#apollo cabin

It was a sunny afternoon, your kind of weather. You were picking up some arrows left behind by campers - a hazard on the grass, really. 

In the shade of the trees, small rays of light bore down onto your skin; enough to feel its warmth without it burning you. Your boots scraped the dry dirt, pebbles rolling away, as it opened to the training field where you made your way down to the weapons shed. 

You hummed a tune as James taught a dozen campers behind you, the occasional loud thud making your head snap around, an instinct your years as a medic has burned into you. 

Though nothing today seriously needed your attention. A couple groans, a lot of bruises, but an overall severe injury-less day. 

“A rare occurrence when he was teaching,” you think. 

It was customary to have at least one person from the infirmary at every physical training. And funnily enough, you were always the one supervising whenever Moriarty was on. Whether it was Clarisse La Rue or James Moriarty, you always had your hands full.

Although you loved the rush of adrenaline when someone needed your help, or the high you felt after saving someone, calmer days were always welcomed.

The doors to the shed creek open as you placed an equal amount of arrows in each quiver. The musky smell of the badly ventilated storage room filling your nose.

Without fail, every time you went inside, you were hit with bittersweet nostalgia. 

Sweet, because the smell reminded you of the time you spent with your sister, as a child. 

You would spend hours outside, constantly hiding in the small cupboard in your backyard when you played hide and seek - thinking that after enough times, she’d look somewhere else, that you’d finally win.

How youthfully naive you were. 

She would pretend to look for you in the most obvious places - and you were unable to repress your giggles when you saw parts of her figure approach through the small cracks of the wood. 

That same memory was bitter, because it reminded you of how much you missed her. It reminded you when you lost her and everything went south. 

You circle the base of your fingers, a nervous habit you developed over the years.

The more you thought about that day, the more the shed smelled sour, stinging your senses. 

You would give anything to see her again. 

Anything. 

You close the doors to the shed, humming to distract you from your memories. 

As you were about to finish, you felt your back tingle, a creeping feeling that happened when you felt watched. 

You slowly turn around, your boots scraping the earth, as you see a dozen heads turned in your direction.

 Expectant.

Waiting. 

Your head flickered from one person to another, trying to piece together why they looked at you so intently.

“Well?”, asks one of the campers, his voice cutting through the silence you realized had fallen on the field.

You look at him, perplexed. The camper wore his orange camp shirt; its torn sleeves and his camo shorts telling you he was from the Ares cabin.

“Well what?”, you counter. 

“Well would you be so kind as to be my demonstration partner,” explained a well too familiar voice.

Your eyes fell to the middle of the field, where the campers had parted, leaving him in the center.

His wide smile, the extra tooth peaking through - he wasn't even trying to conceal the true intention behind his words.

It was his time to show you he had a couple tricks up his sleeve.

You nod slowly, smacking your lips. 

“I’m an archer, James. Not a close combat fighter.” you answer, with as much calmness you could muster at being put on the spot.

“That’s why I chose you darling. Because we both know you need help in that department.” he looks you up and down for a second and you couldn’t feel more exposed. 

A couple of gasps. Oohs. Giggles. 

The response he wanted. 

You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

You close your eyes and take a moment to ignore the jab at your skills, and take slow and calculated steps across the terrain; passing through the students like they had opened a gate that led to Moriarty. 

You felt like you were walking up to the human impersonation of your inevitable embarrassment. Your heart was beating hard, but nothing unusual. The typical anticipation when you were heading into the unknown. 

The unpredictable.  

He wore his black cargo pants and orange camp shirt. You could tell he’d been training outside for a while by the way the chest was dirtied and the hem of his shirt was tucked on the side, exposing the smallest bit of skin. 

You avert your eyes, not wanting to spend more time analysing the way his sleeves hung on his broad shoulders, or how the muscles of his forearm twitched when he wiggled his fingers. 

You stop walking a few feet away from him. Not too close, but not too far. A good distance. 

“A distance that’s going to close anyway”, you anticipated.

“Grand.” he claps his hands together. “So when you go for an attack-”, he reaches for your arm, in the attempt to demonstrate the start of the sequence. 

You don’t give him time to complete the motion before you grab his forearm, pull it towards you, and grab a higher point in his arm for stability. You turn around to get some momentum as you drop to one knee and throw him above your shoulder. 

The sheer force of the impact made his back hit the floor with a loud smack. His breath knocks out of his lungs with a sharp exhale.

You stand up with the shadow of a smirk on your lips before turning to the crowd that was stifling laughs of disbelief at their teacher being bested by the girl who only came to observe. 

The archer who beat the swordsman. 

Moriarty looks up at you while still on the floor, eyes wide, a little breathless, before he lets out a forced laugh, his abdomen contracting at every moment. He wasn't thrilled to be lying on the floor, but he was pleasantly surprised.

Bewildered, even.

And frankly, quite impressed. 

Though that was something he would never tell you. 

You thought you imagined it, trying to read the expression on his face. You weren’t sure if you had signed your death warrant, or he was calculating his next move. 

He notices you looking down at him, and as if to mask his thoughts, the skin around his eyes crinkle, his mouth pulling into a smile. He sits up with a groan - the sound warming you unwantedly - and brings his hands together in a slow clap. 

You had a gut feeling something was about to happen, but you let yourself smirk, taking an unserious bow.

“Thank you, thank you-” 

Before you could finish, he swung one leg in your direction. You jump to dodge, but having anticipated that, he swings his other leg and it sweeps your ankles. 

They lose their grip on the floor and you fall the same way he did. Your back hitting the floor with a loud thud. Your head nearly escaped being smacked the same way.

Oh how the tables have turned. 

 Before you could protest what he had done, he had swiftly rolled on top of you, pinning your arms with one hand as the other nested a dagger - your dagger -  below your chin. 

His body weighs at your hips. 

Your legs squirm in a final attempt, but he got you completely immobilized. 

With a satisfied smirk at his victory, he leans in. 

Your eyes stared deep into his eyes. Trying to predict what he will do next. A mix of fear and anxiety meeting his complete calm and confidence. 

A contrast that couldn’t feel more striking. 

How in mere seconds, he was able to shift the tide of your fight. 

How in a real fight, he would’ve struck. 

How in anything other than practice, you would be dead.

As he kept on getting closer, the faint smell of sweat mixed with his musky cologne swirled in your nose. 

You could feel the press of his body digging into your flesh as he neared your face. The dagger inches away from cutting your neck. 

Even with the situation, there was something oddly attractive in the way he looked at you.  Like he was feeding off of the power he held over you. Like he’d been waiting to get the upper hand - for months.

The longer he looked at you, the more your face heated up. The more you sensed the stares from the campers burning into your skin - though nothing was more overwhelming than having James Moriarty look into your eyes like you were his prey, his next meal - ready for him to devour. 

His gaze shifts for a split second to your lips before tilting his head and moving closer to your ear.

Your breath catches. The heat of his breath mixing with your face’s. 

Your pulse hammering in your ear - so much so that you could swear he felt it.

 Your skin trembling at every heartbeat. 

“Checkmate.” he whispers, his voice penetrating every fiber of your being.

To everyone watching, he had brought himself down and back up in a couple seconds - in one swift motion. 

But it felt infinitely slower than that.

 Every detail of your interaction burned holes into your mind. Everything replaying like a song on a continuous loop - without the possibility to halt it.

You could almost swear he did it on purpose.

This couldn’t keep happening. 

He looks down at you one last time before briefly raising his eyebrows in the cockiest way possible. He moves the dagger away from your neck, sharply plants it into the grass right besides your head, and gets off of you. 

You flinch at the motion. 

The celestial bronze catching the light and reflecting it into your eye. The sting of sudden light made you wince and shut your eyes by reflex, pulling you from your bubble of thoughts. 

You hoist yourself onto your elbow, catching your breath, taking a deep breath in and out - trying to rid your body of the lingering pressure his hips made on yours.

Your heart calms down in your chest. 

A throbbing headache comes and goes as you pick up the hilt of your dagger and stand. 

You groan as your aching back straightens. You could move it around; Nothing was broken. 

Thank the gods.

He bows to the class. A wave of embarrassment washed through you - it was the same motion you did moments ago. 

A simple celebration before the script was flipped. 

Literally. 

He lets out a cheeky laugh and turns towards you, basking in the glory of besting you at the game in which he had allowed you to believe you were queen. 

‘You’re so predictable’, he muses.

“And you played dirty. That wasn’t fair.”, you remark.

He leans forwards from the hips, his hands in his pockets. “Aye but you seem to forget all is not fair when it comes to war”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “This isn’t war”

“But that’s what we’re preparing them for,” he replies. 

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re doing maybe”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Tell me, sunshine,” he takes a step closer, “what’s the point of learning how to shoot a bow and arrow?”

“In order to defend yourself- ”, you reply instinctively, not giving it a second thought. 

You pause.

He grins.

Gotcha. 

Your ears heat up at the embarrassment and realization that you’ve proved Moriarty’s point correct. The embarrassment of being wrong in front of a crowd. 

“Fine.” you swallow your pride. “Self-defense it is.”

“So, my point stands,” he turns to the rest of the class, sweeping his index to address them, “you must learn how to fight. Even if that means to fight dirty.”

He flashes you a quick look. 

“You think the monsters are going to wait and listen when you ask for a clean fight?”, he says mockingly.

Snickers travel around, the sound dancing in your ears.

“You think the monsters care about the rules?”, he asks, a certain roughness coating the edges of his voice.

It no longer felt like he was teaching. It felt like you had made a fatal mistake and he was using you as an example to learn from.

Like some humiliation ritual you hadn’t signed up for. 

The campers nod, completely entrapped by his speech. The wave of approval made him sound similar to an emperor addressing his subjects. 

He turns back to you. A new intensity sculpted into his features, as though he was feeding off of the approval - like he was ready to deliver the final blow to nail the coffin of your one sided debate. 

“Do you think the monsters cared about fair play when they ripped your fingers off for fun?”

Wait. 

What.

Panic coursed through your veins.

How did he know that? 

Your chest started to tighten all over again.

A wave of whispers echoes around you. No one was expecting that.

Your heart began to hammer.

You never told him that.

Your throat constricted. 

You never told anyone that. 

Your body was failing to conceal the veracity of his words as your fingers instinctively picked at your skin, circling at their base. 

You could feel the stares. 

The skin at the nape of your neck prickled - you wanted to crawl out of your skin. 

How did he find out?

After what felt like standing underneath the spotlight for hours, James carried on his speech, now talking about utilizing the element of surprise.

Though none of that mattered anymore. 

You’re still there, standing like an idiot in the middle of the field. 

Everything was muffled. 

Shapes were blurred.  

Your body snapped into survival mode, making your legs move before your mind could think about which direction you should take. 

The only thing plaguing your thoughts was how James Moriarty found out a secret only three people shared. 

Especially since two of those people were buried in the ground.

…

“Where’s James?”, you demand as you storm into the arena, stopping at the door to the weapons room.

The red haired girl at the entrance squints. You had no armour, no weapons, no reason to be here. 

She looks at you like you spoke Latin, her face twisting into a scowl.

 “Who?”, she asks, as though your question was physically demanding and running her day. 

“Gods there aren’t that many -,” you mutter rolling your eyes to the side.  “James Moriarty”, you punctuate, “Where is he?” 

She scoffs, annoyed. “Why do you want to know that?”

“None of your damn -”

As if on command, James pops up behind her, like a curious cat being summoned for food. The sight of you fuming making him grin.

‘Oh Mare, don't be so rude.” He swings an arm around her shoulder.  “You know how the singers get lost all the time. Like little fawns trying to find their mother”

Mare, as it seems her name was, snickers. You make a mental note to never ask her anything again.

“You.” You grab his arm. “With me. Now.”

“Whatever you say sun-”

You don’t give him enough time to finish his sentence and pull him down the hall you came from. James looks back with a smug glare before letting himself get dragged away, making no effort to resist. 

Your steps echo on the stone floor that lined the path circling the inside of the arena. His steps quickly sync with your own, his eyes locking on the part of his arm that you were holding. 

The way your fingers curled around his forearm which made him hyperaware of the way his body was responding to the touch. 

How the tips of his ears heated. How his heart quickened.  How his mind was eager to find out where you were taking him. What the whole situation looked like. 

How he didn’t mind - what it looked like.

Before he could formulate some smart remark, you pushed open a door and threw him inside. His eyes barely adjusted to the dark room.

The door shutting loudly behind you.

He could only feel your hands push him again, his back hitting a wall. 

“Who told you?”, you demand. Your voice is sharp, unwilling to back down. You were getting answers no matter what.

“Told me what?” He was going to enjoy testing your limits. 

You pull your dagger. The same one he placed beneath your neck a couple hours ago - and you press it beneath his.

His vision slowly adjusted to the darkness; enough to notice he got dragged into a storage closet and enough to notice that you were really not messing around. 

That amused him even more. He raises his arms sarcastically, even though he could disarm you in the blink of an eye - but where would be the fun of that?

“Aw - How adorable that you think you’re scaring me when you’re angry”, he muses.

“James this is not a fucking joke”, you snap back.

“I can see that.”

“Answer. My question.” you grit through your teeth.

He hums. “Well, if I’m being plain - you’re the most obvious person I have ever met.”

“That wasn’t plain-”

“You constantly fidget with your fingers when you’re nervous.” he blurts out, shutting you up. “ Which-” he sucks in a breath. “- frankly is the most basic form of unconsciously showing nervousness.”

You sigh. “Get to the point.”. 

“And, you circle their base. Constantly. You have a pattern. It’s not hard to miss. It’s like you’re afraid they’ll fall off again.”

You lower your weapon. That last sentence hits you deeper than it should. 

You feel tears creeping up on you, your skin responding by sending goosebumps although the room was warm. 

Shit. 

He continues. “It’s also not hard to notice the evident scars around the base of your fingers. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see the contrast in skin tone.”

He dips his head towards you. You could feel his breath on your skin - thanking the darkness that was all your senses could make out.

“But that makes me wonder-” his tone drops, his accent getting even thicker, “Are your fingers, even yours?”

Your heart skips a beat. The uncanny curiosity behind his voice sends shivers down your spine, as you stand there in silence. 

Letting his words sink it.

Letting your eyes fully adjust to the darkness and take in the shadow of his figure in front of you. The way he crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. 

And your lack of response being the answer he seeked. 

…

It was the end of the play. You had been on stage for a little over two hours. You played your lines, manipulated props, landed jokes that made the audience laugh. You were having the time of your life.

It was the final scene, you were facing the audience. 

For the first time that night, your line of sight falls onto a man you hadn’t seen before in the audience. 

A man that looked all too familiar. 

James. 

He was watching you with such curiosity - a look of genuine curiosity. Like he was trying to understand the character. He wasn’t staring at you, he was observing the girl you played. 

The girl holding her father’s knife in one hand. 

The girl delivering her final words.

You hold his gaze, as though you were speaking to him, and him only.

You take a deep breath; a breath calculated with the timing of your next line.

“And as I fall into the depths of my despair, as I fall into the trenches that I have dug,” your eyes soften, “Make it known that I have loved and I wish to have been loved in return.” 

“ Let it be known-,” your voice cracks, “ that there was nothing crueler than to have given so much and be torn apart by the same ones whom I have loved.”

You fall to your knees, your hands toying with the handle of the knife prop. You look up to the audience again, your eyes finding James again through the crowd. 

Tears threatened to fall. Your hair was a mess.

“I have given my soul to you, my lover.”

His breath catches. 

You take another breath - turning your head frantically from side to side. Your character, desperate to find someone to address. 

Though there was no one. 

She was alone on the stage. 

Alone with her thoughts. 

And no one to save her.

Your free hand grips your chest. “ I have given my heart to you, my mother. I have clawed and sacrificed my flesh for you, my friend.” 

Your face falls, as though a realization dawned on you. You throw the knife to the side and clumsily stand up.

“I am but bones now being chewed at by your dog, oh Universe!” you cry. Your voice raw and angry, echoing in the deafening silence of a focused audience. 

 You let out a soft chuckle. A chuckle of defeat. 

“Oh how the Fates have laughed - its echo in my ears, filling my mind with a constant buzz”, you spat. 

A breath.

“Yet, I do not loathe it,” you deliver calmly, “I welcome it.” A pause. 

“For it has made my choices clear.” you finish in solemn resolve.

Another breath. Deeper this time.

“And how cruel that I have been beaten down and still wish that you know: I do not blame you. I do not blame any of you. I still love you. For it seems that this was my destiny; and you have all helped me fulfill it.”

A final pause.

“So before I bid you all eternal goodbye and goodnight-” 

Tears threatened to fall from your glossy eyes, a pained smile stretched across your face - like it took every ounce of energy to produce it

“I say, thank you.”

You stab yourself in a quick and swift motion - the action drawing gasps from the crowd. The fake blood pouch sewn in your dress oozing onto the fabric

As you stagger backwards, you show momentary panic before your face falls peacefully. 

Your knees hit the ground as your arms stretch out to your sides, dropping the knife,  welcoming the sweetness of death to free your character from her mortal torment, her eyes closing in a solemn final moment. 

She crumbles to the floor and the curtains fall. 

…

You picked up your trusty olive satchel to head back to your cabin. The sun was setting, golden hour at its peak. Everything was infinitely more beautiful. It was like the trees were shaking off the last rays of light before the shadows submerge them. 

Your steps were more lively than usual. The performance would usually always take a toll on you since they were so emotionally demanding; Though this evening, you felt light and full of energy - like you could go out there and do it a dozen more times. 

As you approached the exit, you noticed James waiting in the distance.

You could recognize those dark curls from a mile away. He was pressed against the wall, holding a knee up, looking opposite you, somewhere deep in thought. 

“Didn’t take you for a theater guy” you teased, once you were close enough.

His head snaps in your direction. His face was blank, unreadable.

He pushes himself off the wall with his foot. “That sounded personal what you said up there”, he states.

“It’s just a play, James.”, you confess.

He chuckles. “Oh you know very well that was more than just a play.”, he corrected. “ You’re always the first to defend that art isn't just meant to be seen - so I suggest you don’t fathom lying to me.”, a hint of warning coating his tone.

Your face lightens up in delight. “I’m surprised you paid so much attention to the things I care about”

“You make annoyingly convincing points.”, he concedes.

“Oh - are you saying I’ve convinced you?” 

He raises an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile painted on his lips. “Maybe.”

“Hm.” you hum jovially - a swell of pride blooming in your chest. 

He had never admitted - or closely admitted - you were right about anything. 

You could get used to this.

“But -”, he reprised more seriously, “I still stand by what I said before- you know before you just left without saying a word.”

You freeze. Knowing exactly what he referred to. 

You had silently hoped not to revisit the conversation.

A conversation you tried burying a few days ago.

“You should get yourself under better control. You’re too easy to take advantage of if your weaknesses are exposed to the public”, he advises.

You scoff. “Is that supposed to be your heartwarming advice after so graciously complementing me?”

“It’s survival advice”, he returns, not denying that he complimented you. “I suggest you take it. For if you have really clawed at the flesh of your skin for your friend, you must see the importance of thicker skin.”

You glance at him, surprised that he had quoted you - word for word.

You didn’t know how to process that he was truly paying attention to you , that he was being oddly kind to you. 

You open your mouth to respond - but he doesn’t give you the chance, flashing you a quick smile before walking away - leaving you wondering what else he knew. 

What else he wasn’t telling you. 

And what he was going to do with that information.