, Nero was anything but. So he said, anyway.
“Yes,” he replied, and she held tight onto the truth he gave her. Silvia had thought (and voiced) that he supplied Meg with just the barest amount of comfort, leaving her grappling for more.
And where was Silvia now?
“Your maid,” Nero said, “was stepping far out of line. She was caught badmouthing me with a friend of hers, who had the right mind to notify me about it immediately. I had her promoted before I dealt with Silvia. Like I say, those who are loyal to me are rewarded, and deserve only the best. So naturally, you deserve it too, Meg. I can’t leave you with a incompetent maid, who threatens to infest your life. And with what, pity?”
Meg felt her heart go cold at his open-ended question. “She…pitied me?”
Nero tilted his head. “ More than you knew. She viewed you as a poor, defenseless creature. Creature! Can you believe that?”
He paused, taking a deep breath.
“I couldn’t let it slide. Her comfort might have seemed pure to you, but she was trying to get closer to you so that you may put in a good word. She, as a servant, thought herself superior to you.”
Meg thought about this. Could it have been possible? Had she been manipulated like that, by someone she considered an acquaintance? Nero made it seem so plausible.
“I apologize I didn’t get rid of her sooner,” he said. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore. I didn’t want you to dispose of her yourself, since you’ve been working so hard.”
Oh. He was rewarding her. Maybe if she continued to push herself, he would, in turn, continue to relieve her of executing the occasional servant. Yes, that had to be it. She should be thankful for this.
But Nero left no room for thanks, at least not yet.
“If anyone tries to be nice to you, come see me so that I can supervise it. You never know what people really have in mind, especially since you're my daughter.”
My daughter. My daughter.
Meg swallowed. “But Silvia-”
“Dear,” Nero interrupted, voice suddenly taking on an icy chill, “You’re not questioning my authority, are you?”
Questions meant risk. She knew what Nero was implying- that she was stepping into dangerous territory. The territory of the Beast. Nero’s tone was exactly like it had been at the grove when he asked what she was doing with the matches and Peaches, who had attacked him. Back then, she’d steeled her resolve and continued with her defiance, fueled by the very presence of…Apollo. He and his “He’s good, you’re not, you have to choose” attitude brought her hope, as small and evanescent as it was.
There was no one here now. Not Silvia. Not Apollo. Not her Dad. Just her and Nero, once again.
“No,” she whispered, holding her hands out like one did when backing away from a dangerous predator. “I’m sorry.”
Nero didn’t look caught off guard by her apology. On the contrary, he leaned forward, face full of worry. “Whatever for?”
Meg couldn’t help it. She broke down, little sniffs and sobs escaping her mouth. Just like when she was five, when the whole world lost its color.
That was the day she knew. She was a cursed child, bringing poison to anything she touched.
Nero got up from his seat, and everything was blurry after that. She remembered her hugging him, which would be the second time this month that happened. It was a rare occurrence, and she tried to savor it.
“All this suffering,” Nero had said, stroking her hair. “It’s not your fault you’re so disoriented. No, it’s Apollo’s. You’ll have your chance at revenge.”
Apollo. It all came back to Apollo. That’s what Nero claimed, subtly suggesting that If she got rid of Apollo, everything would be better. But she just couldn’t, not after everything they had gone through. She felt drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. Perhaps that was because they were bound by powers beyond their control. The Fates knew what they needed, and what their future would be. Meg wanted to shake those old women by their shoulders and force it out of them.
After her breakdown, she returned to her room, refusing to receive any servants at all, scared that anything she might say would bring about their demise. She missed Silvia. More importantly, she missed Apollo. That in itself was worrying; she wasn’t supposed to be attached to him.
Then a week later, Nero gave Meg her mission: find Apollo. Make him submit, or kill him. Nero promised that they could be a happy family once more after her job was done, a promise that stayed with her.
Now, she was with Marcus, her brother, and Vortigen, a man who looked like he could break dumbbells for the fun of it. In a car, on the way to Indianapolis. Yay.
That’s where Apollo is, she thought. I’m going to see Apollo.
Tasting the name in her mind, she tried to find anger to direct at him. He was the enemy. She didn’t want to believe that Nero would lie to her. No, he wouldn’t.
An uneaten wheat sandwich in her lap, she could just make out the “Ohio Welcomes You” sign as the car passed it. They were now even closer to Indiana.
Vortigen fumbled with the knobs on the dashboard, flipping through the radio channels. Annoyed by this, Marcus pushed the “off” button.
“You must be eager, Vortigen.” The teen said. “ I hear Commodus will have many prisoners and hell, Indianapolis has a lot of people. Who's to say we can’t have any fun?”
Their idea of fun was much different than Meg’s. She would’ve voiced her opinion on the matter- probably a “You guys are dumb” if she was feeling like herself- if she wasn’t stopped short by a full-on conversation between the two men in the front seats, planning all the chaos they would wreck upon arrival. For some reason, Meg’s hand hovered over her rings, as if she was going to strike them down that moment. They had been having these little idea bursts, but it was nothing like this.
Listening to Marcus, she could barely think.
They had been raised in the same household, Marcus only older by a few years. Would she turn out like him, thinking of reaping the lives of others so easily? She shuddered at the thought, face contorting into that of disgust. Thankfully, Vortigen and Marcus were caught up in their own thoughts, not paying attention to her in the slightest. The wheat sandwich in her hands began sprouting small, green shoots.
Ever since the beginning of the car trip- and who is she kidding, even before that- Meg had been dealing with some conflict. She was supposed to contain Apollo, possibly even kill him. Unable to find that within her, she doubted she could wreak havoc across innocents.
On one hand, the fear of disappointing her stepfather and angering the Beast followed her around like a thick, gray cloud (she wondered if that fear would ever leave). But the bad things Marcus and Voritgen planned to do…no, she knew she couldn’t let that come to pass.
Meg’s thoughts were rudely interrupted by the screeching halt of the car. Her body lurched forward a bit, then fell back against her seat with a muted thump. Confused, she craned her neck to see what had caused such a ruckus.
“A wolf,” she whispered, almost in disbelief.
Marcus sneered. “Great job, Emperor Obvious.”
Dying and surely in pain, the wolf in question was sprawled right smack in the middle of the road, a few feet away from them. Its gray fur shone despite its body losing life by the minute, its eyes awake and wide.
Vortigen grumbled a few words about running it over, which Marcus seemed to perk up at. Meg could feel her heartbeat pick up. There’s no way they would do that, right?
Marcus relaxed against his seat, almost as if they were parked in front of a serene, natural display.
“We have to help it,” Meg said urgently.
Turning around to face her, Marcus had never looked so serious.
“Actually, Meg, I think you should be the one to kill it.”
Her expression betrayed her, because how could she even keep a straight face when asked to complete a task so horrible? Marcus howled in laughter, Vortigen offering a few chuckles in response.
“You should see the look on your face!” Marcus said. “I’m serious, though.”
Still clutching his stomach, he got out of the car. In a not-so-smart move, Meg followed after him, a ringing in her ears. She didn’t even hear the car door slam shut behind her.
“I’m not going to kill it, Marcus.” She said, mustering up some determination in her voice.
Vortigen- when did he get here?- took out a dagger from his pocket. “‘Course you are.”
Well, he spoke in Gallic, a language Meg barely knew. She was sure that’s what he said, though. Most of his words were conveyed through his body language, which explained plenty. He held the knife out for her to take, a careless look on his face. One animal's life didn’t mean a thing to him, to either of them. Meg backed away, cautiously looking from Marcus to Vortigen.
“I won’t.”
Marcus frowned at her, but she could see the glee in his eyes. “If we have to do this the hard way, fine. If you don’t, then I suppose I’ll have to give Father a report that you were…uncooperative. I’m sure I can spin something he’ll believe.”
Meg didn’t have to be the goddess of wisdom to know that he was threatening her. He’d probably been waiting for an opportunity like this, to have a reason to disparage her any way he could. If Meg knew him, which she did, considering she lived with him, he’d exaggerate a tale that would have nothing to do with the wolf in the first place.
If there was some articulate argument Meg could make, she’d say it and be done with this entire experience. But, nothing came to mind. She was stuck.
The sudden hissss was the thing that saved her. With the air being so full of tension, there was no sound to mask the quiet, yet unmistakable sound of a car’s tires going flat.
Marcus was the first to notice. Murmuring a few curse words, he made his way over to the tire. When no one followed him, he waved them over, avidly frustrated at the sight before him. His eyes were very piercingly boring into Meg as she reached the car, and once she saw what had caused the flat, she knew why.
A rose thorn, so vibrant and way too big compared to its usual size, was stuck right in the middle of the tire.
The weirdest thing? The thorn didn’t want to budge, however hard Marcus pulled at it. As soon as both Meg’s escorts had a turn at trying to pull it out, Marcus turned his attention to her.
“I suppose you don’t know anything about this, huh?”
Oh, right. Meg hadn’t realized what this looked like. A rose thorn, abnormally large, lodged itself into a non-moving vehicle just as Meg was supposed to do something she didn’t want to. Even she could see that coincidence was a very unlikely explanation.
But she didn’t do it, on which she swore up and down to Marcus, who only scoffed. During this back and forth, the thorn pulsed with a kind of energy Meg thought of as quite noticeable. Smells of wheat, flowers, and all sorts of fauna wafted through the air, the thorn serving as the almighty hearth. Nobody else took note of it. An uncertainty took hold of her. Was it too far-fetched to believe, to maybe think…
No. That couldn’t be right. Meg didn’t want to place all of her hopes on the idea that Demeter could be sending her signs, giving her small sprouts of opportunity.
“Sir,” Vortigen said, a worried edge to his voice (again, Meg mostly went off of his body movements and grunts of displeasure). “If this becomes a problem, we’re going to be late for Commodus-”
“ I know we’re going to be late, you buffoon!” Marcus snapped, throwing his hands in the air before wheeling around to direct his anger at Meg. “You. You did this. You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
Something in her surged. Maybe it was the thorn, or maybe it was because she was really getting sick of Marcus.
“And you’re stupid,” Meg retorted, blowing a raspberry at him.
Not expecting this, Marcus spluttered, face red. Vortigen coughed in a way one would try to hide a laugh with.
“Whatever,” grumbled Marcus. He went back to trying to pull the thorn out. After some struggle, he succeeded, chucking the thorn across the road and getting up with a triumphant smile on his face.
“Thank ‘everything we have a spare,” he said, moving to the trunk of the car.
It seemed idiotic, going through all that trouble to pull out the thorn when he could’ve just taken off the whole tire and replaced it without the tussle. However, Meg could see that he had wanted to prove that he could get it out, that Meg's supposed attempt at rebellion would fall as flat as the tire. The thought made her upset, for some reason.
With the combined power of Vortigen and Marcus (Meg promptly sat out, much to the annoyance of Marcus), the new tire was on in a little over 20 minutes.
Wiping the dust off his hands, Marcus smirked. “Now that that’s done with, Meg, I think it’s time for you to…”
He trailed off, a dumb-struck expression plastered all over his face. Meg followed his eyes, looking over the spot where the wolf was. Or rather, had been. Nowhere to be seen, the wolf didn’t leave even a trace of his existence on the road.
Vortigen let out a low whistle. “Don’t see that every day.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Marcus could hardly bring himself to answer. “ I guess you don’t. Everyone back in the car. We’ve wasted too much time, and I’m not about to go hunting for some wolf.”
On that, Meg could agree. From what she had heard- and seen, briefly- Commodus was temperamental, paranoid, and quick to dispose of people. And now, Meg (with Marcus and Vortigen in tow) was at risk of being late. If they weren’t members of Nero’s Imperial Household- and honestly, Meg wasn’t sure that would even save them-, well, it was very likely they would never leave Indianapolis once they arrived.
The car door half open, Meg had a quick urge to turn around, not unlike when one feels as if someone is sneaking up behind them. Before she could figure out what that meant, her body went along with her mind.
She nearly jumped when she saw the wolf from earlier, its eyes staring straight at her. They were big and black, but something brewed beneath them, a telltale sign that this animal was, in fact, a little more than just an animal. Meg blinked, and it was gone.
Seconds after she had gotten herself situated in her car seat, they were off, racing down the street. It had been strangely empty throughout that whole ordeal, and now a few cars were trickling in behind them. There was no talking, which was fine; Meg couldn’t even hear herself think. A memory within her had swam up to the surface of her mind, one she couldn’t forget.
Back at Camp Half-Blood, when Apollo was reading up on himself to try and regain a sense of stability, Meg had done the same. She thought it would be pointless since she’d already done a ton of research on him in preparation for her mission beforehand. To her surprise, she learned a few more things that weren’t in any of the books Nero had given her. Oddly enough, one of those subjects had been a list of Apollo’s sacred animals. At the very top of the list, along with ravens, crows, and swans (Apollo was a bird guy, apparently), was the wolf.
A small part of Meg wanted to believe that the wolf she had refused to kill was a sign- or maybe a test. But Apollo couldn't have sent the wolf after her, considering he wasn’t goddy anymore. And yet, the wolf- combined with the thorn and the strange pull she felt toward both items- seemed too out of the ordinary to be anything short of goddy.
Not a lot of time passed before the next problem arrived. Meg would be lying if she said she wasn’t dead asleep when it happened. What can she say? She hadn’t had a good night's sleep since... the last night she spent in the Demeter Cabin (which was shown to her in its crushed, flattened state by Nero, who assured her that it was all for the best.)
Vortigen was the one to wake her up. It was obvious he hadn’t wanted to, so Meg could only guess that he lost a game of rock paper scissors or some other game. He was wary of her, perhaps believing that Meg would bite him as soon as she was awake. She’d also be lying if she said she hadn’t done that a few times.
“Low on gas,” Voritgen said, keeping his fingers near his chest. “We’re at a… seven-eleven.”
He spoke as if he hadn’t ever heard of a 7-11 before, as if it were some nefarious lair of slushies and hot dog weiners. Seeing as he was born a few hundred years ago, that would be a fair assumption.
Marcus’ voice came from somewhere behind Vortigen. “You, Meg, will stay in the car while Vortigen and I get some gas. Can't have you running away now.”
If that was the case, then why even wake her up? Slumping against her seat, Meg couldn’t even bother to try and come up with a reason.
From her spot in the car, she could hear Marcus and Vortigen conversing, still on the topic of what they would do once they reached Indianapolis. If Meg hadn’t been awake before, she was now. Everything they said made her sick, and also made her realize something: Commodus had plans too. Before departing on her mission, Meg was graced with a rundown on what Commodus had planned for the City of Indianapolis. She couldn’t just sit by and let that happen. But if she were to disobey Nero again, there’d be a bigger punishment than before. Peaches was taken away because of her own mistakes, however misguided and “well-intentioned” they were. If someone else were to get hurt because of her, what would she do then?
The scenery around her wasn’t even close to being interesting, which didn’t give her much of an option to distract herself. She didn’t know where exactly they were. Everything was the same, a plethora of plains and winding roads that were long overdue for a new filling of asphalt- and the seven eleven itself looked near collapse. Serpentine green vines zig-zagged alongside the walls, filling in cracks and making new ones. Meg thought- no, she knew- that if she really wanted to, she could coerce the vines into wrapping around the entire building, maybe even manipulate them to tie themselves into a big bow on the top of the roof, a present to whoever wanted it.
She didn’t know how she felt about that.
Having powers was weird, but fun. Meg always kinda knew that she was a demi-god, too. Nero told her, introducing her to the world of gods and monsters- even if he didn’t tell her who her mom was. Again, Meg wasn’t dumb, it took her all but one lesson on Mythology to begin to speculate that Demeter might have “sired” her or whatever (or was that term only for men?).
It made her frustrated, those times when she thought about it too hard. I’m here, she would think. Where are you? Eventually, she figured that Demeter simply didn’t think she was worthy enough, or something along those lines. Unfortunately, Meg couldn’t fight that logic; she herself didn’t think she deserved Demeter’s (or anyone’s, really) presence, and tried to make up for it by training and working hard. The sole time she opened up to Nero about it, he was sympathetic. With a firm hand on her shoulder, he told her that if she wanted, she could lean more into her swordsmanship, to the point where she wouldn’t be dependent on the powers thrown into her hands by someone who hadn’t given her anything else. She didn’t show it then, but she could tell he was hopeful she’d say yes. Those little ticks of his weren’t hard to spot, it was almost as if he wanted her to see them.
So she did say yes. From that point on, she never practiced with her powers unless her step-father was there with her, guiding her and offering subtle suggestions. On most days, she practiced with her swords, slicing captured monsters and mannequin dummies alike.
Then she was permitted to wander, to walk through alleyways and sewers, basically playing the street waif. Boundaries were set: no point beyond where Nero influenced the camera systems so that he could keep a “watchful eye.” Meg became familiar with New York, learning which streets had minimal camera view, which passages and tunnels she could experiment with her powers in, and the like. Very slowly, she began to develop her abilities beyond the rare lessons she received, even if most of that development was warping fungus and making whatever flowers she could get ahold of explode in her ears, seeds turning to blossoms as quickly as you could say “boom.”
But every time Meg returned to the Tower, the same guilt would pile up on her, threatening to burst from her mouth in words that would get her grounded for months. Though, "ground" was a very general term; her punishments consisted of deprivations she hadn’t thought too out of the ordinary until Apollo commented on them.
At the thought of Apollo, she brought herself back to the present. It hurt to think about him, but not in the way she was probably supposed to hurt. Nero’s allusion to Apollos' hatred at the fact Meg betrayed him- that she’d have to capture or kill him before he could beat her to it- throbbed through her mind at a speed faster than her heartbeat.
“So unfair,” Nero had tutted, once Marcus and Vortigen were both gone from the room after he announced they’d be escorting her to Indianapolis. “You haven’t done anything wrong, and still, Apollo and the rest of those bratty demi-gods would surely run a sword through your chest given the chance.”
Meg didn’t then have enough energy to test the waters, to point out the friendliness and welcoming nature of Camp Half-Blood. Her stepfather never told her about the place, and yet it wasn’t that far from the Tower, especially not in his terms of influence. It made her wonder.
Nevertheless, one-half of her brain pointed out that Nero had been with her since the beginning, long before Apollo or Camp Half-Blood. All the times she had messed up, and he remained gracious and forgiving. Against Apollo's probing questions, she defended him, calling him a good man. And he was. He had to be.
But Apollo was good too, right? An egocentric idiot, possibly, though in the short time Meg got to know him, he came through, showing bits of anguish and comprehension that he tried to cover up.
Meg found she didn’t want to weigh those two ideas in her head, lest she find out something she didn’t want to hear. Hopelessness washed over her (the apparent default setting for her life at the moment) as she sat in her seat, waiting for Marcus and Voritgen to finish up whatever the hell they were doing so that they could take her to another emperor.
Suddenly, another feeling pushed its way into her doom and gloom- the kind of feeling you get in your gut, the kind of instinct that could save your life. The vines running along the Seven-Eleven nearly seemed to beckon her forward, and she swore she saw one move, edging to the doorway. An unsure thought circled her mind, playing games with her muddled emotions.
Meg had only gotten this sort of sense two times: when she was dragging Apollo’s half-dead, insane body through the words (you’re welcome, by the way), and when she nearly went insane in the grove of Dodona. Gods, she’ll never forget that. She was still drowning in the fear caused by her confrontation with Apollo and Nero, and she’d considered just letting the voices swallow her up.
Both occurrences had one thing in common: the nearby foliage communicating to her, humming their message through the ground, desperately attempting to tell her something.
Before she could even consider her options, she opened the door to the car and walked up to Marcus, who had a bone in his hand that she really hoped wasn’t human.
“I thought I told you to stay in the car,” spat Marcus, stuffing the bone into one of his pockets.
Meg would’ve rolled her eyes if not for the increasingly dire situation she was in.
“I have to go to the restroom,” she said, a statement not entirely false.
Marcus hesitated, which evoked a look of annoyance from her.
“Really, Marcus? I’m going to the bathroom. It’ll take me, like, less than five minutes.”
“Can you hold it?”
“Do you want me to pee on the seat of Nero’s car?”
Vortigen, bless his heart, waved a hand, flushed at the mention of bowel bodily functions.
“Just let her go,” He said. “Like she said, she’s just going to the restroom.”
Meg looked Marcus dead in the eye for good measure, a promise that she would follow through on her aforementioned threat.
“Fine,” Marcus groaned. “Hurry up.”
Her heartbeat picked up a little, catching up to her current walking pace. She didn’t spare a glance at the cashier at the front of the store, barging into the restroom and scanning the area as if she were a hawk looking for prey. She didn’t know why the restroom was where she felt she needed to go, but when it came to plants, her gut wasn’t wrong. Praying that no one would walk in, she kneeled on the ground, placing her hand over the cracked, dirty floor. There wasn’t anything except a weed in the room; Meg suspected that was more than enough. Plants, she had learned, were exactly like veins. Their roots sprawled under the skin of the earth, connecting one part of the world to the other, a web of sorts. That’s also how they communicated. Sometimes it was through words, and sometimes, like now, it wasn’t.
Less than a second went by before Meg was bombarded with images that danced in the lids of her eyes, some of which had already happened. Meg could tell based on inference and the fact that the images were clear and resolute, only being retold for the sake of her convenience.
For example, Apollo arriving in Indianapolis, accompanied by two people Meg didn’t recognize: an elvish-looking boy covered in soot with a tool belt fashionably around his waist, and a girl whose long caramel hair was done in a plaited style. It reminded Meg of when her hair was long (her seven-year-old self was still oblivious to how much of a pain hair could be during sword fighting) and when the maids would weave it into intricate braids for the lavish events she was forced to attend. Apollo and co were riding on top of a huge, bronze dragon, surrounded by chest-people- literally, their faces were smeared onto their chests like they were gone-wrong sculpting projects- who were ready to kill. The images changed, and she caught a glimpse of Commodus, executing a servant swiftly and without remorse. Perhaps it was the plants showing her, warning her how quick this man was to wipe people clean off the earth. What he would do to a town, and eventually the entire Midwest, to revel in his games.
Meg was then dropped into a sequence of muddier, hypothetical scenes. No longer the events that had already happened, she saw what was to come. These were less clear and more like flashes of colors, emotions, and words, all whispering in her ear.
First and foremost, the vibes she got were absolutely trash. Everything in dismay, evil winning, that kind of thing. There were the silhouetted figures of Marcus and Vortigen, plus some other people, outlined by an aura of death and destruction. If that wasn’t enough, there was another boy she’d never seen before, wielding a sword, curls bouncing off his forehead. He was amongst cages and cages filled with animals, who cried out in sorrow. She tried to ignore the strange but strong connection she felt with this mystery man, a line that eventually attached them both to some greater being.
Apollo was there too, alongside the auburn-haired girl. The curly-haired boy was their enemy, a fact proved by the way the two parties were duking it out, fighting over the animals in the cages. Briefly, the words “Indianapolis Zoo” flickered across the scene. The weed that was putting Meg through all this shriveled a little bit, clearly seeing that Apollo would ultimately fail if there wasn’t any interference.
What Meg found strange? There was something hidden between the lines, a tinge of warmth that was not in anything Meg had experienced before. It wasn’t mind-breakingly urgent like the forest bordering camp half-blood, nor was it demanding and annoying like the Grove of Dodona. The feelings she gathered were worry, faith, and a little hint of pushy. Combined, they gave off the message: “You must hurry. I know you will do what’s right, and I know, deep down, you know what you have to do. It’s your choice.”
Meg had no clue how she pieced that together, but she managed. There was no sound, only words that vibrated against her brain, engraving each syllable into her memory. The message was almost motherly, which meant…oh. Oh.
She didn’t know what to make of the possibility that her mother, a goddess, was allowing her to prevent bad guys from doing bad stuff (a highly advanced description, if she did say so herself). It wasn’t like the fate of Indianapolis rested solely on her shoulders, but something brewing underneath the messages of her friend the weed told her that the decision to help would lead to something bigger. And if she did choose this path, she wouldn’t necessarily be helping Apollo, right? No, she would just be ridding the city of Colts of potential (more than potential, honestly) danger. She tried to ignore the way she actually wanted to see Apollo, and the way she definitely didn't want to be by his side again.
On the far end of the bathroom, the weed called out to her with a not-so-gentle urge. Caught up in doubt, she resisted the dandelion with whatever hesitancy she continued to possess.
She had the feeling that if she did this, she wouldn’t be seeing Marcus, the tower, or Nero very soon unless she got caught. That led to the biggest question of the day: was she willing to risk everything, willing to risk awakening the Beast, to possibly stop the wrongdoings of the side she was supposed to be on?
Marcus knocking on the door was what finally tipped her over the edge, even though deep down like Demeter had said, she knew what she needed to do.
“Meg, hurry up in there!” He yelled, apparently not concerned about the looks he may receive. “We can’t keep Commodus waiting. Vortigen and I want to get there as quickly as possible so that we can get to work.”
Meg nearly wanted to storm through the restroom door and yell at Marcus on how he could be so human and heartless, scrolling through profiles of innocent people, picking one at random, as if it were a game. Everything he and Vortigen had said, she wanted to spew back into his face, and maybe, maybe, he would realize how awful he’d been, and that could be one person she would save to make up for all the people she couldn't.
She didn’t do any of that, and she couldn’t save him. Not now. But there were people out there she could save and awful things she could stop from ever coming into existence. Pulsing with more insistence, the weed that was still in her line of sight seemed to be telling her to hurry the hell up.
Marcus banged at the door again. “Little sister, come on. Say something, or I’m coming in.”
Her face scrunched up at the name he called her, and she loathed the fact she couldn’t place what emotion was at hand. Anger? Sadness? Another feeling more complex than she could imagine?
Facing the restroom door, she thought, I’m not going to let any of that terrible stuff happen.
Meg figured that was an acceptable goodbye, even if Marcus would never hear it.
Her mind made up, she walked over to the dandelion (which seemed to curl into her), barely touching her fingertip to it before she was pulled into the plant completely, a whiplash she hadn't expected overcoming her almost immediately. The last thing she thought about before she passed out was Marcus's slack, dumb-founded face as he eventually shamefully opened the door to the restroom, met with only a small, barely noticeable weed, smiling back at him.