HOOK

He left everything behind - and perhaps this was the first time he’d truly been selfish, had finally done something that he wanted, left the memories and heartbreak now buried under where the tents used to be. And as he sat with their car - rusty, barely-there but theirs nonetheless - rumbling underneath him, it finally hit him that this was it.

It never really was the tracker holding him back, he’d come to realize, and if it hadn’t been for the man beside him, he might have been too afraid to leave, might have been too tempted to stay with something familiar, no matter how horrifying. But it was different now - the sun sat at the tip of his nose, eyes closed as he felt the breeze pass his cheeks, opening them again only to look down, willing his hands to stop shaking.

Would anyone blame him for leaving? Did it matter? There were a million unknowns ahead, the only sure thing between them being this car and the fact that they’d always be there for each other.

Where to? Link tore his eyes away from his hands and looked towards Ceydran at that, managing a small, though uncertain, smile. “Anywhere we want,” he replied, laughing, “but maybe first we find somewhere we can stay.” And as the car started its way down the road, he peeked his head out the window, watching the world slide by.

“Do you think this will change anything?” He asked, voice both hopeful and not. “What if - what if this doesn’t make anything better?”

The car rumbled to a stop on the small gravel driveway, shuddering as Ceydran turned the ignition off. He sat still, waiting for the numbness in his hand to subside. It was quiet. The tiny motel seemed to be almost entirely vacant, nestled under towering pines. Ceydran let out a slow breath, and got out of the car.

“Better is hard to define,” Ceydran had answered, starting to scan the exit signs for motels. “But we don’t have anyone breathing down our necks, do we?” It was hard to realize it, for sure. It had been decades since Ceydran had felt free. Perhaps he never truly had. 

The sky opened up before them, crystalline and blue, tall pines and sycamores climbing into it from the sides of the road. Ceydran switched the gear to neutral on the old Honda Accord that they had pooled their money to buy, and sighed. And then he grinned, wide and free.

He kept running his hand over the back of his neck, over the ridge there that he now felt phantom pain in. The tracker was deactivated, useless now he knew, but it was so incredible, so beyond everything he ever dared to wish for, that now that he had it it barely seemed real. The same was probably true for Lincoln next to him. Ceydran had experienced this before; had fought tooth and nail for the glory of an open seaside highway. But never like this; never with someone by his side. And never with such hope. They owned a car. Ceydran had never owned anything other than a few knives, an old book, and some whiskey before. It was glorious.

or, one timeline of infinite many. metzger profits off of suffering. did he know that his own impending death would give them all such glee?

Ceydran looked at Metzger, stygian and resplendent in front of them, and he roared. Spine lengthening, he felt his teeth sharpen and long, scaled fins spring from his back. The sand beneath him scratched, burned, but he flung himself at Metzger, black fury-blood dripping from his mouth. And behind him, the rest of the Menagerie sprang to life as well. 

Carter Wolff, Cerberus, pet of the underworld, snarled and shook his fur across his back. His claws left deep, furious gouges in the sand. Jin Choi, the Minotaur, protector and cage-keeper of the lost, felt his feet harden to hooves, felt his blood run with gold-power, felt his breath turn hot and real. And Chun Li Hua, the Phoenix, mother and daughter both of rebirth, and Lee Xue Er, the Caladrius, brilliant light of new beginnings, swirled around each other in a blinding beauty, faster almost than time itself and they dove, wings heralding twin futures. 

And suddenly there was a Basilisk, enormous and dripping with gleeful venom. And an Arachne, mandibles chiming in ominous delight. A Pegasus, silver moon-wings framing the smiling Elf on her back, flickering in and out of vision. The Nemean Lion and the Griffin roared, fur and feathers swirling in a storm of anger around them. A Hydra burst to life as well, scream of ecstasy at the gorgeous, gorgeous chaos around her. The Gorgon stood back to back with the Ghoul, sightless and sighted thrill intertwined. A Kelpie, a Rusalka, and a Swan bared their claws, bared their hearts with wild, horrible clarity to the darkening sky. A Kumiho dripped blood from smiling teeth, and golden eyes met black ones, those of a Siren, who opened his mouth, and, for the first time, sang a song of triumph. El Lechuza, he echoed him. 

CEYDRAN AECOR; THE KETEA

HOW DO THEY TRANSFORM NOW ~ transformations are, while not expressly painful, a generally unpleasant experience for ceydran. it begins with his face, then lengthens along his body, swirling scale armor while he enters the water. 

WHAT ARE THEIR ABILITIES ~ positive traits revolve around his size and relative strength and resistance to injury. negative traits include his inability to breathe or hear out of the water.

WHO IN THEIR FAMILY ~ from his time in the military, he knows it’s genetic. he also heavily suspects and believes his mother was also a ketea. he has a family tree of sorts that notes who the cryptids in his family were; unfortunately, it’s mostly unreadable.

what is ceydran doing at the Louvre? he doesn’t know and I don’t either!

i. help him avoid having to claim international amnesty

Ceydran isn’t super comfortable with this type of performance; he hates being on display and is also on the run from the u.s. government so cameras in his face are never a good thing.

ii. come be excited about dutch seascapes

He is, however, a huge nerd and would probably love to explore the museum. And on top of that, the rest of Paris if anyone wants to sneak out.

iii. try to get him on your side

As far as voting goes, Ceydran plans to stay neutral. He’s not convinced of Volkov yet, but he is certain he doesn’t trust Metzger. 

Jin went completely still at the confession, a silence fell between them save for the echo of the wind and the fire crackling in front of you. Had he known that about him? If so he had forgotten it and while the information should have felt like another puzzle piece in the picture of Ceydran being formed in his mind, it did more to disrupt the picture than bring it together.

How on earth Ceydran could stand Jin when he was clearly leagues ahead of him was a mystery. But Jin was glad he did. At least for tonight.

“I did.” Jin said and it was strange to talk about it as accomplishment when at the time it had been a rebellion from the strict curriculum laid out for him. “I became obsessed with getting as close to myths as possible and I thought by dissolving the barrier of translation the text feel more alive. But I couldn’t find anyone to teach me. It was one of the first times I broke away from academia and just did my own thing. Which was…..strange at first. Not having someone standing over my shoulder telling me what to read, how exactly to interpret the text. But that’s also what made it fun.” 

“But that’s…nothing. You-” He cut himself off. “I’m probably going to sound like a jackass, but that’s amazing that you’ve taught yourself….” Everything. All the small and large insights, his advice and technically skills. ”I can’t imagine…” There had been a time where Jin would have thought it pointless to speak if he could not manage to convey his thoughts concisely and coherently. Would rather remain silent than flounder. But how could he stay silent when faced with the reality of how impressive Ceydran really was. And yet how did he explain that if Jin was to look back on his whole academic career and all the people he had met within that he didn’t think a single one of them could hold a candle to him. Or what a shame it was that he hadn’t been there. That you wanted to know more about what Ceydran had read in his family’s library and if it mirrored all the night alone Jin had spent in his own.

“Can I ask what it was like? The library, I mean.”

Brilliance in the stars and right behind him, it seems. “That is incredible, Jin,” he says before he even realizes it’s coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t blush, exactly, but he does turn his eyes down, glancing anywhere else before inevitably back at Jin. He smiles, and starts to make a joke– You are a jackass– until he blushes for real and is shocked silent.

“It’s not,” he starts, protesting. “I was taught how to read, and I still can’t do math beyond basic multiplication.” He’s aware, peripherally, that what he’s done could be considered impressive. But to him it was only ever survival. It doesn’t change, however, the warm glow and ghost of a smile that spreads over him when Jin asks about the library. His library. 

“Well,” he begins, and is more than a little surprised at how his voice changes. “It was enormous,” he says warmly. “There was everything. Starting from the left there were science books, old textbooks and whatnot, maps and things. Then we had history, so much fucking history. My dad–” and here his voice hardens, becomes cold. “He built naval ships. So there was every book on naval war history that you could possibly imagine. I could probably tell you how to build a 19th century sailboat from scratch,” he chuckles, smiles weakly at the fire. “And then the other wall was my favorite, all the fiction. And at the top of the fiction, was a shelf you could only get to by taking all the book off and climbing the ones below it.” Ceydran softens, and glances up at Jin for a moment before staring back at his feet. “It was all that was left of what I assume was my mother’s collection. Ten or so books about the Cetea, including The Iliad and The Odyssey.” He sighs. “God do I wish I still had those copies. All the mentions of Ketos were circled, little exclamation marks.” He shakes himself out of his reverie, checks the heat and starts to scatter the coals.

He’s unaware of the Pandora’s Box his words have unlocked, has his back turned—when did you last stop to look behind?—to the potential damage he’s doing. Like a hurricane, only pushing forward, never stopping to wonder at the destruction lying bare in its wake.

Selfish as ever. He never claimed to be otherwise. Isn’t that what led to their downfall in the first place? Oh sure they can pin the fault on all sorts of outside factors: the cages they call home, the uncertainty that each dawn brings, the Menagerie itself. But in the end, they have no one to blame for the mess they’ve created but themselves.

Two sides of the same coin. One: unwilling to live, relinquish the past for an unknown future. Another: unwilling to give, determined to be undone by tomorrows to come.

“Not ever?” there is a quiet consideration in the way he draws out the silence between them now, humming under his breath. A sigh, and he’s shifting, turning to breathe against Ceydran’s neck, cheek resting comfortable against a warm shoulder.. “You should know by now I don’t know what I want. Isn’t that the problem?”

That, and something else. Hesitation, a moment of indecision; you can’t lie forever.

“Do you mean it, that you won’t let me go? You promise?”

Isn’t that the problem?

Isn’t everything? He sighs against that, feels warmth shift against his shoulder, into his neck. It’s hard not to lean into it, hard not to let the stiffness melt. He decides not to answer.

He thinks, about the promises he’s made in his life, when he’s asked this. He wishes, of course, that he could simply say yes with abandon. Promises don’t come easy when every one he’s asked anyone to make has been foolishly dashed. Hard when his own promises feel like little more than dust.

But what is left to tempt him? To know captivity, to despise it, and yet still choose it as a final resort...Two sides of the same coin indeed. He thinks, with warmth at his side, that his only option beyond this is death. Darkness surrounds them, swirling.

and what does that say about him, to be a thing befriended to the cold? to death? boy shivers in his own skin even with the sun on him and we say that it is merely what lives in his veins - holding back a scream, on the surface of lips, waiting. he knows the feeling too well of things living inside bones that are not his own, knows this cold.

if he died right here, would the boy even notice? for once, maybe death could be painless.

“it’s familiar now.” he says, voice more of a thing of the wind. call it a returning, to the dirt, to the bones underneath them. “my home - i - where i used to live, it wasn’t too different from this, almost.” hands wrap themselves around the steaming mug, feels it burning fingertips, doesn’t wince. “there was no snow, but… it wasn’t too different from this.”

(was your tomb cold, little rabbit? does it now live in your hollows after your resurrection, after your deaths, again and again?)

(did your jesus ask to live again? did you?)

“thank you.” said quietly, a ghost. he sips on the drink slowly, barely touching lips, more of a holding to mouth. doesn’t quite meet ceydran’s eyes when he speaks; somewhere over his shoulder, somewhere beyond them both.

“are you afraid of dying, ceydran?” fingers curl around mugs as if hoping to have it burn through skin with the question. “i think i am, all the time.”

They’re quiet for a while, sleeping souls as the world slumbers around them. Theo’s voice whispers away with the campfire smoke, and Ceydran looks up at him. “Familiarity goes a long way in keeping you warm,” he agrees, feeling alley-cold New York winters on his fingertips. 

Theo doesn’t swallow, and Ceydran frowns, but doesn’t mention it. Follows his gaze into the fire, into a tomb of rebirth. Fascinating, isn’t it? Ash to warmth to darkness. A jolt of something shivers down him as Theo haunts him, burrows himself deep into the recesses between spine and ribcage. 

And in the midst of chaos, Ceydran’s voice calling his name - the name not even Metzger knows him by - is enough to bring him back down, grip tightening as if he’s scared that Ceydran might fly away, that he might not be real. It feels as though there’s only a few good things left in his life and he wants to hold onto this one, if he had to choose just one. His body melts against Ceydran’s, steady and solid against his as he tells him - I don’t think we are - and it’s not what Lincoln wants to hear but an answer he knows he needs to accept.

“I always thought - I always thought I’d be able to go back after this, you know? I thought maybe I’d get to start all over again after I get fixed and now I don’t know anymore.” And maybe all the signs had been there from the very beginning - from the moment he walked into the Menagerie, the worried looks, curious eyes, pity on the tips of their tongues.

He wonders if Ceydran knew when he saw him - knew things would end up like this, blood and tears, broken arms and dashed hopes and all. Can’t help but wonder if he tried to protect him from everything, and despite it all, he manages a little smile at the small sense of relief that at least he’d been on his side this whole time. 

Eventually, he comes unglued from the older man, cheeks still wet and eyes still red, holds his arm out towards Ceydran without protest, unable to ignore the throbbing.  

“We could go. Get our things together and leave - we’ll go somewhere quiet, where nobody can find us and we’ll be safe there, right? I could come with you.” He does little to hide the desperation in his voice, thinking back to the night with Ceydran’s bag and room torn apart and how he had foolishly kept him behind - if only he’d known what would happen after that, if only. “I bet we could get other people to come with us, then we could all go together - never look back. Forget about this place.” 

Of course he knew. Of course he stares at Lincoln with bruises behind his eyes every time, imagining blood, imagining tears. It doesn’t make it easier when it’s suddenly real. He holds back a sigh, holds back tears and holds Lincoln tighter. “I know.” Doesn’t say that he knows but doesn’t understand, doesn’t say that he’s finally, finally realized that he has nowhere to go back to. Maybe this is where they go back to: tired arms in bloody bathrooms, strange cities and angry faces. 

“Someday we will,” he whispers, a conviction felt of experience, and stands up with Lincoln, taking his hand. “Someday when we’re sure it’ll be safe.” Doesn’t mention all the times it hasn’t been. Doesn’t mention the time Lincoln kept him. 

It should have offended Jin, a few years ago it might have, but he let’s out a low chuckle at the insult. “Jackasses, really. Hmm, so that what the common man thinks of us. We have a very diverse curriculum, I’ll have you know.” It’s an appropriate question, in spite of it’s framing, he doesn’t get to talk to about that side of his interest often and it must have been a surprise how quickly he had fell into the cadence of speaking quotes back and forth, each more layered than the last. It had certainly caught him by surprise and even before Ceydran had brought up it up Jin had been replaying the moment over and over in his head trying to remake sense of it.

Turning back to the fire, Jin cracked his knuckles absent mindedly. For a moment it seems he would leave his answer at that, but then he speaks again. “But that’s not where I learned it….” There is nothing but each other and the fire between them, perhaps it would be okay to admit to this part of himself. To pull back the curtain and reveal that despite his desire, he did not come into the world full formed. If only because he could count of Ceydran to not bring it up tomorrow. “I used to be really into Greek myths as a kid, really into it. A hyper fixation of sorts. My—I’m half greek and I guess I thought it was some way of connecting or maybe I just liked the way it sounded, who knows. Either way, it just kind of stuck with me and before I knew it I owned far too many copies of the Iliad. You can only imagine my surprise when I realized what I was. I almost went to school for it, took a class — you would have loved it or maybe not the professor had very interesting ideas about the Odyssey to say the least —  but I liked law and it had the added benefit of paying better.”

It is not until he has finished talking does it hit how loaded the statement had been, there’s something about atmosphere that has all the effects of their usual hang outs, except now he was sober and fully aware of himself. Jin turned back to Ceydran. “But since we’re pointing fingers, where did you learn Homer?”

The wind blows through the air with a gentle bluster, sending pine needles down that shimmer into sparks in the fire. Ceydran smiles. Of course it was a childhood hobby. The way Jin speaks the words, like an heirloom hidden under a bed and pulled out, held close to his chest, is telling. “I probably would have hated it,” he chuckles softly, poking the fire with a stick. “I was never good with teachers.” A deep breath, and he watches the smoke curl into the clouds for a moment. Dissipation. “You know I only went to school until third grade?” 

unrest befalls the boy, but it is unsurprising. has known forty days without sleep, without food - (blinks, morsels, knows how a body can cling on to life so desperately while being so delicately entwined with death) - and while this is too reminiscent to times long passed, boy is still counting.

boy knows the gnawing of stomaches, the pricks of cold on skin. counts the scratch marks it makes on bones, the number of needles going through skin.

(he is in the millions. it began long before this)

a familiar voice, familiar figure calls him over and what pieces of him that was not lost in the snow - (then, now) - shambles over, steps slow. could be a thing dead himself, with how the shadows paint him as something gaunt, dark circles under eyes.

“it’s - it’s not too cold, i’m okay.” he manages to mumble, despite frozen hands being held too still in front of the fire. “there’s no - no need to worry about me. i already know… know it’s not time for me to die yet. not here, not like this.”

Theo steps into the light of the fire and he is translucent, ghostly things so barely present Ceydran almost starts at the sight of him. He looks more ashen than the smoke that conceals him. And his words do nothing to elucidate his figure, act only to conceal, to rebury, to sink back into fog and snow and disappear. He seems to be dissipating before his eyes, so Ceydran reaches out and carefully takes his hand. Pulls him to sit next to him. 

“I know you’re not going to die,” Ceydran murmurs, stoking the fire higher. An errant bluster of wind causes it to flicker, but then the flames leap higher and the warmth is bright against his face. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be uncomfortable now.” Theo is so still, he notices. His eyes flicker open and shut, exhaustion clear in the tilt of his gaunt frame. Ceydran frowns. He knows cold, knows the way darkness and the ache from inside your chest can combine to still your whole body, freeze you to a solid core. He picks up his metal mug from next to him, half empty of disgusting instant coffee, and adds a lump of ice from the ground, inspecting it for dirt before deeming it safe enough. With his metal hand he places this on the fire, letting the tepid liquid inside heat to boiling over glowing coals, watches flame lick metal and pulls it out, wraps it in an oil covered rag meant for cleaning. 

Her eyes are wide, but not once does she look at him even if her eyes pass over his features, she doesn’t look to the city. She doesn’t mean to flinch with his voice, even when she expected it, the sound still rattles her, makes hearts beat faster, makes heads hurt, before it sinks in what she had done, like guilt if he thinks she flinched because of him, for him to think her shivering is because of the cold.

It’s his next words that sink hearts further, close throats, and somewhere a mother reminds her of her eyes, that someone would take them out, and do you feel it still with all your empathy? Do you feel someone pulling out your eyes if you run, it’d be her fault, she learned that well. Words almost desperate in their softness, “No, no, they can’t be that bad, Ceydran, Are they okay, if I say they only hurt a little bit,” she’s not a good liar, trying to talk herself into it too. “I don’t care if they scar.”

She follows him, like a ghost, eyes like they could belong to one, blinking at the water bottle, at the jacket on her shoulders, as if confused where they came from before blinking past fog. “Thank you.” And she can’t catch the deeper worries from his words, not with her mind now. “What are you sorry for?” A real curiosity.

There’s panic he knows, in the way she pleads to him to tell her she’s alright. His brow furrows in concern as he watches her sit carefully, keeping herself together through pure force of will. He won’t lie to her, can’t, not when truth is the only thing he has left to offer. “You’ll heal,” he assures her, trying to keep the fear in his stomach off his face and out of his voice. “But it will take a very long time if you don’t get real help.” 

She’s still barely there, still touching reality with the fleeting glance of someone who’s universes have collided far too violently. Pain only known in dreams is terrifying when it cannot be wiped off with the tears and a fresh pillowcase. “Have you had anything to drink?” he asks, knows not a thing of drowning in fire, knows not how to help here. 

“So many things,” he whispers, soft into the cobblestone so she cannot hear, then, to her: “For not being there.” 

LOCATION: just outside st. petersburg, around a campfire

STATUS: closed for @minotaur-unslain

Soft crackling of pine sap in a fresh fire sends a pleasant smell of warmth around them as they take a last break before reaching the city. It might not be totally necessary, and it might be more of a risk than anything, but the quiet freedom of the pine woods that they’ve been trekking through, easy conversation and easy silence, has made them all more willing to take their time, to savor this. The others have split off, making final preparations to go into town, but Ceydran offered to stay and watch the campfire dwindle until it’s safe to put out, and Jin offered to keep him company.

Had he not been half-frozen and out of his mind with cold, he might have noted the reaction his closeness garners—might have responded in a similar manner to a familiar touch made strange with time and distance. A breath of chilled air, insistent and biting against already damp skin, makes the boy curl into himself more, reflexively recoiling from the unwelcome exposure that the loss of his blanket leaves him with.

It only lasts a second, perhaps not even, before a heavy layer of warmth is draped around his shoulders, and feeling is slowly restored to his numbed nerves. He blinks at the fire—imagines his very eyelashes gone stiff with frost, every movement made stiff and brittle—and tries to focus on the flickering orange and red heat as the siren turns over what’s said.

One year—he stops going down to the beach after November, avoids the water’s edge whenever they stop by a coastal town. Because he’s not the only one who seeks refuge from the eyes that watch them day-in, day-out, amongst the lapping waves, and knows all too well what haunts the pebbled sands at night.

Two months—once, he slips up, breaks the unspoken rules they set to maintain their sanity. It is the first time, and it will not be the last. He finds himself in the bottom of yet another bottle that night, lost amidst gods who become men under soft neon lights.

Twenty-one days—when does he stop counting? When he runs out of fingers. And toes. And ribs to spare. It’s better not to remember, better not to wonder where the missing piece of his heart has gone. The camera still sits at the bottom of his dresser drawer, battery dead and memory card full. Waiting.

“You said you wanted to take a break, right?” the question comes out laced in mist, white noise. He leans back against the one who has always been his anchor, the center to his orbiting satellite. “So? Are you ready to let me go now?”

A settling, it’s like, where they become just one small orbit around this warmth, all else unseen in the blizzard. It’s hard to notice loneliness, until everything goes silent and to have that chill warmed is so terribly, achingly close. 

“I think we should take a break.”

He blinks back tears and is surprised, so surprised it makes him jolt a little bit, budges him out of his stupor. What am I doing? I thought we were done with this. It’s sweet, the way Noah says it, and Ceydran feels some emotion he can’t quite place pass over him as he realizes this is the first time they ever talked about that, ever even acknowledged it. They’re not technically broken up. Noah has been waiting for him. It’s too cold for tears, but that will not stop them. They’re silent on his cheeks, freezing over. 

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

There are no words, even, that he can bring to his mind. It seems as every power of speech has left him, and he knows the silence must be unnerving to Noah. He simply breathes.

“You are.”

At first, his hopes sink. A palpable hollow where his chest is, upon mistaking Ceydran’s tone for nonchalance. Assuming his friend to be leaving out of convenience, and not for the greater good. So Carter doesn’t answer. Simply sighs as he follows the other out, hugging his jacket closer to himself, half his face tucked into a thick scarf.

But then he extends a single hand, a wool sweater there just for him, and he doesn’t miss that soft confession. And a smile graces his features, a nostalgic one that reaches the eyes, as if he’s greeting a life long friend. The boy learns, at this very moment, that Ceydran is much more selfless than he appears. But just as much, he deserves a break now and then; moments to take care of himself. Carter makes a mental note of this, a note to be a patient friend.

“I want to do the same too. Even if it’s just for another day of safety,” he echoes, for that’s what it should be about. Fighting for another day for those who matter. Carter takes the sweater, pulls it over his shirt, after offering his thanks and an affectionate hand on the shoulder. 

“Is it always worth it? The long trek to new lands?” he muses ( but for once there’s more optimism there ), imagining that Ceydran is no stranger to this.

The smile that crosses Carter’s face, slowly, warms Ceydran more than any fire has yet. None echoes on his own lips, but his eyes alight with a kind of brightness that hasn’t been there in a very long time. 

Just another day. Another day of the same shuffling walk towards oblivion, another day fighting for nothing but another breath. Just another day. Another day of taking kindly provided coffee from gentle hands, another day with weary fingers becoming lighter across ivory piano keys. Just another day. Fight long enough, and those days might become weeks, become years, become a life you’re living. Become a home. Ceydran sighs.