Awakenings

[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]

Phelan smiled faintly, cradling his mug in both hands. He sipped slowly, savoring the heat and ignoring the bitterness that the herbs lent to the brew. “You might be right,” he said after a few sips, still thinking on what she’d said.

“Of course I might be right,” Hecate said with an almost defiant air. “Of course, I could also be dead wrong, but I don’t think I am. It’s what makes sense and if we’d stopped to think rather than react, we’d have realized that much sooner.”

“You know Matt’s still in knee-jerk reaction mode,” Marin said quietly.

Hecate snorted softly. “I’m aware. That’s why you and I went to talk to Seamus while he took Thom to go war council with the Hunt. We’ll see how that all went soon enough.”

Phelan winced. “He went to what?”

“He’s got a plan,” Marin said, shaking her head again. “It might work, but not without their help. I guess we’ll see how it shakes loose.”

Phelan frowned for a few seconds. A plan. I’m almost afraid of what it might be. He sighed quietly. “Something tells me it’s dangerous.”

“Probably no more dangerous than sitting back and letting them come,” Hecate said. “Which I think is probably the alternative and not one any of us are very excited about. We still don’t have enough defenses in place and three days wouldn’t be enough time for us to get defenses we’d need in place—at least not enough to bunker in without a major fight and probably a lot of people hurt, maybe even killed.”

Phelan winced. He wasn’t sure if it was the matter-of-fact tone or the idea that maybe, just maybe, someone could get killed this time. Of course, that was always a possibility—it just wasn’t one he ever liked to consider.

He never had and likely never would.

[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]

“Maybe it’s because of Orcus,” Hecate said, crossing her arms. “Maybe it’s because of what he’s doing—or something that whoever he’s drawn to his side is doing.”

“Maybe,” Phelan said. He blew across the surface of his tea, then risked a larger sip. It didn’t scald his tongue, but it burned its way all the way down his throat. He just hoped the herbs would kick in soon. It shouldn’t be long. Should kick in pretty quickly. Just—just relax. Breathe. This isn’t anything you haven’t handled before.

Of course, you haven’t handled it before in a situation like this, but you’ve still handled it before.

Marin squeezed his knee gently. He shivered again.

“I think he’s grown in power,” Hecate said quietly, bringing Marin a mug of tea before she sat down in front of them, her back to the fire, close enough to Marin and Phelan that her feet were tucked between theirs. Phelan found that he didn’t mind. Somehow, it felt safer with the three of them close together like that.

“You mean beyond where he was when Seamus managed to take him down?” Marin cradled her mug in one hand, leaving the other on Phelan’s knee. “That’s…that’s a little terrifying.”

“Tell me about it.” Hecate smiled weakly. “We’ll just have to be stronger—because we are.”

She said it with far more confidence than Phelan felt himself, far more than he expected from her. He stared at her for a few seconds, his brow furrowing. His voice came as a bare, raw whisper. “What are you sensing, Hecate? What do you know?”

“He wants me for a reason,” she said quietly. “The only good reason I can come up with is that whatever he’s trying to control out there? He doesn’t have full power over it. He’s not strong enough. That’s why he needs me. It’s probably something that I have more experience with, which means a few things.”

“Like what?” Marin asked softly.

“Probably dirae,” she said. “Probably the lampades. Maybe a few other things. I suspect that he’s tried to raid whatever strongbox of beasties Pluton had and has tried to bend them to his will. He’s strong enough to call them, but not strong enough to control them all. I’m half sure of it.”

“Only half?” Phelan asked with a slight, weak smile.

Hecate grinned at him. “Well. I sure as hell can’t be completely sure, right?”

He choked on a laugh. “No. No, I guess not.”

“Then there you go.” She took a sip of tea. “Now drink your tea.”

[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]

                Hecate and Marin exchanged a look, one that Phelan struggled to ignore.  He already knew what they were thinking and it wasn’t something he wanted to address.  They were worried.  So was he, though not about the same things.  He leaned back against the log, his eyes sliding shut for a few seconds.

                He might have dozed—probably had—because the next thing he knew, Hecate was nudging him gently, a mug of tea in her hand.  Her brow furrowed as she held it out to him.  “I wasn’t sure what kind to make, so I just made the usual black.  Is that okay?”

                “Yeah,” he murmured, taking the mug and sitting up straight.  “Yeah, that should be fine, as long as it’s hot as hell.”

                “Trust me, it’s hot,” she said.

                “Good,” he said, settling the mug on the ground next to him.  “Can  you get me a spoon?”

                Hecate nodded, turning away.  Phelan added two generous pinches of the herbs from his pouch to the mug, nodding his thanks to Hecate when she brought the spoon he’d requested, along with some honey.

                He had to smile.  “What makes you think I’d need that?”

                “Something sweet always makes the medicine go down easier,” she said softly, watching him.  He exhaled, rubbing gingerly at his temple.

                “You’re not wrong,” he said, stirring the herbs into his tea, followed by a trace dribble of honey—just enough to take the edge off the sharp bitterness the herbs would lend to the brew.

                “This has happened before,” Marin said softly.  “What’s going on?”

                “Something’s in flux, I think,” he said, blowing on the surface of the tea to cool it before he risked a sip.  It was scalding, but that was what he expected—what he’d hoped.  “It’s messing with me.”

                “Don’t say that’s all,” Hecate said, pouring two more mugs of tea.  “Because this is clearly more than that.”

                He exhaled, taking another slight sip of tea.  “Fine.  Something’s out of joint and it’s messing with me.”

                “Out of joint,” Marin echoed.  “Out of joint how?”

                “I’m going to go with in a pretty serious way,” Hecate said, glancing at her.  “Probably why we’ve all had an odd feeling all day.”

                “But what the hell is it?”

                Phelan swallowed hard, then took another sip of tea.  “If I knew that, then maybe I’d know how to fix it.”

                “But you don’t,” Marin said.

                “No.  I don’t.”

[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]

The next few minutes were some of the most arduous he’d spent in recent memory. The walk to the fire recalled another walk, now nearly a year gone. He could still smell the smoke, feel the hot wind. He could sense the loss. It had been almost overwhelming then.

Even now, it ached like a raw wound.

He’d been near Chicago when it had all happened, trying to make sure a last few people were safe before things fell apart. He’d alerted everyone he dared, then headed out, intending to sail across the lake. But he’d left the city too late. He’d come to hours after meteorfall, head ringing, eyes stinging, throat raw, somewhere alongside I-80, south of the city. Everything had hurt. It had been too quiet. He hadn’t expected that.

In hindsight, there had been a lot that he hadn’t expected.

The guilt was still there—the guilt that he and Teague hadn’t been able to prevent what had happened, the guilt that he hadn’t been able to save more people, and finally the guilt that he hadn’t made it here when he’d intended to. He tried to keep it tamped down, but sometimes it was hard.

As he eased down onto one of the logs near the fire, he knew right now was one of those times.

Hecate moved toward the fire to check the kettle—there was no one else around; even Tala was gone for the moment, probably to check the smokers or to see to her twins. Phelan watched her, vision a little blurry, though no longer doubling as he tried to relax. Marin sat down next to him and he didn’t need to look at her to know that she was wearing an expression of concern.

She put her hand on his knee. “What can we do, Phelan?” she asked softly.

“Just—just wait until tea,” he murmured, digging a pouch of herbs from his pocket. It was a mix that he’d hoped to avoid using again so soon after the last time, but sometimes there wasn’t a choice.

This time, like so many others, there wasn’t a choice.

[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]

                “Well, it’s a nice dream, anyway,” Hecate murmured, then shook her head.  Her gaze drifted toward Phelan, her brow furrowing slightly as she studied him.  “You, sir, are very much not good.”

                He swallowed again, suppressing the impulse to shake his head.  The pounding in his head was growing stronger, but he was continuing to try to ignore it.  Maybe if he ignored it for long enough, it’d go away, like it had in the aftermath of meteorfall almost exactly a year ago.  “It’ll pass,” he muttered.  “Always has.”

                “What exactly is going on?” Marin asked, frowning as she looked at him again.  He knew what she saw—sunken eyes and a washed-out, slightly greenish cast to his skin, probably made worse by the shadows of the hall and the bright red of his hair.  “She’s right, you look like absolute hell.  This isn’t just a migraine.”

                Phelan didn’t say anything, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other instead.  His limbs felt heavy and for a second, he considered that maybe they were right and he should have stayed in bed.  He couldn’t, though, not with a looming crisis and his cousin already laid up.  It wouldn’t be fair.

                Beside him, Marin sighed quietly.  From the corner of his eye, he could see her shake her head.

                “I’ll survive,” he murmured.  “I’ve managed to this long.”

                “That’s been a minor miracle,” Hecate said, a trace of wry humor in her voice.

                Phelan choked on a laugh, one that sent a fresh spike of pain through his head and sent spots dancing before his eyes.  He stumbled a step and almost fell—would have, had Hecate not caught him.  Her voice got quiet.

                “Wanderer,” she whispered.  “You’re not well.  Please.”

                “I can’t,” he said.  “Just—just help me get to the fire and pour me some tea.  Then we’ll see.”

                “Will you make it that far?” Marin said, her gaze searing.

                He smiled weakly.  “I’m not going to give myself a choice.”

[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]

                “Oh,” Phelan said, blinking slowly and trying to process what she’d just said.  “Well that…that seems like par for the course.”

                Marin heaved a sigh and shook her head, continuing to walk in the direction Phelan had come from.  He frowned slightly, turning to follow her.  A wave of fresh nausea crashed over him and he paused for a second.  Hecate put a hand out to steady him.

                “Are you sure you should be up?” she asked gently.

                “Are you sure that I shouldn’t be?”  He smiled weakly.  “Have we already had the war council?”

                “Do we ever really have one?”  Marin sighed.  “Some decisions are being made.  We didn’t get a vote in at least one.  There’s another we’re going to fight.”

                “Right,” Phelan said.  “Did you pick my cousin’s brain?”

                “That’s where we were coming from,” Hecate said.  “That’s how I know I can’t hide, not this time.”

                “Mm.”  His vision twined for a second, then narrowed back to single focus.  Phelan took a careful breath, swallowing some bile down.  He’d have to find something stronger to take than what Jacqueline had given him.  “The basics?”

                “Matt wants to take the fight to them,” Marin said.  “Before they can hit us here.  It’s an idea with merit if we can pull it off.”

                “And if we can secure everything here for the people who stay behind,” Phelan said, thoughts drifting.  Something about this felt familiar, but the why was elusive, evading his mental grasp even as he reached for it.  A silent sigh escaped his lips.

                Either it would be important, or it wouldn’t be.  It was probably some long-forgotten yesterday, and forgotten for a reason.  Despite appearances, he was old—and he knew that he was old, accepted it.  He had forgotten more things in his lifetime than many would ever know.

                Sometimes, that was a defense mechanism.  This could have been one of those times.

                It probably wasn’t important.

                “That is a concern,” Marin said.  “Do you think we can?”

                “We can try,” he murmured.  “That’s all we can do.”

                “Then we try,” Hecate said, shrugging.  “It’ll be nice to come home to something safe.”

                “Will it ever be that?” Marin asked softly, glancing at Hecate, then at Phelan.  “Will it ever really be that?”

                “You’re the Seer, Marin,” Phelan said.  “You tell me.”

                She didn’t say anything, just looked away.

                It was all the answer they needed.