Falling for You

Octavian

Octavian

The Augur banged his fists against the stone for what felt like the millionth time.

"I am the Consul of the Gods!" he screamed, "You are bound by blood to release me this instant!"

The infuriating ginger girl stuck her head round the corner of her canvas again, this time a smudge of blue paint under her tired eyes.

"Octavian." she said, as if she was talking to an idiot, which riled him up even more, "Buddy. I share zero blood with the Gods. I don't have to do anything."

"I have been here for weeks!" he snapped, "My Roman Legion will have your head for imprisoning me. You and this entire filthy little Graceus camp."

But the girl just nodded.

"Uhuh, okay, sure." she waved him off, a large paintbrush in her hand.

He practically snarled. This was Reyna's doing, or the imposter Jackson's. Those stupid Greeks had bombed their camp and now they had a Greek praetor? Octavian wouldn't let it happen. Which was why he had appointed himself Pontifex Maximus, above Legionnaires, above Centurions and most certainly above Praetors. He had some loyalty still within the army, and as soon as he got out, he was going to burn this camp to the ground.

He had to.

It was what Gaia wanted.

"It's time." the Primordial Goddess whispered softly from the cave walls, her voice kind and respectful; Octavian couldn't resist.

They'd been talking for quite some time, reluctant at first, but the more she spoke, the more she offered him, the quicker he began to realise just what she could do for him. Respect from both mortals and immortals alike, all around the world. Power beyond his wildest dreams, enough to make Jackson fear him instead, to make Reyna kneel at his feet, to make Jason's knees knock together in awe. To bring Rome out of the ashes and make it the new epicentre of the world.

Gaia had assured him of this. He just needed to escape first.

He was in the little Oracle's cave-house. His nose wrinkled as he looked around with distaste. Paintings littered the walls, full of monsters and kids in those silly orange shirts. He was in some kind of lurid green armchair, and though it was comfortable, he'd never say it. Children of Morpheus had kept him down for a while, but now it was only his legs that were asleep, to stop him running off.

And they were torturing him!

Every five hours or so, on the hour every day, they would bring out food for him. But not normal, Roman food, oh no. It was different. Greek. Every dish under the sun mixed together, chips and samosas and blue cupcakes. They were giving him their leftovers! And what kind of monsters ate blue icing? Octavian seethed in his chair, lashing out and knocking off some of the books left out for him, earning another exasperated glance from the girl.

She seemed to be alarmed at what she was painting, but Octavian wasn't a master manipulator for nothing.

"Please," he said, making his voice as low as he could, "I'm so bored. Can I at least see what you're painting?"