Chapter Text
Your fingertips across my skin
Reyna is twelve when she stumbles into Camp Jupiter, some sort of monster or another hot on her tail –minotaur, daemon, harpies. She doesn’t know which one and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the burning in her legs and the fire in her lungs as she pushes herself towards the Lincoln Tunnel, a river of cars beeping and swerving around her as she makes a beeline for the river that counts –the Little Tiber and the land beyond where she will finally be safe. The Wolf Lupa’s words still ring in her head as sneakers slap against pavement, the syllables battling the harsh sound of her breath for dominance. You’ll find a home there, fierce one.
Her limbs slow with exhaustion, feel heavy with the chains of fatigue, as her travel-weary feet break the surface of the cold rushing river water. Halfway across they fail her, the poor traction on her sneakers unable to find purchase on slime covered rocks. And she goes down in a tumble of limbs and imperial gold, cold water rushing up around her ears and pummeling her battered body –forcing her to stay down. All the toils she has been through, the horrors she has experienced upon the Black Pearl and Lupa’s brutal training sessions, and all it takes it a river to undo her –not even the monster at her heels that would have been more honorable.
But maybe this is kinder, with the cool waters rushing over hot fevered skin, hand loosening in its death grip on her dagger even as death reaches out to grip her. Her limbs feel numb and pleasantly paralyzed –much better than rubbing blisters and cuts that threaten to fester—so yes, maybe drowning wasn’t such a terrible fate after all.
Moments later strong fingers wrap around her wrist and there’s a firm hand at the small of her back sending what felt like sparks down her spine –what she would learn later were sparks of nervous energy. The sudden connection consumes her mind, neurons racing to focus on the odd phenomenon. The hand around her hers is strong and hauls her up above the water, her mind jolting from its stupor as her head breaks the surface of the water once more.
No. She is a daughter of Bellona, of war and its horrors, survived pirates and months trekking across the country alone, and held for one of the shortest periods at the Wolf House. War does not relent and she has come too far to give up on the doorstep of her goal, and she is not going to be undone by a puny river so much smaller than the sea. Feet kick out for purchase on slippery rock, and she’s half lead, half forcefully dragged towards the other shore –the safe shore.
Blue lips cough up water onto the green grass beneath trembling fingers, those foreign strong hands still at her arm and back as if she’s going to collapse at any moment —and truth be told that’s exactly what she feels like, though the other doesn’t need to know that. But when she looks up her savior’s eyes are blue too, but brilliantly so like the summer sky, not the death that tinges her own lips. His name is Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, and welcome to Camp Jupiter.
She owes him her life, but pride keeps her eyes cold, because that’s all she has left now as her own shaking hands push off his with all the dignity she can muster. Her chin lifts up, body making its shaky way to stand, “Reyna. Thanks, but I don’t need your help.”
By the time her thirteenth birthday runs by, Reyna has long outgrown the skinny, malnourished twelve-year old that fell into the Little Tiber and needed saving —though she’ll deny that she ever needed saving. Muscles move under olive-tanned skin protected by armor, onyx eyes brighter and keener from their new vantage point a few inches higher, and strong fingers akin to the strength in those that hauled her from river water clasp the leather hilt of her gladius as she waits with the Fourth Cohort for the War Games to begin.
“Your strap is loose.” Her head turns to see the familiar mop of gold hair and bright summer eyes with teeth flashing like Circe’s pearls in the sunlight. And then hands are at her shoulder blade, brushing across her purple t-shirt and pulling that leather strap a little tighter until it rests in a comfortable weight against her skin. He’s been appearing at her side at seemingly random times now, this Jason Grace –sometimes at dinner, sometimes on her way to practice, sometimes during practice where they spar with a fervor that would make Lupa proud—and Reyna’s grown accustomed to it and that static that flows from his fingers.
Sometimes, he’s a welcomed sight in a camp that both seems to respect and fear her —–a Probatio who flattened their arguably best swordsman and earned her Legionnaire status in three days by diplomatically with her tongue and gladius working out an escalating argument that had gotten to the stage of drawn weapons. She still pretends he’s annoying, though —a childish move perhaps, but she’s only thirteen going on twenty. Reyna’s never had a childhood so give her this.
A metal braced arms bumps his poking hands away, dark eyes piercing his —her new height not having to look up nearly as much as she did a year ago. “I don’t need your help, Grace.” He blinks once and she mirrors it. There’s a flash of something in Jason’s blue eyes, Reyna notices but takes no meaning from an oddity in blue eyes as she turns away.
She pays no attention to somewhere deep inside where guilt pricks her gut, either.
The sun sinks, days slip into weeks, and weeks morph into months with dense fog that collects in the hollows of the earth every chilly morning. The morning Reyna wakes and is voted Centurion by her cohort mates is no different, fallen clouds pooling at her feet as she fixes her new metal to her shirt and rungs her fingers over the two lines burned into her forearm. How has she come so far from a maid who wielded eyeliner instead of a gladius and drew perfect cat eyes instead of complex patterns of imperial gold?
You’re a natural leader —-that’s what they tell her as they congratulate her with shining eyes and pleased smiles. You’ll do well, maybe even praetor one day.
But three days later and she doesn’t think she’s going anywhere as sandals plod down the dusty road to the Senate House. It’s her first time at the court —well at the court with real influence and power beyond that of parroting the details of a quest— and the nervous butterflies in her stomach steal the bulk of her attention. And it shows as fingers usually deft and nimble shake and struggle to tie her white toga at her shoulder, toes tripping over the edge in an ungraceful manner. This is what she wanted, it is not? Leadership, power, a place to belong. And yet, she can’t help but think that she rather be trekking across the whole of North America right now.
“Do you need help with that?” Trust that familiar voice to be at her shoulder, right now —as it always seems to be.
I don’t need your help. The words are there at the top of her tongue –poised to jump out and tumble down as they have every time before– but the moment passes, the syllables stuck behind her lips to let silence speak instead. So she clamps her mouth closed and jerks her head in a tiny nod, hands going to sweep her braid over her other shoulder.
Then his hands are there, a tiny electric shock causing her to flinch slightly though in all honesty she should have expected it as well —should have expected his voice to followed by static electricity as it always is. And like clockwork, the shock is followed by a mumbled sorry that has her lips tugging upwards in a small smile hidden from a blond. Fingers seem to move more quickly after that, retying the knot with ease, though digits collide with her sun warmed skin every so often. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, the feather-light accidental touches on her shoulder better than the nervousness that coils in her stomach like a snake.
“Are you nervous?” He asks, as if she had spoken her emotions aloud. She can feel the intensity of blue eyes on her neck even as she focuses on her sandals and dusty toes instead. “Don’t be. Just be yourself.” His hand is resting on her shoulder now –whether as a gesture of comfort or because he’s merely forgotten it was there…
She takes a step forward and turns, breaking the touch of his hand to let their gazes meet instead —there’s a lingering look of disgust nestled in her own onyx orbs though she can’t help threads of grudging amusement from making their way into her voice. “That sounds like a greeting card.”
He doesn’t seem to miss a beat, hands settling behind his back as shoulders rise in a shrug. “Well, still. You’re a very likable person.” Cue the tug at the corner of his lip causing that thin white scar to shift upwards a bit, before he’s gone. Leaving her in the dusty street with dark eyes left staring after him, unsure if that last comment was sarcasm or not.
But some part of her must take Jason Grace’s advice with a grain of salt. It still sounds like part of one of those lame motivational speeches or a t-shirt slogan that Circe would sell –be yourself, unless you’re a dick—but nonetheless, sometime later, as she’s being raised to Praetor and surrounded with the faces of the Legion, her Legion, she stops to think of how Jason saw that hope in the girl he dragged from the Little Tiber —a girl who believed in herself, but thought no one else did and so supported her weight with the power of her own bones.
There’s a party to celebrate her promotion, just as there’s always a party when there’s something to celebrate. And he’s there as usual, a voice at her ear with a smile almost as brilliant as the sun as he hugs her, hands firm across her back, lips whispering ‘congrats’ into her ear before he’s whirled away by a sea of hands that she shakes with a mantra of thank you, thank you, thank you. The rest of the night she feels heady —filled with buzzing electricity that isn’t brought on by some figment of wine— effortlessly weaving, floating between people, purple cloak flowing out behind her in a statement of her new position.
But she finds him later, sitting on a stone bench at the edge of the party sipping some fizzy drink with gentle blue eyes surveying the euphoric mass below. Before she may have had reserves, but now roman sandals take her up the stone path to sit next to the boy with golden hair and watch the party lights go on as they sit in companionable silence.
“Praetor Reyna.” He breaks the stillness first, words holding curls of clear amusement as blue eyes slide from fairy lights to the slender girl. “Didn’t I say all you had to do what be yourself?”
“It still sounds like a greeting card.” Comes to the protest, but the smile that adorns her face as she continues to observe the events below them betrays her —the girl still acutely aware of his gaze on her. “But I suppose I owe you a thank you.” A thank you I should have said instead of ‘I don’t need your help.’ But there’s no response save for a chuckle that tugs her eyes to meet his, confusion reflected in the stars in her irises. “What?”
“You don’t owe me anything, least of all a thank you.” Reyna doesn’t think that true, because the sad, sad truth remains that she could have very well drowning on the doorstep of Camp Jupiter if not for a certain blonde, but her retort doesn’t come as she senses an explanation to follow. “You don’t owe me anything, Reyna. You never have.”
So she was wrong and never gets her explanation, though surprise soon consumes her annoyance. Because she doesn’t know what to make of the confession –could it even be called a confession? Because all her life she’s kept track of the people who have crossed paths with her: those she’s killed, those who have threatened her, those who have helped her and that she will forever owe. And then there is Jason Grace. A different kind of encounter that she doesn’t quite know where to put in her list of categories.
(Maybe it’s the new one of ‘friend.’)
There’s silence between them again, a third companion that settles leisurely between the two teens. And then a strong electric shock somewhere by her hand, almost causing her to jerk it back, eyes snapping almost accusingly to the boy as an all-too-familiar ‘sorry’ comes as a mumble. At that, Reyna can’t help but shake her head in amusement as her attention returns to the party meant for her. But another distraction comes, fingers winding around her wrist much like years ago when she thought herself drowning, only now the touch is softer —-almost hesitant.
A pause. A heartbeat. An inhaled breath.
Reyna’s fingers respond, curling around warm skin as her lips tug in a smile, albeit shy. And she’s drowning again, only this time in the pleasant feeling of electricity buzzing through her arteries and veins and lungs —drowning in a feeling of being alive.