Julian Dorado, MD

Julian was returning from the mountains with his basket of dew-touched herbs and snow dusting its wicker base, leaving his cheeks ruddy and eyes a Mediterranean blue, bright and sharp from the contrast. He briefly looked over Maverick, pausing by the camp’s bonfire. “You need a tour of the place, don’t you?” 

it was both the softness in the other’s quivering words and the sorrow etched upon his flickering blues that spurred credence to embrace julian then. he had been meaning to for the past few minutes, but now he could not resist it. whereas his one arm snaked around jules’ waist, the other wrapped itself taut around the man’s neck, pulling him flush against his own body. 

“i won’t leave,” credence muttered, tone like wind through hollow reeds, distant for a moment before it gathers. he pulled away a little after a moment, but to make their gazes lock together. “i won’t leave, jules,” he echoed as he cupped the doctor’s cheek. “and, you’re not alone.” the kindest hearts felt the most pain, and he couldn’t imagine julian’s now, but he could console it, lessen it. sometimes, there is peace at the eye of the storm. “there’ll always be people there to fill in the ones who’ve left us, and we start over when that happens, begin anew. that’s way this works. you’re not alone, jules, and you’ll never be.” he patted the other’s cheek again, trying to reignite some of that classic julian warmth. “come on, give me a smile.”

-

He wanted to rip himself out of Credence’s touch. Not because of how nice it felt, how it soothed his heart in ways only contact could, but because he thought it’d go away. Forever. That he didn’t deserve the man’s kindness after his own bitter resolution and penchant for driving people away. Bastion’s departure hit him the second deepest, with the first being Vincent’s own. But he melted into it, the hug. Julian made a strangled noise and wrapped his arms around Credence like a vice. Warm, strong arms kept the man there while his head dove into his neck. Poor Credence; the doctor’s scruff no doubt itched or prickled his skin.

When he pulled away, he leaned into his hand and swallowed hard. He won’t? He won’t leave? Are you sure about that? He had nothing but the words to go off of and his fierce eyes, etched with promises and secrets he either had some knowledge of or not at all. You’re not alone, Jules, and you’ll never be. He didn’t know. Julian wasn’t sure. He was doubtful, frustrated, hurt. A wounded animal keen on letting no one near his fatal wound as it consumed him in front of the very people who could save him.

There was strength in kindness, but there was also weakness. Wasn’t that something Vincent taught him, that being intimate was a horrible fate, that letting someone inside could very well end him? I thought I taught him love, care. Julian tried to shake the curly silhouette from his mind and the smiles that came with him, too. He focused on Credence, offering some kind of smile. It was a little haphazard and bordering a quivered lip, but he tried. Julian always did.

The moment electricity came to the camp and swapped their burning torches for chandeliers and light bulbs, the first thing on his mind wasn’t to play on Grey’s switch with the man or watch movies on a tv probably stolen from Belarus. He wanted to check his phone and emails.

Julian rushed into Voithos and descended the wood steps to their underwater rooms, where he swung open his door and the neatly-scripted ‘Julian Dorado’ sign shook on the knob. He pulled out his laptop from his bag and went to charhe it. But his phone? Turned it on and watched the battery read ‘50%’ . He swallowed and his throat was suddenly dry. Shakey hands unlocked the phone and browsed through his messages. Most were about the hospital and his patients, then those stopped a month in. Some were from family about little errands and those, too, stopped a month in.

No matter how hard he looked and how many messages he thoroughly read, none were from Vincent. Tears welled in his eyes and he turned his laptop on in hopes his emails were different. He gave him his phone number, email, full name and even his pager, of all things. But none had Vincent, not even a voicemail. “Nothing.”

There was nothing.

Julian shut his door and pulled at his hair, letting the tears fall as his lip quivered and heart slammed in his chest. “He left me nothing, not even a single message.” The last thing they had was their breakup. The only thing he had of Vincent was the bow. He glared at the damn thing, teeth bared and bright blues wallowing in his anger.

“I gave you everything and you left me nothing.”

the oh made credence’s heart twist. this was akin to setting fire to an explosive and saying sorry when it burned. he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d unknowingly wronged julian somehow, mistakenly weaved a lie about what they were. by now, he knew a sorry would not be adequate but he uttered it nonetheless, a soft, whispered “sorry,” a word credence wright seldom said.

when julian’s question came, his eyes that were cast to the grass beneath them snapped up towards the doctor, the gleam in them as fierce as his tone. “of course, jules,” credence said, or rather, promised. “friends, allies, companions—you name it.” they were all things he seemed to be running out of and that made julian, yves, viktor, asher, and all the others that hadn’t left so much more precious. before, credence wright’s understanding of friendship was twisted and selfish, but now it was something entirely new. 

friendship, he learnt, made all the pain worth it. 

“some of us are still here, jules.” the words came out soft yet resolute, unyielding. “you’re not alone in this current fight and you won’t be alone in the next, too.”

-

No, a sorry didn’t cut it. Emotions had minds of their own for better or for worse, either aiding them in a plight to heights logic never allowed, or sinking to dark depths logic easily avoided. He didn’t feel like he wasn’t alone. Credence was there, yet not. Yves, Viktor, Asher, Keaton--they were still standing yet he couldn’t have felt so distant to them. They stood at Mount Olympus, while he all the way back in Chicago.

Was he even improving, growing? Or did he stunt himself to a perpetual sadness and pity that’d make anyone wrinkle their noses or scoff. The doctor forced his gaze to stay on Credence as he spoke, quietly swallowing for the almost naïve resolution. He admired the man’s optimism; that was once his own, very same words flung back at him like salt to an open wound. 

Where was your optimism now, Julian Dorado?

Somewhere in the underworld, where he was last with Vincent. 

JULIAN; greco-french brunch

   This place was definitely some hodgepodge camp snipped together from novels like Narnia and Harry Potter since Wren just got done talking with a walking, talking, and dare the demigod say charming cat-man for some french toast sticks. On his plate were more than enough french toast with some fresh fruit and berries, with his side of maple syrup that was warmed and smelled amazing. 

    “Do you mind if I sit with you?”  he’d ask Julian, waiting for a second, before sitting across from him. “I’m still wrapping my head around those goat-people and I don’t want to seem rude by not, not sitting with them y’know?” 

-

If it were any other day, he’d offer a laugh and grin up to Wren. But after their latest changes to camp, he wasn’t feeling too hot. Instead, he supplied a lukewarm smile and let the new recruit sit across from him. He wasn’t from Voithos--he would have known by now. Julian had a sparse breakfast on him: sunny-side eggs, guacamole, diced celery and seasonings on top of it all. He cut up his egg and took a bite. “You get used to it soon enough. They’re kind and want to help for the most part,” he offered Wren as a truce of sorts. 

At least this newbie wasn’t on his high horse.

the hug is unexpected and he freezes against julian. his arm comes up reluctantly to hug him back. there’s a desperate need for warmth that doesn’t come, not yet at least. he wonders if julian can feel it radiating off him in waves, if his own cold chill would infect the rest of them. 

“it’s not your fault, don’t be sorry.” i was the one that died, i was the one that was too stubborn to back down. his mind tells him. “there was something else. after. a warmth.” he admits. what he doesn’t say is it’s a warmth he wants to chase again, wants to feel and bathe in. “i think, wherever i was, when i came back, it made me forget about it. i don’t know where it was.” he says slowly, a frown creasing his brows. 

“you guys never needed me. you’ve all lasted this long.” 

-

A warmth.

It’s hard not to be sorry for a man they’ve all looked up to, even himself. He keeps Gideon close for as long as the man lets him, even with that initial freeze and reluctant follow up. Julian can’t say where it was exactly, not from first-hand experience. If he died from the hellhounds, would he have ended up where Gideon was? Would he have gone anywhere at all? He doesn’t feel like a hero. He feels like a failure, a thief of people’s inspirations and trust, where he can tip the scales for their favor if he likes them or against them for the opposite.

He isn’t cut out for the healing role if he’s selfish.

“You’re wrong, Gideon.” He stares at the man, cutting that doubt as short as he can allow. You can’t be doubting yourself, too--please. Please, don’t do this. “If we didn’t need you, you’d never have arrived to camp. You’d never have fought alongside us or for us. You wouldn’t be here at all. Whether you like it or not, we need you. The gods aren’t on our side, only we are.”

𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘, 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒; he wasn’t exactly expecting this, but then again, he should’ve seen it coming. kite watches julian as the man speaks, a wretched grin growing on his face with every insult.

“heh… i see illusions aren’t the only C-tier magicks you possess! puhaha… simple words have no effect against my magic armor! puhahahahaha!!” 

the laugh, though it starts forced, seems genuine by the end - and when julian initiates the staring contest, kite is quick to riposte.

“very well, i’ll play your game, lowly worm!” he replies, surprisingly animated for someone who was just called out so thoroughly, “if you must know, i traded my heart for an evil eye long ago… tch, just another useless organ. but you could never understand. how could you? your astral level may be high, but you are still a mere human. 

only the singularity will shuffle off this mortal coil - not a human doctor. and when it does, my soul will be free to wander the 3,000 realms untethered… it will be truly momentous. i shall fill all of them with true hell, beginning with yours!”

-

“Go ahead; I’ve already been to the underworld. I’ve help fight Charon and Dexter secure his father’s relic. Call me whatever you want, insult me however you please. But believe in one thing: my healing does not come free of charge.” Julian gives Kite’s manic smile and grin a blank, unimpressed look. He isn’t one to be degraded so easily, not quite. Being beaten up can either raise one’s self or lower them into a self-dug grave. Self-fulfilling prophecies are a bitch.

He continues towards the infirmary, then goes inside to drop off the gauzes, band aids, suture kits and rubbing alcohol. Julian looks Kite’s way afterwards, now left with clothes to give to the village. “If you want to test your mortality, be my guest. If you think I’m only a human, why would I be in this camp? Why would I go to hell and fight hellhounds, raise my friends from the brink of death, or risk my own life fighting the ferryman to the underworld?” Humans don’t go anywhere, not from what he now knows. Here he was, thinking Heaven and Purgatory exists for people like him. 

“well, that’s a first.”

he said it quietly, stirring his cinnamon spiced tea with a silver spoon. the ripples were faint, churning like the thoughts in credence’s head, fragmented sentences he can’t quite string together to soundness.

standing here, next to julian, credence wright felt the most selfish he’d been in … ages. trying to find comfort in julian, or lending the man comfort was too self-centered now. no matter how he did it, the act would always be done as an apology, as a sorry, for what julian had given to him and what he’d been unsuccessful to give back.

but, credence had no choice in the matter, no influence. his heart was its own entity, its own wilderness, its own storm – and a hypocrite, for it twisted once he finally looked up at julian. “let me help,” credence offered, nodding at the cart the man was pushing. had julian found out? about xavier’s return? he couldn’t ask. as they stood there, a cold quietness between them, his only thought was gods, i should have stayed away.  

-

He softened his gaze as Credence closes in, cinnamon in the air like a trademark aura to the storm witch. Warmth and kindness wrapped under lightning and a thunderous rumble that was meant to deter the weakest of hearts. Julian gave in after glancing between crate and man, then crate again. He offered some of the belongings to him--clothes from his own house, but they weren’t his. Past healers that left, past people in their lives.  “Okay,” he whispered.

What he’d do to not lose more, it was almost against his nature. 

what is the reason for his returning? a need to appease someone? the fact that dexter had stayed so long in the underworld and didn’t know about those up top? the fact that he was the only demigod that they’ve lost—that dexter knew about—and that was why hades allowed it to happen? was he destined for more? what was destiny but a fickle bitch who toyed with their emotions and teased them time and time again? 

gideon inhales and holds the breath in his lungs. the icy chill of it doesn’t make him feel any better. 

“an emptiness.” he answers honestly. he catches julian’s gaze and holds it, letting the heavy words sink like an anchor. 

-

So there is no true afterlife, then. A perpetual state of non-existence, an emptiness. Maybe a suspension in time for the rest of eternity--if it never ends. That is the meaning of eternal, isn’t it? Julian looks--to him, at him, through him--and frowns. He feels that icy chill trickle down his back and slowly seize his nerves. It spreads to wrap around his chest, lungs, and heart to squeeze what warmth he kept to himself out and snuff it. 

Not for good; it’d come back as always, like an abandoned pet left to the wild. Julian moves his other arm and brings Gideon in for an embrace. There’s an initial hesitation for the act, debating whether to give in to his desires and cravings for touch or abandon it for something harder: distance. Run a mile away and leave his heart in the dust once and for all. “I’m sorry.” This isn’t Gideon the smirking, determined man that sways their camp and bolsters camaraderie. It isn’t the same man from capture the flag that has unwavering loyalty from his team. This Gideon has that same charisma and influence, but that determination and supernatural stubbornness is broken. 

𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 the front wall of the infirmary, eyes cast towards the ground even as julian speaks; black scarf bunched over the lower half of his face. 

“hmph.”

it’s all he can answer with, in response.

“your illusion is C-tier at best - i could smell the truth of your ‘astral level’ as soon as you wallked up without even utilizing my evil eye…

the only question that remains is why.” 

the son of hephaestus stands straight once more, too-perfect posture preceding him. it’s only now that he looks at julian - but only ever with a glance. his arms remain crossed against his chest.

“i am kite eklund, prince of darkness, supreme overlord of pandaemonium & now… heh, the true master of the forge.” 

it’s a bold boast, especially coming from someone who’s only visited the forge once and was promptly threatened afterwards, but julian doesn’t need to know that. 

“now, state your true name. quickly: this devil’s patience already runs thin…”

-

“I am kite eklund...the true master of the forge.”

The true master. True. Master. Master? Julian’s eyes squint and he scans over Kite, trying to give himself one reason not to deck the poor soul. First impressions are everything and this Kite Eklund is being an absolute piece of shit. “Were you always misbehaving as a child to get attention you never had?” He drops the question swiftly enough, in a cool, weighed tone. He tightens his grip on the handles of the box, nose wrinkling for the man’s words. It is his plan to get under his skin, annoy him to get some kind of attention.

Good, bad, he must want all. Loneliness or desperation be damned. 

gideon knight is not ready for the storm that is brewing in julian dorado. he is not ready for the questions. he is not ready for the guilt, the anguish, the unrelentling waves of it that would beat him like water against rocks. he can see it in those icy blue eyes, can see the depth of his frustration and sadness. it’s palpable. if it wasn’t snowing already, the air around them would turn to ice. 

there’s a scorn to julian’s gaze, he thinks, as if there’s a score to settle, a vendetta that must be sealed. the question punches a hole through his chest and gideon does his best not to flinch at it. between credence and hudson, he knew he would be safe with his return. this is what he wasn’t prepared for. 

“i—” he starts, not knowing where to go, where to start. but he knows that julian wants and expects truth. so he’ll give that to him. “i didn’t ask to come back. i was happy.” a pause, a palpable silence. “at least i think i was.” 

-

He’s upset, but he’s understanding. He’s tired, but he’s kind. Is he unrelenting, stubborn to the death that Gideon had been? Still is, perchance? Maybe so. Julian is so many things, but after the same routine, more or less, in such a short time? It’s best to leave his heart in his chest, where it belongs. Good thing he buried the ring months ago. He can sense the truth off the son of vengeance, justice. Gideon’s not steered him wrong and he doesn’t think anyone--once dead--would dream of returning so soon. Or at all; isn’t it better on the other side? 

At least Gideon can answer that. He softens his gaze, features domesticating themselves from a sterile shape that it’s almost alien to his kind nature. “I don’t think anyone asks to be back, but there’s a reason you’re here,” he says, tone shifting to a kinder note, as if it’s an olive branch between them. So he nears at last, reaching a hand out to rest on Gideon’s shoulder. He’s tired, he’s weary, and his heart’s far to weak to handle another blow. Maybe he’ll come back too, right? But we broke up. He gave me his violin bow; I’ve not gotten a text from him even when I travel to the cities. I’ve not heard anything.

He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.