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Octavian held his hand to the hearth flame within the amphitheatre. The sensation was strange. A buzzing feeling branching out along his hand. The fire reach deep within his fingers but failed to truly touch them.
It reminded him of his death. He had been burning. Yet he hadn’t felt it.
It was late. And Camp Half-Blood was asleep. But he was a ghost and ghost don’t sleep.
Despite the lateness, the fire in the amphitheatre burned brightly. It’s glow had attracted him, though he could not have said why. He had been avoiding people not that they could see him. He could choose to be visible. He could choose to interact with the world.
And he choose to remain unnoticed.
He knew that wasn’t what Jason had intended when he suggested Octavian look around Camp Half-Blood. He had wanted Octavian to meet people.
But Octavian hated people. Especially ones he didn’t know.
People were trouble.
He blinked and saw something through the flames. He frowned, and realised it was a young girl. No more than ten.
He circled the fire, until he could see her fully. She watched him. Her eyes reflected the flames of the hearth. Her hair swirled around her head, black and shifting, like a dark smoke. He recognised her as Vesta… but different.
“Hestia.”
She gave him a soft smile.
He didn’t know what to do with that. He had not expected to encounter a goddess here. Especially not Hestia.
“Is this the Greek’s flame? They keep it out in the open.” He frowned, “Is it like ours? The one that sustains everything?”
“Who knows?” she said with a shrug.
“Isn’t your fire?”
“In a way. In another way, I am the fire. Do I sustain it – or does it sustain me? Do you know your nature?”
“Not really.”
He was a Lar, that much he could determine. But usually Lares couldn’t leave the limited of their domain, whether that be a house, a street, or a building. Some few were strong enough to represent broader concepts – the legion, for example. The legion had dozens of Lares.
But how he could be at Camp Half-Blood… that he hadn’t determined. He could imagine it was related to his promise to Jason. But how Jason knew, Octavian would never know.
“A little…” he said, at least. “But you’re a god.”
She nodded, slowly. Her form shifted a slightly. She was still a young girl, no more than ten, but she wore a white hoodie now. Her eyes harder though no less wise.
Vesta.
He had never met her.
Back home, Vesta is the only goddess to have her temple within the boundary of New Rome. Sometimes female members of the legion will choose to join her cult after their service to Camp Jupiter. It is a thirty-year commitment. But in many ways her cult is more sacred than any other in New Rome, more so than even Jupiter. A priest is a priest, regardless of their god. But a Vestal is something more. They are Rome’s last line of defence against the chaos of the world.
The Vestals and their flame was the reason why Camp Jupiter has a city, why they have families year-round, why they are structured like a military and not a summer camp like Camp Half-Blood. All to protect them.
“A Lar is closer than a god than a mortal,” she said. “Though not the same. Similar. Many gods were born as demigods before they ascended: Dionysus, Asclepius, Aristaeus are just three. Is it so strange than we all know ourselves, but do not? Many of my brethren act within their nature without a thought of why.”
“Those gods you listed aren’t like me. They were great in their mortal life that’s why they ascended. And the Lares of New Rome. They’re all leaders, or skilled creators, people with wisdom to share. I’m not any of those things. I failed. I tried to be like them. I couldn’t do it.”
“Do you want to sit?”
“Sorry?”
“Sit with me. We will tend the fire together.”
He sighed, settling on the ground beside her. He didn’t look at her, instead followed her gaze to the flame. It was so strange to see it outside, unguarded. Was Hestia the only one to tend it?
He felt disgust and hatred climb up his throat like bile. It was much like these Greeks to disregard their minor gods. They had no true connection to their past. They were boats unmoored.
Before he could say anything, Vesta said, “Do you dislike it?”
“Dislike what?”
“Being as you are now?”
Octavian isn’t respond immediately. He felt like he owed Vesta a thought-out response, though he had no idea why she would want to know. He was dead. And he had become a Lar.
“No. I don’t dislike it,” he said. “In many ways its more comfortable. I have no blood, so my anaemia isn’t an issue. I don’t have to eat, so the fact I found eating difficult doesn’t matter. My insomnia can’t bother me since I don’t sleep anymore…
“And, more than that. I’m dead. And that’s… liberating. I have no more duties. And my ambitions can longer be achieved. I can move around as I wish, and no one can judge me. No one can even see me – but for that child of Hades.”
“Would you go back? If you could?”
“Back to living?”
She nodded.
“I don't know. I… I miss one thing. I miss being able to hug my sisters. I hated being touched so much in life, I avoided it, now… I miss it. But would I trade that for everything else? I don't know.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Vesta tended to her flame. Octavian watched her, observing.
“I remember,” he said, “just before I died. When the Parthenos came down, there was this feeling of warmth. Of calm. Was that your influence?”
“It was.”
“Do you hate me? For bringing an army here – for trying to kill your other half?”
She shook her head, “I find hate to be a painful emotion. It feasts on your happiness, hurting you more than it hurts any other.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So much of life, so much of decisions had been driven by hate. Hate for Kronos. Hate for the Greeks. Hate for the gods.
And it had ruined him.
It had killed him.
“I’m sorry.”
She did not reply.
“When I was alive, I had so many dreams,” he said, finding that he wanted to tell her everything. To explain to her why. “So many goals. I wanted to fix so much. I didn’t want kids to have to fight any more. I wanted to force everyone into change – including the gods. I know everyone thinks I’m just a power-hungry monster, but I didn’t see any other way. Things had to be fixed. They still do.”
He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.
“But in the end? I didn't do anything. I saved no one and fixed nothing. I'm at best a footnote in history, at worst a crazed villain.”
“One of my followers once wrote, ‘well behaved women seldom make history’. It is a line that is often used to prove to women that they must act out. That they must misbehave to make the pages of a history book. And that is a helpful take away for some, but it is not the original intent. My followers, those who tend the hearth, those who protect the warm and closeness needed for a family to thrive. Or an empire to thrive. Those people? There are no sagas about them. No sonnets or epics to speak of. They are not remembered.”
She looked at him then.
“That doesn’t mean their existence had no value. Heroes don't win without the efforts of the unspoken.”
He stood, suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s not me. That never will be. Those people you’re talking about accepted that they were… I didn’t. I don’t. I just can’t do anything about it.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Here?”
“Should you not have returned to Camp Jupiter? To New Rome?”
“I… It’s in ruins now. The emperors attacked it. They didn’t win, true. But it still hurts to see it. And… I couldn’t prevent it,” he sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s all done.”
“That is not true. Life is never done.”
“I’m not alive.”
“Am I not alive then? Is this fire not alive? Life is more than just the domain of humans and demigods, young one.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But you are young. And you are wrong, you know.”
“About what?”
“About being unable to fix things. And about no longer having a duty. The hearth is my domain. What is yours?”