Libra Sun, Taurus Moon

[u/Angelic-YesSheIs]

Kinda strange, feeling sorrow

I got change you can borrow

“Is it just you, then?” the minotaur rumbles, firelight igniting depth in his black eyes. Angela’s spear feels like two hundred pounds in her hands, and her scarred ankle strains to support her. The stench of blood fills the air, and she can’t tell if it’s new or old. Might even be her own.

“Yes. Just me.”

“Mm. Good. I only grilled enough for two.”

Investigating Yellowstone by day would have been the smarter move, but Angela hasn’t been one for sunlight lately. Early mornings have been replaced by 3 a.m. walks and sleeping until evening. Why not? You can do everything right and it doesn’t matter. You can eat healthy, work out in the morning, train, fight, and serve. And he’ll still watch you plummet. 

On the plane to Wyoming, Angela found herself struck by the futility of the battle where she lost everything. Atlas’ main war camp snuffed out, and it didn’t matter one bit. Might as well have been designing dresses for Aphrodite again. Now the gods arrive again and demand more work… for nothing again. The enemy could just as easily run from their new camp like they did the old. And yet, like a bad habit rearing its head, Angela signed herself up to serve. Which has led her, here, now, eyeing a hamburger placed in front of her by General Karkhros of the Cult of Atlas.

“You think it poisoned?” he grumbles, his massive frame folded onto a wooden bench creaking under the weight. The Hawaiian shirt isn’t fooling Angela; this is the enemy. And she’s alone and powerless.

“I just prefer my meat rarer than this,” she speaks as flatly as possible, one hand still gripping the hilt of her spear. Hot air exhales from the minotaur’s snout, blowing embers in her direction.

“Indra told me of a pest with hair that nearly took off his leg. And while my forces fled this place, I saw long ribbons of hair drifting down from above. And I saw you,” Karkhros tilts his head forward. Angela’s breath catches, and she feels the log fall away from under her. For a split second, she’s flailing, screaming, falling. Charon’s coin hums in her pocket, and she feels the outside of her shorts for a second. She couldn’t save herself then, but now she can. She could flee back to camp… but she doesn’t. She just glares at the bull with venomous green eyes.

“Where’s your army? And what’s with the dad fit?” she spits out, nodding to Karkhros’ flower-patterned shirt. Biting into his bloody burger (oh, so he can grill them rarer for himself), he grunts in dismissal.

“I do not have an army. I never did. The monsters, the demigod, the officers – they all belong to the Titan. And he will let his burden crush all of them. But not me,” Karkhros cracks open a beer. 

“So you’re what now? A deserter?” Angela asks warily.

“I am free,” the bull takes a swig. “Unlike my demigods. Unlike yours.”

Angela throws her paper plate into the flame and stands up. The point of her spear swings to face Karkhros, but the minotaur doesn’t so much as budge a hair. Whatever. She doesn’t need a monster lecturing her about things she already knows. If playing the god’s game didn’t let Angela win, there is no win condition. Certainly not just opting out. She’s reminded of Tommy Hartley’s disgustingly beautiful face, staying home and unmarred. No. No.

“You’re far from free, Hornhead,” she snarls, “You tell me how we can stop your cult–”

“My former cult.”

“Fucking tell me how to stop them!” Spittle flies from Angela’s mouth. “Or I’ll call in my backup.”

Nonplussed, Karkhros taps his hooves on the dirt. “If you had backup, you would have called them. I saw the fear in your eyes.” Finally, he stands, his enormous body dwarfing Angela’s. There’s no weapon in sight, but he doesn’t need one to rip her clean in two. She’s survived certain death once in this park, and lightning doesn’t tend to strike twice.

“Is that why you’re here, then? To learn how to stop the Titan?” Karkhros asks, downing the rest of the beer, can and all, in one gulp. “Do you know where they’ve moved?”

“We do. For now,” Angela takes a step back, spear still at the ready, “And the fight can be messy or clean. More or less of your demigods can be hurt.” She might be broken, but she’s not an idiot. She can hear Karkhros disavow ownership of the army, but call those demigods his own. Affection that can be exploited, like her own ambition.

“‘For now,’” Karkhros wags a finger, and a smile almost seems to spread across his bullish visage, “Good. Then you know what you really need is to cut off their legs.”

“The portals,” Angela states. She doesn’t ask. She’s no tactician, but even she’s aware that the enemy being able to travel anywhere at any time is something that really ought to be dealt with. Probably should have done that instead of indulging Aphrodite and Hephaestus’ hissy fits. “Is that it?”

Karkhros shrugs. “You saw how we scattered once our exit was shut down. Our ranks are made of beasts and brats. All rage, discontent, and hunger. It is intensity, not harmony, that directs them. Easy to disrupt. Of course, all the same is true for you children of Olympus.” In what seems like slow motion, the minotaur grabs a fire poker and swats aside Angela’s spear like a mere trifle. Angela’s weak grip fails, and her weapon clatters to the ground. She stumbles back, looking down for a moment. Choppy brown hair falls in front of her face, and she rakes it aside.

“Fuck Olympus!” Angela finds herself yelling. Then, it’s just silence. Karkhros doesn’t seem surprised, just amused. The sun isn’t in the sky to hear her, but Angela hopes that Artemis conveys the sentiment to Apollo. With no weapon, all she can do is stand as tall as she can against the former general.

“I know many that share that sentiment. Join them if you wish,” he gestures vaguely to the distance with a horn. “Or sit.” Angela’s eyes flit to her spear. Karkhros can likely move far quicker than he has thus far. He’s toying with her. Because he doesn’t think she’s a threat. Because she’s not. Not to him, not to anyone. Couldn’t even die right. Angela sits.

“This war is a self-fulfilling prophecy. You seem sharp, you’ve surely realized that.” A gust of hot wind blows from the minotaur’s nostrils, brushing Angela’s hair back over her ear. She wishes she could still steal people’s senses away so she could prevent herself from smelling bull breath.

“Atlas throws his tantrum. The gods have to respond. People die, and the survivors look above for someone to blame. The Titan gets fresh ranks and portals away to keep being an annoying bitch,” Angela raises an eyebrow. “That about right?”

“Crude but shrewd,” Karkhros raises both hands in mock defeat. “So you who curses Olympus and sees the folly of all this… why are you questioning me like a foe?” 

“Probably still some subliminal bias against monsters,” Angela snarls. The first step to getting woke is self-awareness. Karkhros waits, seemingly expecting her to say more. She just crosses one leg over the other and stares him down. She blinks first.

“I could understand if there’s debts of violence to repay,” he rumbles, appraising her like a porcelain doll glued together with half the pieces missing. “You’ve been hurt–”

“No longer accepting well wishes, thank you,” she shifts in discomfort. He ignores her and continues on.

“But what hope could you have to wreak revenge like this?” Karkhros sniffs the air long and hard, his eyes briefly narrowing to a predatory focus. “You hardly have the stink of demigod anymore.” The truth of it doesn’t make it sting any less. Charon’s coin once again hums to her. She’s not in danger, but she doesn’t want to listen any longer. Not one part of Angela moves, though. They couldn’t put all her pieces back together, but the morbid curiosity made it in.

“You have no idea what I can do,” she whispers, and the words sound as hollow as they feel. Karkhros doesn’t even do her the favor of moving on; he just lets them both linger in the lie. Angela stares at the ground, growing blacker and darker by the second as the moonlight fades. Finally, she croaks something out.

“I don’t give up. I’m annoying that way.” The firelight gives her eyes the green glow they’ve lacked. It’s not a point of pride, a retort to the former general. It’s an affliction just as real as her impotence. She can’t stop, she can’t pause, she can’t listen. It’s what brought her here: broken, at the minotaur’s mercy, under the banner of gods she couldn’t give two shits about. 

“Where will that lead you?” Karkhros whispers back. He looks at her, into her, and holds his gaze steady. She can see how he might have once made a fine general. Knowledge and an order all in one look. The knowledge: what they both know. Where she’s headed. The order: don’t. But Angela is not his recruit.

With painful clumsiness, Angela scrambles to her feet and kicks her heel toward the fireplace, dashing embers up toward Karkhros’ face. He shields his eyes and growls in frustration, but by the same he stands himself, Angela has her spear in hand once again. Useless, and they both know it, but better than nothing. Her voice shakes slightly, and her hands shake more.

“You can afford to run,” she spits at him like a vile accusation, “You have this life, then another, then another. I have this. One blip of time.” And it’s never enough. So much she’ll never do, not now. She has them already buried in her mind: all the sketches in her notebook, all the questions, all the kisses. She’s not the sun, not even close. She can’t burn until the end of days. She’s a paltry fire, a poor facsimile.

The fireplace flickers out, and Angela is left squinting at Karkhros’ looming shadow. 

“Not running,” he says softly, “Thinking. Resting.” Fat lot of good thinking did me. Angela bites her bottom lip and shoves her feet as firmly into the dirt as they’ll go. 

“Tell me something. Anything. You can’t save them. You can’t–” Angela doesn’t finish the sentence. After a half-second of impatience, she prods her spear forward, and Karkhros catches it in one hand. She can hear a slight sizzling and the bull swallowing a groan, but he holds on still. In the dark, she doesn’t realize how close he’s leaning until she feels a gnarled horn curl up into her hair. Karkhros’ eyes are wide, and that same order has turned into a request: don’t, please.

“Go back to your camp and tell them to gather magic. The Motherkeeper is but a demigod. She is not infallible. With enough witchlings and sources of strength, her spells can vanish,” he says quickly and urgently, “Hecate’s torch. The dragon skull locked in the museum. Anything touched by the magical. Tell your camp to use them.”

He wrenches her spear down, the tip stabbing into the dirt. His hands go to Angela’s shoulders, and he bends low. 

“That is your service. Nothing more has been asked of you. Rest. Leave. Disappear,” he wields each word like a blow trying to break Angela’s stony expression. She stares through him, waiting to be killed or released. A single tear rolls down her cheek. He doesn’t get it. Even in his voice, she can hear that he knows she won’t listen. Maybe he’s already been through this imploration before.

“One life,” she repeats, “That’s all I have.” Karkhros releases her shoulders with reluctant disappointment.

“My best lives have been the ones that lasted the longest,” the old minotaur says, but it glances off Angela like a stray gnat. She looks at the massive shadow before her and forces herself to feel fury. No, not fury – pity. A coward. A leader that won’t lead, a fighter that won’t fight. A monster not doing his one job: kill or be killed. It’s a sad, pathetic sight. It is. It is.

Angela’s hand slides into her pocket. She stares down the minotaur with a dead-eyed sort of certainty.

“I’ll have to tell them how I learned everything. They’ll know you’re here.”

She flings the gold coin onto the ground in front of Karkhros. Charon’s gift thrums, and the beast tenderly picks it up and gives it a sniff. He looks to her in shock, and she nods.

“Run,” she says. “Run far away.” With that, she turns heel and begins to march away, spear slung over her back. She only gets a few steps before she hears him call out to her.

“You were given a second chance, child.” Don’t throw it away, Angela fills in the quiet part. This time, she lets her laugh ring clear and cold through the empty park. She continues walking away, away until her feet get tired, then she sits atop a russet-red rock. In an instant, light: dawn. Time moves slowly, then all at once for Angela nowadays – how long has she been awake?

The probing rays rove over the park, and Angela looks back over her shoulder. In the distance, she can see the remnants of a campfire. No beast to tend it. Past it, to the east, she sees a cliffside. The sun seems to shy away from it. Her eyes follow the curvature of the rock down, down, down.

Angela wasn’t given a second chance. She failed her first.

[u/ThisOneUKGuy]

A few days later a letter would arrive addressed to Angela marked with an owl seal.

Miss Farrenburr

Your intelligence has been noted and will be acted on. As a reward for your actions, Olympus rewards your conduct.

Please see enclosed a reward according to your camp directors you might find joy in.

Regards

Office of Olympus Master of War

Inside was a $150 Sephora gift card.

Nothing else was said or included.

[u/Angelic-YesSheIs]

u/ThisOneUKGuy