Bab 1: Bullshit
AN
I've actually come to webnovel because a certain NightWalker013 began copypasting this while setting up his own patreon. This story is available on my site in pdf, for free. The Author Notes will be out of date, as I began this story years ago, but I can't get around to pruning every chapter of every story I crosspost.
Anyway, back to the story
Chapter 1: Bullshit
I have found out that I enjoy writing SI-OC stories, mostly bringing common sense in fantasy worlds that I find full with illogical holes of some kind. I read the Percy Jackson series and honestly found a refreshing take on mythology, people that already read my stuff know that I have a soft spot for it. So, I'll play around with a demigod, and like always, I'll try to make sense of a world in which magic and whatnot are explained in a blurry way at best. That's the main reason behind my choice of character; beyond that, I'll be playing around a lot, that is the purpose of fanfiction. I'll try to keep my facts aligned with the books as much as I can, only adding a tiny bit of realism here and there.
Since my stories are from the POV of a more or less jaded character, they come out showing a bit more the dark side of the worlds they are written in. But... that's kind of the point.
Feel free to point out what does not make sense in your heads and spare me your angsty outbursts.
I don't own shit beyond my character.
Have Fun!
Thanks to Megapede for the beta-work!
BULLSHIT
The forest was vast and different from anything else I had ever seen.
I was a kid, barely five years old, and I had memories of at least two other lives before this one, so I knew what I was talking about. The woman who raised me, a certain Helen, told me she was my sister, and more importantly, she was a motherfucking witch, which explained the absurdities of my home. I finished my usual break-neck run across the tall trunks (never leaving the trail) and walked into a garden that held a distinctly Mediterranean feel: myrtle, elderflower, laurel trees, I easily recognized a couple of olive trees.
The hut where I lived had grass over its roof, and a goat quietly munching over it, a chimney made with river stones, round and flat ones, with smoke leaving a trail up to the canopy of leaves which rarely let the sunshine through.
Thanks to my sister's lessons, I knew that we lived in the Tongass National Forest in Southeast Alaska, which was the largest national forest in the United States at 16.7million acres, 68,000 square kilometers. Most of its area was part of the temperate rain forest, itself part of the larger Pacific temperate rain forest. Naturally, the forest was so much bigger without actually occupying the planet's surface that it was hilarious.
The important element that few considered was that the forest had been there since the last Ice Age, with only a few humans walking on the outskirts of it only in the last few centuries. In a place full of life, like that vast forest was, nature sings its tune. And where humans do not thread, magic learns to dance.
Never constrained, never marred by humans, the forest had grown. Every single tree, young or old, held more sway in the deep of the forest than any human could ever hope to understand. It was defined as an old-growth forest, also termed primary forest, virgin forest, primeval forest, late seral forest, or forest primeval.
Not to say that the forest or the single trees were sentient, no, but they were undoubtedly aware. Luckily, with my mother being a witch and me being born in the forest, I was safe, even if I refused to stray from the path.
I had never been one for respecting what others see as holy, but that place was a sanctuary.
Since my previous lives had, at least following my memories, actually happened, I had somewhat an open mind. Even so, the ground did not make any sense. Following the ling trail that moved in strange patterns around our home, sometimes I walked uphill, sometimes I slid down what felt like a grass-covered cliff. It was maddening. Or it would have been, if not for the kindly reassuring tune, the charm around my neck kept up, humming for my benefit, reminding the forest of my mother's power and friendship.
The forest, while from time to time, intimidating, was nothing short of otherworldly. There were thousands of western red cedar, Sitka spruce, and western hemlock everywhere. Limestone and granite that made the ground beneath the soil also made hills and caves. Creeks became torrents and ended up in little waterfalls, the water spraying a thin sheen of vapor over the ponds and occasionally birthing a rainbow, answering the rare touch of the sun.
All that mystery and lively thrum in the air, however, paled in confront with the magic inside my home. Once I had closed behind me the small oak door with a bronze brass, I took in the rest of the hut.
Circular, with a diameter of easily fifteen meters, it had regularly spaced windows along its wall, which was made of piled fluvial stones held together by thankfully not poisonous ivy. The monotony of the circular wall was also broken by a cheerfully lit fireplace, and shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls. I looked with loathing at the shelves reserved for my non-magical studies.
Ugh, it doesn't matter how long I live; there are so many times I can study math from the start. I sighed.
Even if I was sure I had lived before, the memories of my previous lives, while consistent and bright, were hazy at best on the emotional side. I remembered crying in desperation for something, but I couldn't remember why, I could remember having sex and falling in love, but not the warmth I felt then. Even names were something I couldn't recall at all.
I remembered that the first time I was reborn, I had to figure out everything from the fact that I was given another chance at life, to where and when I was, to what to do.
This time I had much less freedom of choice, but I wasn't bothered by it, somehow, even having an old soul, albeit, with toned-down memories, I still had all the childishness typical of... well, the child I was.
I glanced at the tall mirror on the side of the room, a curly and blond-haired child with heterochromatic eyes staring me back. My left eye bottle green, the color of my iris behaving like glass, changing its shade with the light, while the other was of a smoke-ish dark gray, with the occasional silver spark in it.
If those eyes didn't confirm the existence of magic, nothing would.
My still childishly chubby face hid the features I would one day have, but my nose was small and straight, and my chin almost sharp.
I then looked upwards, like always awed at the absolute darkness that lingered between the wooden beams that sustained the roof and the ceiling proper. I lowered my gaze and let it land on the two single beds, which doubled as benches for the long oak table and looked at my sister, bent over an uninteresting book on human anatomy.
My strange witch-mother, of whom I shared the grey-eye, sharp chin, and admittedly wicked grin. I narrowed my eyes, looking for it.
They were like particles of dust suspended in the air and hit by a ray of sun. I could see them with the corner of my eye, almost beyond my perception, but not quite.
I focused on it, seeing the particles of dust looking more and more like sparks suspended in a golden mist, and forcing my will, I parted the charm on the cover of the book, discovering an ancient-looking, leather-bound tome.
My sister closed it with a snap, her eyes finding mine and her lips turning in a mocking smirk. "It's far too early for you to deal with this." She spoke in ancient greek, the language singing in my head and words falling in place like pieces of a puzzle.
I huffed, not raising to the bait. "But since you are so curious..." She started, and my eyes snapped back on her like magnets, "... I will get you started on runes, what do you say?"
I smiled, running towards her and quickly climbing on the bench. I had an idea as to why we spoke greek even while being in the Americas, and the dates on the more mundane books placed us after 1980, but more than that, I couldn't know.
My sister knew that I wasn't an ordinary child, if only because of my being furious when I discovered I was dyslexic. In my every life, I had been an avid reader, finding out that words were barely beyond my grasp had been, not nice. I had felt betrayed, and suddenly much more vulnerable.
My previous life experiences had managed to give me some sort of edge when dealing with either English or Japanese, but knowing that smooth reading would always be beyond me was dreadful.
It didn't help that I lived without any kind of technology. My sister and I made light with candles or torches, and cooked thanks to the fireplace, either in the shiny copper pot or on the flat volcanic stone. It wasn't bad, but I would have enjoyed just kicking back and watching a movie.
My sister ruffled my hair and took out a sheet of white paper, the pencil in her tapping it thoughtfully for a few seconds.
"What do you think is the purpose of runes, Icarus?" Her soothing tone asked me.
I hid a grimace at my name, it wasn't exactly a lucky one, but I understood that whoever named me, either my mother or my father, likely chose Icarus so that I could rise above the myth and actually reach the sun. That's some grade-A poetry right there.
"Well, ancient greek letters, besides being used for writing, don't have hidden meanings..." I started. "Not that I know of," I added, looking at my sister with narrowed eyes.
At her encouraging smile, I went on: "But alpha can mean a beginning, in the same way, beta can indicate a follower, and omega the end." I rubbed my chin, thinking about it.
"The real question would be why only these symbols have meaning, and why I can't make up one, or a whole alphabet." I continued.
My sister was beaming at me, and she bent forward: "What is the purpose of runes, Icarus?" she reminded me of her question.
I thought about it for a few seconds: "The one I give them? Since magic is also about intent?" I half answered, half asked.
She grabbed my face and kissed my forehead, a loud 'smooch' almost echoing in the hut.
Life, while a bit isolated, was good.
Seven years later
Usually, a twelve years old kid does not just pack his stuff and leave the enchanted forest on his own. For several reasons, but mostly, because
1) why the fuck would one wish to leave a magic place?
and 2) He is fucking twelve.
That very polished and undoubtedly exact reasoning did not apply to me. One day, my sister had vanished, without a hello, or a goodbye, simply... puff. Her shit and books had disappeared with her, along with our goats and chickens, the usual absolute darkness between the wood beams supporting the roof and the actual ceiling gone with her. I recognized an eviction notice when I saw one.
I was feeling... hurt? betrayed? Something along those lines. Still, I had packed my stuff, got dressed, and left without looking back.
The forest had kept its uncaring attitude towards me, but I had been running in it for years, I felt that my welcome had come to an end.
I had donned my military cargo pants and brown leather boots, my cotton shirt, my wooden jumper, and my brown leather trench coat, the bag with my meager possessions on my back, and my bowie like knife secured at my waist. I had walked south for days, resting the least I could, continuously parting the confounding magic that tried to ensnare my senses, stopping only to eat my rations made of smoked salmon and drinking the apple juice I managed to bring with me.
I didn't want to sleep into an enchanted forest without protection, thank you very much. I tricked my body into not feeling tired, my muscles into not feeling the strain and my bones into not feeling the ache. My twelve years old body, while undoubtedly healthy, could only do so much. The days had blurred with the nights, and I kept going south.
After three days, the tall, unending trees and their oppressive leaves canopy let go of me. The difference was not evident to the untrained eye, but the wariness weighing on my shoulders had left me. I kept going, walking through the night, the light of the moon and stars was not enough to light my path, only to make me distinguish north from south, but I didn't mind. I had lived for years with absolute darkness above my head, having the nightly one all around me was not enough to paralyze me. At the dawn of the fourth day, the trees had parted, and I had reached the almost barren coastline. I let out a relieved sigh, suddenly feeling more at ease.
I reached a small clearing, and with the expertise gifted me by years of living in a forest, I brought together a vast amount of wood and organized rocks into a twenty centimeters tall circle with a half meter of diameter. I walked to the nearest tree and etched an alpha into it with a hand trembling for my deep tiredness. Walking a counterclockwise circle, my knife etched a horizontal line on the trunk of every other tree until I reached again the first one.
I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and opened them again. With the familiarity born from years of practice, I recognized the not-real and not-actually-there dust particles suspended in a ray of sunshine, changing my focus on them and seeing them as ever-burning sparks suspended in a misty-fog. I willed it to warp in a circle, anchoring itself to the marks I had made with my knife, and when I saw the misty wall fall in place, I etched an omega under the alpha, locking it in place.
I amassed a bunch of wood in my stone circle and emptied on it half of the oil flask I had brought with me. Running the head of my knife's hilt on its sheath, I produced a waterfall of sparks, on the wood, which immediately started smoking, and soon burning. I placed around the circle the rest of the wood so that the would somewhat dry thanks to the warmth of the fire.
I left the clearing for a few minutes, coming back with several pine branches I had cut with a razor-sharp steel wire. It always pays to be prepared.
I placed the branches in a makeshift bed, isolating me from the warmth-eating ground, and finally allowed myself to fall asleep, my bag as a cushion, my magic as a shield.
A year later12-may 1998
I was sitting at a coffee shop, lazily enjoying my continental breakfast, an eye on the paper I had taken from a nearby table.
"It will be fifteen bucks, kid." The waiter told me. If he found it strange that a thirteen years old kid was on his own, reading a paper and having a breakfast that could fill two grown-up men, he didn't voice it.
I looked at him, and with a relaxed, vague gesture, I replied, "These are not the droids you're looking for." warping the golden fog around his head with a lack of care.
"These are not the droids I'm looking for." The man replied before leaving me alone.
Reaching civilization had its perks, beyond being able to magically trick the equivalent of muggles into believing that I had already paid for whatever shit I took, I managed to take up a paper and find out exactly when I was. It was cold, I was a bit without direction, but it was cool. I had reached New York six months before through very skillful use of the buses and common, helpful muggles that offered me a lift in their car. Magic was awesome, and I could safely ignore the obvious danger of accepting lifts by unknown people. The only question was: what to do now? I sighed, considering my options.
There is only one rule in New York: everyone is a nutcase. And my growing up in a forest had left me ill-equipped to deal with both the loudness of the place and the polluted air. That was why I had started living in an abandoned mansion in long island. It was isolated enough and had both electricity and running water; it was more than enough for me.
I had cut my hair short, stole a beautiful brand new pair of sunglasses (Ray-Ban for the win), and took up wearing sneakers instead of leather boots. Otherwise, my attire hadn't changed much; sure, I had an impressive collection of t-shirts from this or that rock band and hoodies, my first childhood dreams of going all 'Assassin Creed' with a white hood had come real after all.
Not that I went around murdering people, or climbing strangely on buildings, even if I had picked up parkour, my endless stamina demanding it. But I enjoyed it nevertheless. There were no secret quests, no cabals of evil old men, and no monsters to kill. Well, there where monsters, a lot of them, but they didn't harm anyone. I didn't let them see me, cyclops, and whatnot were some bullshit I didn't want to deal with.
I wrapped myself in the fog that separated the world I lived in from the one ordinary humans frequented. I didn't wish to be seen, and so I wasn't. I eyed with a raised eyebrow the cyclops on the other side of the road, who was looking around suspiciously. I sighed; I had overstayed my welcome.
I walked to my loaded pick up (obviously stolen), and half an hour later, I reached the private road that led to my home. I felt the warped golden fog that I had folded in several layers and anchored with a lot of runes all over the place. I parked the pickup and started unloading the provisions I had taken whenever something struck my fancy. This time had been a leather armchair from a second-hand shop. I looked it with a heavy frown, I had ensnared the guy of the shop to help me with placing it on the loading floor of the pickup, and I didn't know how to take it down and take it beyond the few stairs that separated the ground from the door of the mansion.
I was strong for being thirteen years old, stronger than any preteen had any right to be, but I also didn' want to drop the comfy armchair on the ground.
I thought about it; briefly, it was going to be a hassle, but building some shit to low the armchair on the ground lightly was going to cost me both time and effort. I eyed the shovel resting against the wall... If I found several of those, I could create some kind of ramp between the loading floor and the door...
I sighed, climbing next to my new armchair and pushing it on the edge of the loading floor of the pickup.
"Please, don't break." I lifted my foot and pushed the chair down.
With a solid 'thump,' my new, beautiful leather armchair landed on the ground.
I sighed: "Nothing's ever easy." I muttered, unknowingly slipping into ancient greek.
19-June 1999
The night was annoyingly loud. No, scratch that, the rain was. There was so much thunder rumbling in the clouds that I was forced to warp the golden fog around the house to dampen the sounds coming from outside. It would last until morning, but still, what the fuck? In more than a year that I spent living in the once-abandoned mansion, I had never seen the sky behave like that.
I was enjoying a cup of tea in my armchair, distractedly reading the leather-bound book that was the collection of my observations on the magic of this world, trying to make head or tails out of it. The vinyl disc was spinning Midnight Rumbler, from the album 'Let it Bleed' of the Rolling Stones cheerfully opposing to the downpour outside.
However, I heard a clicking sound that was not part of the song, Immediately identifying it with a door being lockpicked. I narrowed my mismatched eyes in the direction of the sound. That meant people. Which indicated that my, modestly speaking, very skillful bending of what I had come to define 'natural magic' had failed.
Luckily, the kitchen-living room where I spent most of my relax-time and where I had set up my music system was also equipped with kitchen knives.
I had my loyal bowie strapped at my side, like always, but it was wiser preparing for war. I rose from my comfortable armchair and picked up a couple of knives from the kitchen drawer, wrapping myself with the 'natural magic' in a cocoon with several layers. I walked in the corner next to the door and squatted down in the natural shadows; I had left my steaming teacup balanced of the armrest of the armchair, hoping that the intruder would be led to believe I was still there, unaware.
Over the music and the still dampened sounds of the downpour outside, I heard them walk in, before carefully crossing the threshold as quietly as they could.
Leading the way, there was a girl between 10 and 13 years old, shoulder-length, spiky black hair, electric blue eyes, and freckles across her nose. She had delicate features, despite those almost fairy-like traits, she wore a black T-shirt, tattered black jeans, and a leather jacket she was lithe, almost slender, which at her apparent age was somewhat rare.
After the punk girl came in a kid who looked fifteen-ish, with brown curly hair and brown eyes, he was on the tall side, around 1,70 meters. But there was something... I looked, in the same way, I had been trained to look at things that were there-but-not-there, and the air parted itself around the legs of my target. A fucking satyr? Really? I thought. The inconsistencies of the world I had been living in, lined themselves together, presenting a worrying picture.
After the motherfucking satyr came in a little girl, around six years old, trembling for the cold, she looked like an almost drown kitten, her blond hair almost dark brown since she was drenched. She was clutching a bronze knife as long as her forearm, and that awoke a blurry memory of an old story I had read once, lives before.
The last one was a boy, clearly the oldest, with sandy blonde hair cut short, blue eyes, a sharp nose, a sneaky look, and a golf mace on his hand. He was the boss of the strange-looking group, defending the rear, while the punk-rocker was the heavy hitter, and I had an inkling as who the two in the middle were.
They moved in, their eyes darting everywhere and not stopping over my hidden form. I moved silently, my will over the golden fog smothering even the barest sound of my footsteps until I was behind the last of the group. I brought my arms forward, in a parody of a hug, until the knife in my left hand pointed just below the ribcage of the target, and the blade in my right was at a hair breath from his jugular. I could see his friends slowly crawling towards my empty armchair; the Rolling Stones uncaringly kept singing.
I suspected not only who they were, but also in which universe I was, but I was hardly reassured. If I knew something of this world, it was that fate was a bitch, and a very present one. "Normally, I would offer shelter to any child who asks." My voice cut the tense atmosphere, turning it into a rightly bellicose one. The shouts of surprise and the other three members of the group whirled on themselves ready for a fight.
"Ah, ah, ah." I tutted, making the knives known to my target skin: "A move and he dies." I spoke to the others, my eyes running over their forms.
"Your names and why you thought to crash in my home was a good idea." My eyes traveled to the six years old girl who was holding her knife so hard her hand was trembling. But maybe it is fear. I considered.
"And why you thought that giving a knife to a child was even remotely wise," I added as an afterthought.
The kid I was threatening with my knives was as still as a rock, knowing that moving backward would let me kill him with a knife in the lung, and that going forward would see him with a slit throat. Incredibly mature of him.
"L-l-l-lets just calm d-d-down." stammered the satyr.
"And I also want to know why the fuck three kids go around with a satyr," I added again.
That froze them.m "You can see his legs?" the punk rocker asked, a frown developing on her face.
I raised an eyebrow, looking in her eyes. My silence underlined perfectly how much her question was stupid. She schooled her expression, and after glancing at the position of my knives on the body of her companion, her shoulders sagged a bit. I didn't relax my stance, and expertly ignored the outraged muttering of the five years old, knife-wielding, girl.
"My name is Thalia Grace." She introduced herself. Shit. I thought.
"I'm-m-m Gg-g-g-r-r-ove-r-r-r Und-de-e-er-woo-od." Stammered the gobsmacked satyr—double shit. I still hoped it wasn't true.
"Luke," Spoke the one under the threat of being killed "Luke Castellan, and the little one busy glaring daggers into your skull is Annabeth Chase."
"Bullshit." I sighed. It was the most eloquent answer I could come up with.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone