Chapter Text
Octavian is on Olympus.
It’s burning.
No, it isn’t. There’s no heat, no smoke.
He feels like it should be burning. Something to account for the heavy destruction in the air.
His Lord Apollo is radiant in the chaos. As he should be.
Octavian is noticed, and his god comes running over. There is nobody but them up here.
Octavian has never been so delighted.
Octavian has never been so terrified.
“My Lord!” he exclaims. It is all he can manage.
Apollo grips his shoulders tightly.
“Listen to me, Octavian, we don’t have much time.” His voice is clear, the clearest thing in the chaos. His hair is wild, eyes shimmering with prophetic light.
“Olympus is falling. Will be fallen by the time you wake up.”
“We won Mt. Othrys,” Octavian defends, he doesn’t know why.
Apollo shakes his head. “It didn’t matter. Olympus has fallen.”
“Listen close, Octavian, my son,” son? “When you return to Camp Jupiter, you will find a white bull awaiting you. Bring it to my temple, slaughter it, and read its entrails. It will give you all the information you need.”
“I understand.” His mouth is dry from the defeat around them.
“And-” his Lord’s eyes flicker emerald, “-welcome your sister in me with open arms, or none of you have the faintest chance of survival.”
Octavian wakes up with a scream lodged in his throat. He gasps for air, pulling in desperate breaths of sweat-soaked air. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he tries his best to make sense of his surroundings. He’s in his tent, his legs still tangled in the thin sheets. His face is pressed against the dirt and grass of the floor, one arm trapped beneath his body.
Right. They’d won, won Othrys from the Titans, and had gone back to their battle-camp at the base of the mountain. They were to go back to New Rome, where Jason would have his Triumph as the new Praetor.
“I want you all packed up in 30 minutes!” Reyna barks from somewhere outside his tent. “Anything and anyone not ready to leave will be left behind!”
Octavian pulls himself up, focusing exclusively on the rehearsed motions of dressing and packing. He hadn’t brought much; he hadn’t needed any more weapons than his ceremonial dagger and a simple pilum. He secures the knife tightly on his belt, next to a plush bear with mis-matched eyes. The rest of his gear was light, just some food and water rations, blankets, clothes, extra stuffed animals.
He collapses the cot he’d slept on, strapping the clattering wood to the bottom of his backpack. He walks outside, hiding his grateful reaction to the fresh air. Not that anyone would’ve noticed, the camp was a flurry of chaos, yells in that typical Camp Jupiter blend of Latin and English. Raised voices discussing responsibilities and property and “you-stole-my-fucking-socks” that make Octavian thankful that he didn’t have to share a tent.
Although, it does mean that he had to be the one to take down his own tent. A task that, no matter how many times he did it, he never managed to do without looking like a complete idiot. However, if it was a choice between fighting his tent and thinking about his dream, he would much rather go several rounds with his tent.
“Need a hand with that?” Reyna appears after about the third time Octavian had cursed out both the tent and its mother for falling on him.
“Yes, please,” Octavian agrees as he pulled himself out of the fabric prison.
Reyna shoots him a weird look as she started to gather up some of the fabric.
“What?” He snaps, immediately on the defensive.
“Are you alright? Hit your head on something?” She doesn’t rise to the bait, tilting her head in question instead.
“What makes you say that?”
She puts a fist on her hip and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I can count the number of times you’ve agreed to my help on one hand. And you’ve never said please.”
Octavian bit his tongue inside his mouth. He’d never been so weak in front of Reyna before. He let out a sigh.
“Just…” He waves his hands uselessly. “Bad dream.”
“About?” A small amount of concern amount creeping into her voice. Right, he’s their augur, blessed by Apollo. A bad dream for him is a bad sign for them all.
“I’ll tell you later,” he promises. And, with that, they got back to dismantling the tent. It took embarrassingly little time with Reyna helping him, but that’s fine.
Once the tent was all packed away, Octavian buckles it to the top of his backpack. He shrugs it on, then turns to watch the camp. Despite all the bickering and yelling, the legion is almost half-way packed up. The glory of Roman efficiency.
Jason, with himself and the entire Fifth Cohort packed up, spots him and Reyna and comes jogging over. He’s got an easy smile on his face, but it drops slightly when he saw Reyna’s hard expression.
“Alright?” he asks as he comes close enough.
“Everything’s fine.” Octavian interrupts before Reyna can even open her mouth. Jason glances at him weirdly, but Octavian smiles.
“I ought to leave you two Praetors to discuss matters between yourselves.” Octavian nods and dismisses himself. He should’ve stayed with them, helping Jason understand the ropes of being Praetor and thus creating a debt, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.
The dream was still playing in the background of his mind. The look in his Lord’s eyes, something far too close to fear than he thought a god’s eyes could hold.
He checks in with the First Cohort, and everything is going perfectly. As expected. He nods to everyone, and they fell in behind him.
Octavian is sure that if anyone asked, he would not have been able to describe how they went back to New Rome. There may have been marching, or they may have been in a minibus; Octavian hadn’t paying attention.
They are just at the border of their city when Octavian hears a commotion ahead. He glances up to see a small crowd gathered around a gorgeous bull, as white as snow.
Octavian feels his blood run cold. He hadn’t doubted Lord Apollo, of course. It was just… different, going from dream to reality.
The Praetors approached the crowd first, as they were leading the procession. Octavian wasn’t too far behind, as leader of the First Cohort.
“What’s this?” Reyna asks one member of the crowd as Jason inspects the bull from a distance.
The man shrugs. “It just appeared this morning, walkin’ out the dawn and settlin’ down right here. We’ve tried everything to get it outta here, but it ain’t budging. Ain’t letting anyone get close neither.”
“Do we think it’s a gift from the gods?” Reyna asks. Octavian’s mouth is too dry to speak, to say anything.
“Must be,” the man agrees. “Any idea who it’s for?”
Reyna glances over to Octavian, and he opens his mouth to say something.
“Ow!” Jason yelps from over by the bull. He’s holding his hand carefully, like he’d hurt it.
“Jay, you okay?” Reyna half-yells to him.
“Yeah, just…” Jason walks back, still cradling his hand. “Static, I think.” He looks back at bull.
“It’s for me,” Octavian finally manages to say. Everyone looks at him as he walks towards the gorgeous animal. He takes a rope from someone, tying it easily around the bull’s neck. Those dark, dark eyes lock on his, and Octavian feels a shiver go down his spine.
“Come on.” He clicks his tongue, and the bull stands. He looks back at the Twelfth Legion, catching Jason’s eyes.
“I’ll walk behind you,” Octavian says. Jason nods, and they walk into New Rome.
Octavian watches as Jason gets onto his Triumph chariot, wearing a laurel wreath and dripping in flowers. He’s smiling, a wide grin that practically splits his face in two. The Triumph would start at the edge of the city, then go on a wide tour through the main roads, passing by Temple Hill then ending at The Forum for a grand feast. Romans: they never do anything by halves.
Historically, there would’ve been a slave with Jason in the chariot, whispering memento mori in his ear. New Rome doesn’t have slaves, and no-one had wanted to volunteer for the honour. Nobody had wanted to think about their new Praetor, their Second Eagle, dying.
Octavian feels a little like that slave, as he leads the sacrificial bull behind Jason. Memento mori, remember you will die. Memento mori, remember this will not last. Memento mori, remember this doesn’t matter. This doesn’t matter, it won’t matter, this is meaningless, all meaningless, the gods cannot help you now.
Someone throws a wreath of flowers at the bull, and it lands on one of its horns. The smell of hyacinths floats towards Octavian, and he turns away from it. He looks up to Jason, letting the son of Jupiter lead him to Temple Hill.
Octavian blinks, and Jason was covered in blood. Arrows pierced his arms and legs; a spear ran through his back. His dead eyes were wide with helpless fear, gaze locked on some horrid point in the distance.
Octavian blinks again, and Jason is smiling, waving eagerly at the crowd.
He’s never had a vision like that before. Faint impressions, yes, and the occasional vague aura beyond what others could feel. But never a vision like that.
Never a vision that would not come true. He almost feels like he’s watched the Fates go back and unpick part of their great tapestry of life, taking up their weaving once more.
Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be? The quote comes to Octavian, swirling around his head. A shadow of something that may once have been, but is no more.
He breaks off the procession once they get to Temple Hill. His feet start walking to Jupiter’s temple, but the bull pulls on the rope. He stares as the bull strains towards Apollo’s temple.
Right. That had been part of his Lord’s orders. He lets the bull walk him to the temple.
Apollo’s temple is always warm, greeting him with the feeling of sun against his skin. The rope slips from his grip as he basked in the warmth. He lets out a heavy sigh.
“Guide me, my lord,” Octavian mutters under his breath, barely aware of his prayer. A soft moo came in answer from the altar. The bull watches Octavian carefully, white throat bare and open.
Octavian has never sacrificed anything live before. His stuffed animals worked as sacrifice, effigies of animals instead of live creatures. They were nowhere near as powerful as the real deal.
He feels queasy as he approaches the bull. His hand tightens around the dagger. He knows how to do it, he’d learnt how to do a proper sacrifice before he’d gained his title as augur, it was part of his graduation: a written description on proper sacrifice etiquette. But now he can see his eyes reflected in the bull’s and he wonders how they’d managed this for centuries.
He does not throw up, as he cuts the bull’s throat open. He’s unreasonably proud of that. He still does not throw up as he butchers the animal, tossing the entrails out into the open.
His hands are sticky with blood as he pokes the entrails carefully, absorbing all he could learn from them.
It isn’t good.
“’Tavian?” Jason’s voice comes from the entrance of the temple. Octavian looks up. Jason and Reyna are standing just inside, the sun low in the sky. How long had Octavian been in here?
“Over here.” Octavian answers, scanning the entrails one last time, as though they could tell him anything different. Jason wrinkles his nose when he gets close to the dead bull. Octavian looks back at it.
“We ought to send that down to the feast, sacrifice it to the gods,” Octavian tells the Praetors.
“We’ll get a faun to do it,” Reyna agrees. “Octavian, what’s going on?”
He stares at them both, eyes full of hope.
“The defences in New York failed. The Olympians have fallen into Tartarus, and Saturn has claimed Olympus as his own.”
Reyna’s eyes widen, and Jason’s face is unreadable.
“The Graeci that managed to escape are fleeing here. We are expected to open our walls to them, no matter what.”
Jason nods. “I’ll inform the Senate immediately.”
Octavian shakes his head. “No, no. Go enjoy your Triumph.”
“But-”
“We won’t have much cause for celebration for a while,” Octavian says blankly. “Go and party.”
“Only if you come with us,” Jason challenges, one eyebrow raised. Octavian sighs; Jason always got so stubborn about this.
“Fine. Let me just wash my hands,” Octavian moves away from the Praetors, ducking into a side room with a sink.
He glances back at the bull entrails across the marble floor.
Sisters, one part read. Sisters and secrets.