David wasn't usually introspective. Or. A thinker in general, really. He was prone to surging from one activity to the next, one distraction or adrenaline rush to the next. Yes, it was something he enjoyed, more than most. Risking it in smart ways. The comedown was infrequent, rare even. Too busy enjoying the rush and roar in his ears to let himself linger for longer than a beat or two before he was moving on from it. Arriving back at camp, he was still on the high of it. Victory on his tongue (along with the fancy ass vegetable something Gus had made for them), he still felt it. Smacking around a training dummy to burn off a little more of that excess energy? Still on the high.
It was when his arms got too heavy to keep swinging around his new glaive that the rest of it started to sink in. Things unsaid, unaddressed by the others but recognizing in himself with some time. All he was, really, was a force on the battlefield. Which he wanted to say was good enough, right? A child of chaos, unleashed on the warpath. A wild and untamed thing that just... Lost himself in the haze of bloodlust and blood loss.
Eventually, the adrenaline wore off, and he caught sight of just how many wounds he'd reopened in the process. Spider fangs and claws had opened his side to start off the battle with the spiders. Spiked his pulse so hard he thought he'd seen pearly gates for a hot second. Welts in one of his sides from the glaive he'd just been swinging around. Newfound slashing wounds and bruises from the warden. Without that spike, that high, he could really take count of how many lines were gonna be sticking around. Scars added to the tapestry of a body tested time and again.
A huff of air, before sprinting back to his cabin, blood soaked undershirt left at the training ground to grab some things from the ever changing halls of home. Greatsword that he'd wielded in his first fights, hung up to rest once other options were acquired. A photo from one of the frames, of him and his old man. Something small, a coin from one of his dives back home. Shrugging, before making his way back toward the training ground. The moon was up, thankfully alone as he set the objects in front of himself. Eyes closed, before speaking.
"I don't really know what you like. A lot of the Gods and Goddesses, they seemed to have temples and long lists of stuff they liked. I guess it was hard for people to find a reason to worship you, huh, Mom? Hard to see how important a role you'd play. Rousing armies to keep fighting, sowing chaos but keeping things exciting... But, anyway, wasn't sure what sort of offering you'd like so... A weapon I've used to claim lives in battle, something of... Something personal, me and Dad. Then that's the first coin I found during a free dive. Don't think it's worth as much as a drachma, but still. I uh... Hell, if nothing else you mind letting me know what you like? I've never really had to get a gift for a Mom before."
He had a Mom now. That was still weird.
"We fought against Themis. I could feel it. How... Wrong, all that order was. Dunno if it was just me, or all of us, but I didn't like it. Let out some guy, uh... Brigham? He felt similar to me. Same wavelength or... Something. Broke another one of her big angry constructs." Why was he telling her about all this? Gods were like... Omnipotent or some shi- "Jeeze, I really am just sat here telling you about my day like we're some... Normal family. I must've lost a buncha blood, you must be bored out of your mind with me."
Another sigh, hand brushing through his hair, back turning toward the offerings to instead cast his gaze up at the stars.
"Guess I just wanted to hear how you think I'm doing in all this? Or it's the concussions talking."
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Gustave avoided any celebration that come of their time spent in Bloomington. One of the advantages of being able to make yourself beautiful was that it wasn't too difficult to swing it in the opposite direction. Enough to avert eyes, to give him space. Slip in to the cabin to grab a couple of things, his old knives, some ingredients, a feather each from Chili and Cinnamon, and some shed scales from Cardamom. Meals were prepared quickly in the kitchen.
Honey, apples, central ingredients laced throughout. Fish, as a bounty from the sea and the seafoam she rose from. Portions left for whichever of the campers came wandering in to the kitchens, and enough for himself and his mother set aside in a basket. Mind going over anything else he knew of offerings linked to her, before deciding that just… Inviting her to a meal would hopefully be enough.
He'd been putting it off for long enough, that was for sure.
Making sure the temple was empty before entering. One arm with the basket, the other doing what it could to hold on to a small table. Big enough to set some plates on, not wanting to… Accidentally desecrate something religious in the process. He dressed the altar to Aphrodite first. Feathers and scales set at the altar, a portion of honey, the freshest apple that hadn't been used in the meal. A moment of hesitation, before setting his knives on the altar as well. The ones that had been held in his hand time and again. Responsible for callous and scar alike. Things that had been there for him when… Nothing and nobody else had.
"Aphrodite, I offer you feathers from the doves who've been my companions, the shed scales of the snake whose been a stalwart ally. Honey and apples from the grounds here, and… And the knives that have guided my hands throughout my life. The closest thing to love I think I know."
It had started when trying to pull on his powers, and became something far more solid during their most recent exploits. He'd felt it, reverberating through the heart song. Things his companions loved. Nothing invasive, nothing solid, but he'd felt what it made them feel. Things they held dear, things that made them strong. Memories and history and… And love. And it had been there, in the middle of the fight, reaching out to try and stop Arthur being taken he'd truly recognized he… Didn't have that.
Gustave could convince himself of it. He was, after all, incredibly persuasive and a surprisingly good liar. Time and again, he'd tell himself that he loved cooking, and maybe he did, but every memory was tinged with something else. A not good enough, a could be better, a did you even try? At first it had been his fathers voice. Second guessing every decision, every flavour, every combination. Tested time and time again, still never achieving what somebody could be proud of. At least. Nothing his dad could be proud of.
And eventually, that voice had been replaced by his own. A constant echo in the back of his skull. Pushing him to do it again, and again, and again. Even when he felt like something was done, he still criticised it. And, yes, while it pushed him to being something of worth, it still was never enough. Still not memories that he could hold on to like the other Campers had in that moment. He just… Relied on them. Hoped it would be enough to carry them through.
He dressed the table in silence after a moment. A tablecloth thrown over it. Glasses, cutlery, a bottle of ambrosia wine smuggled from behind the counter. Plates and dishes set between them. It was all he truly knew. Everything set like he'd practiced time and again. Presentable that couldn't be questioned, but still not good enough.
"I wanted to invite you to a meal. And… A question."
How many times had he asked it, in the quiet, in the dark, when he was alone and when he needed somebody to tell him so many things he needed to hear.
"What's it like to be loved? To truly love something?"
Cracked and broken, pieced together and trying to hold himself together.
