Alternatively

Tidal Change

It was raining.

The lake was hazy with thunderous raindrops and the ocean was gray against pimpled sand. There wasn't any wind, the whole state of New York curtained by sheets of straight downpour. Campers sat in their cabins, staring out windows with blank eyes or up to the bunks above from their beds. The courts were abandoned and all the pavilions were still.

Only a few cars splashed down the roads, their headlights pale in the afternoon. The storm wasn't webbed with lightning and thunder was never heard, but mortals knew better in their hearts.

The city was muffled all those miles away, skyscrapers melting to the streets below. Bright lights were muddy and watered down and black umbrellas flooded the sidewalks. No one left shelter unless they had to, listless yet wary. The rain was a comforting hand and a barrier against something wild, something unhinged off the shores.

The gods didn't push their boundaries, it would be unwise. 

Most made sure to be out of Poseidon's path, whatever it would have been, but all of them watched his son.

It was raining.

The green of the grass was bled of vibrancy, the life from the trees barely noticeable. It was as respectful as it was fearful; there was something wrong with the air. It was dead, lacking. Nature was holding it's breath, waiting for some sort of reaction to ripple through the world again.

All sound was quiet, all movements were slurred.

His suit was soaked. His shirt stuck to his skin and his jacket hung heavily off his shoulders, pooling on the bench. His hair was plastered to his face, rivers of water rolling down his cheeks as the rain fell around him. He stared, not bothering to blink away the drops clumping on his eyelashes.

Central Park wasn't a nice place. It hosted tourists and monsters and wasn't a generally safe place. But it was empty, empty at it's heart, and he sat before a small pond as the rain fell. In the dead of summer, the park was empty and he was alone.

An umbrella was on the bench beside him, unopened.

Estelle's question rang in his ears.

The ceremony had been short and he remembered every excruciating detail, right down to the moment his sister asked when they were going home. Down to the moment he walked out from under the tent, spine stiff and shoulders back.

His shoes squelched with water.

It was raining.

A spot of black blurred at the corner of his eye, but he stared straight ahead.

Her dress created a small pool when she sat down and her skin was cold against his when she reached across for the umbrella. He didn't feel it when the rain stopped showering, but he did notice the dull roar of it hitting the fabric above their heads.

The numbness began to thaw into something messy, something painful.

She suppressed a sneeze beside him and he pressed his shoulder into hers.

The ocean was without waves and the lake was quiet and the pond was dull. The rivers were still and the rain allowed the waters one day. One day to die, one day to mourn, one day to decide. No one, for all the divine indifference, wasn't aware of how monumental this one life was to the balance of nature.

Her hand clenched the fabric of her skirt, effectively wringing out that portion, and he almost moved to dry them both.

He stared out at the pond.

Pressure was building behind his eyes and in his chest and without the chill of the rain, he began to feel hot. His breath came out faster and his heart was beating in his ears; he was losing it.

Her shoulder pressed back into his, the pressure of a different kind dividing his attention. She was shivering, but not from the cold.

"It's..."

She didn't look at him and he stared beyond the pond.

His eyes stung.

"It's raining."