Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Laoise was throwing up.
Octavian continued rubbing a hand on her back as she projected the contents of what must've been weeks of consumption, a mixture of vomit and tears pouring out of her. Her hands dug into her knees as she hunched over, and though Octavian was speaking to her, the only sound she could process was the beating of her heart thumping in her ears, over and over again.
Dead, her heart seemed to say, the pounding taking shape of the word. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Logan was dead.
Instead of his laughing, smiling face, he was a mangled corpse hidden in the bushes, and it was all her fault.
Another round of vomit poured from her lips, followed by dry heaving as she struggled to expel everything from her stomach.
"Laoise, we need to go," Octavian was urging, a hand pulling on her arm. She could hear the tears he was holding back, a desperate attempt to keep himself together while she couldn't do the same. "Please, we need to leave."
She shook her head, coughing more.
"The compass," he pressed further, a hitch in his voice. He sniffed, a rustling behind her as he moved to wipe something off of his face, before continuing, "The one that tracks Brigid. It's being...odd. We should—"
Only when he his voice came to an abrupt stop did she manage to look away from the bushes she'd been hacking her guts into, head turning to the source of his silence. Lips parting, Laoise began to question what it was that snagged his attention, but the moment her eyes fell upon the person hovering behind them, her heart sank.
Not a person, a God.
"Vulcan," Octavian hissed, eyes narrowing in on the God. He had stronger features than any God she'd seen before — a tough jawline, hair the color of coal, and eyes that seemed to have flames dancing in them. It was as if he'd been forged from steel. "What do you want?"
Typically, she would scold someone for speaking to a God in such a way, if not out of fear for repercussions she might otherwise face. But she cared little this time, an overflowing anger simmering within the grief that had devoured her whole.
