Familiar Yet Foreign ((Calix Kiril))

It had been roughly a day since Cicero had first entered Camp Jupiter 2.0. The boy hadn’t done that much at first; the nerves from coming back had overcome the boy, and he had shyly restricted himself to only doing what was absolutely necessary. Not quite like Cero’s usual attitude, but this was hardly normal circumstances. The only thing Cero had been thinking the day he had come in was his fervent wish that this home was permanent. That being said, he hadn’t had much of a chance to look around. Being the good Roman he’d been trained to be, Cicero’s first order of business had been cohort reassignment (talk about stressful). Hardly believing the result that had come out (he was sure his family would be proud), Cicero had then headed straight to First Cohort barracks, dropping off his backpack and guitar case.

At that point in time, Cero was fairly drained and had gone straight to sleep. Now, waking up the next morning, Cicero could feel the nerves churning around in his stomach as he sat on the edge of his bed. He had slept in later than normal that morning, and the clock read 8:30. Not having yet developed a schedule, Cicero was uncertain of where to go, and the customs this new Camp Jupiter had set up. Was it the same as the original Camp Jupiter? Or had they made new traditions, of which Cero was painfully unaware of?

Cicero didn’t quite know what to do. The boy was too proud to simply ask somebody for help, especially one of his own cohort mates. He had an image to project, of being the best Roman he could be. That would be what his family would have wanted. Of course, he would never really know now, because of what had happened in California…images of all his friends and family dead filled the boy’s mind, and Cicero gripped the sheets tightly, waiting until they passed as he shut his eyes to black out the images. The boy stayed in this position for some time, before getting up and getting changed. No, the boy wouldn’t ask just anyone for help. As Cero remembered, whenever a legionnaire had a problem the thing to do was visit their centurion. In lieu of that, as Cero had no idea who or where his centurion was, the best solution was to visit the praetors. Besides, it wouldn’t be bad for Cicero to get to know the guys at the top of the Roman food chain, anyway. Running a hand through his hair nervously, Cicero began to piece together the image of the perfect Roman he’d been trained to imitate. Straight posture, hard look in the eyes…a truly militaristic look.

The façade in place (for wasn’t it always a front?), Cicero strapped his sword in its rightful place before confidently leaving the barracks. Making his way through the camp, the boy’s eyes traveled across the familiar (and yet foreign) buildings, although his path was in a straight line right towards the principia. Cero could take a tour later, when he’d have hours to kill (for there didn’t seem to be a set schedule here). His hand resting by instinct on his sword, Cero resisted the urge to hum under his breath (a habit that may have been alright when he was younger, but not so now).

After a few minutes, Cero was left facing the principia doors, a familiar and bittersweet sight. He could remember clearly, even though it was two years ago, these doors on fire. Allowing one moment of hesitation, Cero finally shoved open the doors and walked in.

At first glance, the room appeared empty. Cero stood uncertainly by the door, until he thought he could see someone sitting on the other end, seemingly working. Must be one of the praetors. Clearing his throat, Cero continued to wait by the doors, waiting to see the other person’s reaction (hopefully this was a praetor). Continuing in a tense stance, Cero waited for the other person’s acknowledgment that he was in the room. So much like the original Camp Jupiter, and yet Cero could tell now this would be completely different.

Nothing much had changed for Calix Kiril, praetor of the Legion. He still went through the same routines, did the same duties with the same objective of getting everything done in a timely and orderly fashion. But now he went about his schedules, performing his duties with the familiar objectives in mind with an even brighter smile on his face. The smile that first made an appearance after Lúthien’s return had increased rather exponentially ever since she accepted his proposal. Just the thought nearly sent the praetor on a giddy trip to dreamland. She’d said yes to him…. in a moment that he was convinced couldn’t be more perfect. The fears he’d been harboring about the feelings not being there, about things changing were destroyed in one fell swoop, with the single ‘yes’ that she uttered. And ever since then, Calix found a springier spring in his step, and an impulse to hum even though he hadn’t done anything remotely musical in years. If anyone asked, the praetor would deny any change to his countenance but he assumed that, no matter what he did, people would know. They always seemed to. The fact that Camp Jupiter was an institution that trained young men and women to be soldiers of the Legion didn’t take away from the fact that they were indeed young men and women and Calix wouldn’t be surprised if the news hadn’t already spread like wildfire. Honestly, how often did a proposal take place?

Calix took a breath and settled down in his chair. Even though he was getting married, he had no excuse to neglect his daily duties. Nothing would change around the Legion. He’d be no more lenient or forgiving. Calix didn’t know why, but some Legionnaires had the nerve to believe that they could get away with more when the praetor was happy. Maybe they could, but Calix liked to believe that he kept the same expectations and firm yet fair rule in the camp. He at least treated himself even tougher just to make sure that he remembered his first and foremost duty. Calix recalled when Bellona claimed another Legionnaire in front of him… and then gave him advice. About being loyal to two things at once. It’s what made the sword strapped to his side work again. Calix tapped his fingers on Victrix’s pommel. He had been raised as a soldier. As a servant to the Roman people. But that didn’t mean he’d drown himself in work. He deserved something reminiscent of a normal life. A life that he would build with Lúthien. The praetor smiled to himself and began to work, already aware that his thoughts had shaved a good few minutes from his time.

The praetor fell into the familiar rhythm when it came to his work, churning out signatures and comments like a machine, stacking, pulling and placing into the new organizing system that Elijah set up while he was gone. He fell into his own little world, not noticing people entering or leaving, just focusing on the task at hand. The downside to such dedication in one’s work was the strain it took on one’s body. While some may have judged the praetors to be simple paper pushers, they got cramps just as often as a training Legionnaire did. Maybe even more. And in very obscure places like the fingers and base of the neck leading down into the shoulders. The latter seemed to be occurring to the praetor then and he tilted his head, rolling his neck with eyes shut. He didn’t notice any changes in the surrounding area until he heard someone clear their throat. Calix opened one eye and started in surprise. In his limited vision and for a split second, Calix could have sworn Callista Torquatus stood near the Principia doors. Less than a split second after that, he realized the only resemblance this boy held to his best friend was the color of the hair… and a bit around the eyes. Calix squinted. Then remembering his position, resumed a more refined posture. He stood up in his seat. The boy looked like a Roman, the way he held himself. With good bearing and an expression of willingness to work in his eyes. Very similar to Calla. A memory… memories, in fact, pulled at Calix’s mind. He knew him. Calix beckoned the boy closer. “Legionnaire. Please...” Click. “Cicero?” The praetor didn’t ask for confirmation with wide eyes and a fish-mouthed expression. He raised an eyebrow and searched the eyes of the boy. The eyes of his sister. “Cicero Torquatus?”

While the praetor was working, seemingly very involved (as he hadn’t noticed Cero yet), the boy took a moment to look over the Principia. In basics, it looked the same as ever. The same structure, the same regal quality the work of the Romans often portrayed. If only the whole camp could look like this, maybe Cicero’s mind would be more at rest. At the same time, he could see differences, things that marked this Principia as new and not the one in California. The paperwork, scattered across the table, seemed more abundant (if it was in a system, it was not to Cicero’s knowledge). When other campers were around, Cero could see the relaxed air he had viewed outside. People coming in without knocking, talking to the praetors as if they were equal rank.

These small things were almost enough to make Cicero give up. The boy, under normal circumstances, would never dream of it. The word failure simply was not in his vocabulary. But then, these were hardly normal times. One thing, however, made him pause. The feeling in the room now, with just him and the praetor (who still had yet to notice him), was familiar. The sensation of work was filling the air, with no frivolities to distract. This is what Cicero remembered the legion as, this is what was familiar to him. Concentration, and effort, and the no-nonsense attitude being radiated. This was what he was at ease with, and Cicero took a moment to silently revel in this atmosphere.

It was only a moment, however, for upon clearing his throat the praetor finally reacted to his presence, though not the way Cicero would have imagined. It wasn’t sudden, and not with the lightning-fast reflexes Cero was sure this man possessed. It was lazy, and slow, as if the praetor was being wakened from his thoughts. Cicero humorlessly watched, staying stock-still. Could this praetor shape up to be anything like the old ones, the leadership Cicero had previously been accustomed to? While he knew memories often retained the good and stripped the bad, his expectations were still very high.

He was not disappointed. The praetor must have realized what Cero was thinking, and quickly refined himself into a picture Cero could imagine in California’s Camp Jupiter. In appearance, at least, this praetor had potential to be as good as Cicero remembered the praetors should be. Speaking of memories and appearances…Cicero’s defined stance faltered slightly as he stared into the praetor’s eyes. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, or that Cero’s mind had just been in the past…but this man looked familiar. Shifting his feet slightly, before returning to his position of attention, Cicero had to fight his brain to not return to the past. Stay in the here, and the now. Still, it was tempting…this stranger looked so familiar, and yet so foreign.

Hearing the praetor’s voice was what broke Cicero’s front. He knew that voice. He knew those movements. He knew this boy. He didn’t speak, his mouth suddenly drying. His body, similarly, seemed to tense up, preventing Cicero from obeying the praetor. No, not ‘the praetor’. Calix.

Seeing Calix, his role-model, alive and breathing, as well as in praetor attire, was too much for Cicero. The boy blinked once, and years of memories flashed by. Cero, unable to keep an official stance any longer, rubbed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the flashbacks. Hearing Calix say his name, Cero had to come to the conclusion Calix had connected the same dots as Cero. “Calix.” Cero, having had thoughts running through his mind, cut off after saying the one word. Seeing Calix was painful, it reminded him of everything he had lost. Most of all, the praetor reminded Cicero of his sister. Calla and Calix had been best friends, and seeing one without the other was rare. Now, seeing just Calix, Cero had to fight to keep a blank face. Calla wasn’t around anymore, and her absence was sharper in contrast to seeing someone from his past.

This couldn’t be real. “Calix?” Cicero asked, disbelieving at this point of time. He was daring the other boy to deny his existence, to state that Cicero was finally breaking down and replacing people with friends he once knew. Running his hand through his hair, only one more thing occurred for Cicero to ask. “Are you…real?”

It clicked for the boy as quickly as it did for Calix. Like him, Cicero’s bearing broke, and the praetor could see him trying to comprehend what he was seeing. A ghost, the younger boy might have been thinking. A part of his imagination. Calix also found himself in the same boat but in a much less shocked state than Cicero. Too many times the phantoms proved themselves to be real. Calix began to see anything as possible, he didn’t throw everything into the category of ‘a dream’ or ‘a cruel trick of the gods’ as quickly as he once did. The dead rose again. The past made itself the present. And Calix didn’t question it. As long as it benefited him and meant that an old friend be restored. And Cicero definitely counted as an old friend.

Granted, the younger boy was rarely seen around the little quintet of Roman demigods and Legacies that roamed around the valley in California, being the youngest and not always being able to keep up, but Calix had vivid memories of going over to Calla’s house and Cicero opening the door for him. He always greeted the Legacy with a bright smile and escorted him to his sister. Cicero ended up milling about for a little while until Calla, true to her role as a big sister, would kick him out and forbid him from participating in whatever game they were playing that day. Calix understood that living with Cicero had a significant difference from only seeing him once in a while, but he remembered always wanting someone like the other Torquatus around. Being an only child proved to be lonely many a time. Calix wouldn’t have been completely averse to having a little brother. He couldn’t imagine what Cicero had to go through, dealing with Calla every waking moment of the day. The thought made him chuckle. Somehow he survived, learned the proud Roman ways of his sister and turned out very well.

Calix saw the way Cicero entered, holding himself with great pride. That’s what gave him away as a Torquatus in the first place. Now that had been replaced with shock. By the gods, how long had it been? He offered the younger boy a small smile, giving him time to make sense of the sight. Cicero spoke his name. The smile on the praetor’s face grew wider. He thought about how Calla would feel once she found out her brother was in town. It seemed that Calix was the first familiar face to Cicero. He could be sure that if he’d seen Calla prior to this, the entrance would have been much more explosive. She would have told him about Calix’s promotion. Just as Calix would tell him about his sister’s. Cicero repeated his name, and the praetor nodded. He moved from behind the desk to stand right in front of the boy. It didn’t seem to be processing. Made evident by his next words, a question. Wondering if he was real. He nodded again. “As real as you are, Cicero.” Calix extended a hand. “It’s good to see you again. All grown up.”

The longer Cicero stared at Calix, the more he could begin to imagine he wasn’t dreaming. It wasn’t that the boy was in this situation a lot in his dream-world either, it was more simply the fact that Cicero had missed Camp Jupiter, and everything about it. It had been his life, literally. Born and raised with the Roman traditions, the mortal world, the real world, had seemed like a dream, one that Cicero couldn’t escape. Being on his own, where usually normal sights like monsters and swords were deemed mythical and things of the past made Cicero miss everything more than ever before. The absences of his friends, sister, and role-models had made the experience all the lonelier. The absence of cohorts and swords and strict routines made his life seem all the more surreal.

And suddenly, it was all here again. The shock was overwhelming, although at this point Cicero was starting to feel numb, as if he’d wake up tomorrow and find out none of this was actually real. Calix’s assurance that he was as real as Cero wasn’t the most reassuring. The boy’s hand tousled his hair, his mind deliberating before the demigod answered. “At this point, I don’t know what’s real,” Cero answered softly, his voice more weak and vulnerable than he would have liked. Gods, look at me, he thought ashamedly. He hadn’t been so shocked in a long time, to the point of not knowing how to react. Unfortunately, the first thing that crumbled was Cero’s Roman posture, leaving the boy to look like a regular mortal who had just received some very shocking news.

That was unacceptable, at least for Cicero. He could never show weakness, he had learned, for that was when people exploited you. And while Cero was absolutely certain Calix would never hurt him in that sense, the demigod wouldn’t give anyone a chance to try. At Calix’s last statement, Cero’s lips curled into a small smile. “It’s a relief to know somebody decent is in charge,” he responded. Hesitant at first, but quickly recovering, Cicero grasped Calix’s hand for a moment before pulling away. He had to get over this break-down. He couldn’t react like this in a new camp, and be known as a weakling. Exhaling slowly, Cicero took the time to look Calix over.

At first glance, the praetor looked exactly the same. He was dressed for higher rank, obviously, but Cero could easily match him to the Calix he had known in the old camp. That was a relief as well, to know that at least something was still the same in Cero’s rapidly changing world. Just a plus it was someone Cero looked up to and respected. However, Cicero knew Calix wasn’t exactly the same. No Roman could be, after what happened. How the man had changed was yet to be determined. Whether Calix was still the proud, if not slightly arrogant Roman Cero had known, would be seen in the future, as Cero knew now he was staying for quite a while.

“How long have you been here?” Cero asked, allowing himself to indulge in his curiosity. Obviously, for some time, if Calix had been made praetor. Cicero knew he had taken time in between leaving Camp Jupiter and journeying to the new one. He had been one of the strays, who hadn’t traveled with the main pack and had gotten left behind. He was curious to know how Calix had settled down and restarted his life. Most of all, Cero was looking for tips on how he might do the same. Calix, for as far as Cero could tell, looked secure with himself and the life he had made here. Cicero was simply curious on exactly what Calix had done, and whether he was at peace. If Cero couldn’t have a happy ending, at least Calix deserved one.

Calix remembered being in the same boat as Cicero when he returned to California after Lupa informed him about the attack. He didn’t believe her at first. The thought of his home, filled with so many trained warriors, both current and retired like his aunts and uncles and his entire family. The family that was slaughtered while himself and his parents were enjoying the sun in Rome. He walked through the rubble, trying to keep himself composed and calm. But what he saw there couldn’t be real. He felt like he was dreaming. He hoped with all of his heart that he dreamt all the smoke and ruin. But it was real. Too real. And, like Calix and especially everyone who experienced the horror of that day, It’d take a while for Cicero to fully process everything. From the destruction to the resurrection of the camp in an entirely different location. The sound must have been one stark contrast to the valley. So Calix sympathized with him and offered a smile he hoped had the familiar light as the ones he gave the younger boy when they were both younger. At this point, the praetor didn’t exactly care for Cicero’s bearing. Just like Calla, Calix knew very well what kind of Legionnaire Cicero was and didn’t worry about it at all. He watched Cicero carefully, almost afraid that he’d hit the ground, he looked absolutely dizzy.

He seemed to recover a little. At least enough to accept that the Legacy of Bellona now had a seat as a praetor. What he said about the Legion having someone decent in charge made him smile a bit. Another memory about the old days about showing off and bragging about the future passed Calix’s mind. Being praetor definitely had all of the responsibility and power that he imagined, but the stress and the need for interaction with the Legionnaires took him by surprise. By now, Calix hoped he was adjusting well, and the compliment from Cicero even though he hadn’t exactly seen the praetor at work did mean a lot. He shook Cicero’s hand and stepped back, noticing him looking him over. Calix usually had an unshakeable sense of pride when it came to his appearance. He knew his tendency a while back to be rather vain. He looked good. Others noticed it, causing him to notice it and take complete advantage of the fact. Now, while Calix did do what he could to maintain his appearance (and those measure working out for him), he didn’t flaunt it and ignored suggestive comments made about it. He had a job to do now and it wasn’t to stand in front of a mirror. The praetor ran a hand through his hair, the smile growing just a tad. He at least looked presentable didn’t he? The younger boy did indeed despite the falter in his posture. He was a Roman, true and true that much could be seen.

“A year and nine months,” Calix responded easily to Cicero’s question. It was like the praetor had an internal calendar, hopefully counting down to the days when the entire Legion would return to California. “Please, Cicero. Take a seat.” He motioned behind him to the chair right across from his and began moving back to his place. “Too long,” he continued, still addressing the amount of time he had called Long Island his…. ‘home’. It hurt to do it and something close to a cringe may have been seen on the older boy’s face. But everyone, even his parents who had settled down in an apartment in the city, seemed to accept it. Something in him told him that Cicero hadn’t accepted much of this yet. He must have wandered after the attack, taking his time to get there. That raised an entire multitude of questions for the praetor. Now he could almost bet that Calla didn’t know of Cicero’s existence. She might have thought him dead this entire time. And all those lost months…. “Cicero,” he started, not exactly knowing where to begin. “.... Have you spoken to Calla?” The nickname they’d both attribute to the same face. “Does she know you’re here?”

At this point in time, Cicero was fairly certain he was dreaming. An elaborate dream, not like his usual, but demigod dreams never followed normal patterns. With this in mind, and a certainty he’d wake up soon in some city (Detroit? Annapolis?), Cicero resolved to just take things as they came. If his imagination could dream it up, Cicero could accept it. Then he would wake up and shake his head at himself, reminding his brain that all of the Roman stuff was over and done with, and staying in the past wouldn’t solve anything.

An odd resolution, but not odd for Cero’s younger self. He used to be quite a big dreamer, with dreams and ambitions and a wild imagination. His younger self would constantly make up new games to play, and new things to do. While the boy hadn’t been like this in quite a long time (seeing his home destroyed had destroyed most of his dreams), it almost comforted Cicero that he could still think in such a way. Lately, in the last year, Cero had trouble recognizing himself. He would wake up in some city (he hardly kept track), and would have to remind himself of everything he loved, and everything he lost. He’d have to remember to react to things, instead of dully accepting them. He had to remind himself when it was alright to feel. Cicero had pushed down his feelings so deep inside himself, sometimes he forgot they were there. While this reassured his mind that Cero was safe from being exposed and exploited, it scared the boy as well. He felt sometimes as if he was devolving, losing his humanity and becoming a shell of his old self.

Seeing Calix, even in a supposed dream was a good enough reminder that Cicero was indeed human and could feel. It came at such a relief that the boy felt as though he were overwhelmed, and so he resolved to focus less on himself and much more on the praetor, who was looking at Cero with sympathy. Under normal circumstances Cero would frown on that and push the sympathetic thoughts away, but for now he was glad Calix was understanding of Cicero’s state of mind.

Vaguely hearing the man tell Cicero to take a seat, Cero’s body responded automatically. He was used to orders, this was something he could respond to without thinking. Even if there was a ‘please’ in the middle. Numbly sitting on the aforementioned chair, Cicero finally worked through what Calix had said before. “A year and nine months,” Cicero repeated quietly, his voice low and in a state of disbelief. A year and nine months…so this camp had been around for quite a while. Perhaps it had been set up just after the destruction of the old one. A year and nine months…Calix must have understood where Cero’s mind was heading, for his statement of ‘too long’ was precisely what Cero was thinking. Too long. Yes, it had been too long since the Romans had been displaced, and it had been too long since they had acted on it. “A year and nine months…why are we still here?” Cero repeated the first part of the statement again, and the second part was said with disbelief. Romans were people of action, and this was most unlike them, sitting in this new camp and doing nothing. He couldn’t believe it, yet he couldn’t find a way to say what he was thinking without possibly angering Calix.

Thankfully, what Calix said next completely drove everything else from Cero’s mind. “C-Calla?” Cicero stuttered the name out. He hadn’t said that name out loud for two years, not since the camp had been destroyed. It was too painful, remembering his sister, and he kept thoughts of her inside his head. He never dared to say it out loud. Cicero stared at Calix as the praetor finished speaking, a look of absolute confusion on his face. “Does she know I’m here?” he repeated the question, as it was not processing. “What? Calla? She’s here?” None of this was processing in Cero’s mind. Calla couldn’t be here. She was dead. Supposedly died in the attack, and Cero had never had proof of otherwise. Until now. Fighting not to lose any more control of his emotions than they were already, Cero stared at Calix. “Calla’s here?”

Cicero asked the question that Calix knew at least half of the camp was thinking. A year and nine months. Too long. So how come they hadn’t made the trip back to California? Calix cringed, and he knew Cicero noticed it if he had been paying attention. He could guess the younger boy’s thoughts. Probably wondering why the Legion hadn’t marched back to Berkeley to reclaim their home yet. Why they sat there in the backyard of the enemy. Calix had to stop himself there. Not the enemy, no matter what the other Legionnaires may have thought. But that didn’t mean the enemy had completely disappeared. Because they were still there. He felt it. Across the wall… and maybe even in his own ranks. But he wouldn’t divulge this to Cicero. He had no proof. So he settled for what he told others who asked him. “We’re not ready.” The sheer number of soldiers under his command would have easily said different. And honestly, while he had many Roman demigods, the combination of Greek campers made their odds a lot better. And a final thing… he didn’t want them to experience what his people did. No matter their differences… no one should watch their home burn. So they’d be there. Until the problem was eradicated.

As soon as Calix mentioned his best friend and Cicero’s sister, a good amount of the possibility in getting into an argument with the younger boy was dashed. He reverted to the same shocked expression and spoke Calla’s name as if he hadn’t in years. Oh dear. A frown took Calix’s face. When was the last time they’d been in contact? The look that made Calix fearful came back, and he put himself on high alert again. As far as Calix knew, this was the first and only time he’d seen Cicero in Camp Jupiter. If Calla hadn’t told him about the younger boy’s arrival then it would be safe to assume. “No, I… I don’t think so.” Calix didn’t know what to make of the sudden questions, or the expression on Cicero’s face. It clicked in the praetor’s mind as something along the lines of shock and disbelief, and maybe even a little fearful. “Of course she’s here.” Now the tone of confusion may have been heard in Calix’s voice as well. Where did he assume his sister was? Not…. dead? Calix shouldn’t have been thinking that since he held that belief from the moment he returned to Berkeley to the second he saw her again in the Arena one night… it seemed impossible surviving that attack. And yet there they were. Both Cicero and Calla. “A Torquatus is hard to get rid of, hm?” He offered a small smile with the statement. Both of them were strong and would never fall unless forced and unless no other option seemed plausible. Stubborn.

Calix probably made a grave mistake in telling Cicero about Calla’s whereabouts but also knew that he’d find out eventually, and the consequences wouldn’t be favorable if he kept that information. Where to go from there, the praetor didn’t have an idea. He never excelled at much socially, his worst skill being small talk. Either way, Calix didn’t think Cicero would answer to a question about the weather when his sister was out there. He sat back against his chair, running a hand through his hair and letting out a breath. Calix saw the battle raging in Cicero as well. The fight to stay calm and maintain his reputation as a stoic Legionnaire. This almost made Calix smile. “Cicero,” he said gently. “Right now I’m your friend. Not your superior. “ He hoped the younger boy caught his drift. He didn’t need to act around Calix. If Cicero needed to be bombarding him with more questions, Calix would happily oblige. If he needed to stand and pace around the Principia for a little bit, Calix would grant him that as well. Even a bit of yelling counted as acceptable. Calix knew all too well the effects of showing one’s emotions but also learned that keeping them bottled up had the same consequences. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

Too much information to process. It was all too much. If he had been alone, Cicero would clutch his head tightly and rant everything out. Repeat all the information he knew, in a continuous stream that never seemed to end (all in Latin, of course). But he couldn’t know. Reputation. Image. Control. Cicero’s three most important values, and things he couldn’t afford to compromise. Without them, he was nothing. And so, through much-regulated self-control, Cicero squeezed his eyes shut and processed everything he could mentally (although at this point he felt his brain was going to explode).

Cicero let the idea of a new Camp Jupiter roll around in his mind for a while. The new rules, the new setting, everything was new. He just wasn’t sure he could do it all again. Integrate into a new camp, make new friends (Cicero knew that would never happen), and get used to the idea of Greeks. Greeks. For years, ever since he could remember, Greeks were always bad. Weak, pathetic, Greeks. All synonymous words. And he’d accepted that. Rule number one (although he could never keep track of all of Calla’s rules), never trust a graecus. So now, being told that he was expected to insert himself into a Camp right next to the Greek one, that didn’t sit too well with Cicero. It bothered him enough that he could smash himself together to look solid enough, and focus on this new issue with a small frown forming on his face.

He could tell this was not a good subject to maintain with any Roman, especially Calix. If Cero had learned anything in his years following the older boy, it was to tell when to drop something. And the praetor’s cringe was certainly enough to make Cicero hold his tongue and not respond to Calix’s statement. He was not as rash as his sister. And so he allowed himself to think more about Calla, a subject he’d readily avoided, with the stern resolution to not break down thinking of her.

Seated across from Calix, Cicero clutched his hands underneath the table tightly, feeling his nails cutting into his skin. He couldn’t bear to loosen his grip, though. Calix seemed surprised at Cicero’s ignorance, and the boy scanned the praetor’s face, looking for clues. He couldn’t have honestly thought that Cicero knew about this camp the whole time, did he? That he knew his sister was alive, and he was simply avoiding her? It was the Torquatus way of dealing with things, avoiding them. That much Calix should know. But Cicero couldn’t imagine avoiding something as big as this…right? He wasn’t so sure, and Cicero’s face sunk down into a brooding expression.

“Apparently.” It was all Cicero could speak, in response to Calix’s comment on his family. He’d thought his family was dead, and all his friends. For the most part, it was true enough. But if Calla was alive…shifting to the edge of his chair, Cicero had to ask. He needed to know. “Are there only campers here? No…civilians?” New Rome had been destroyed along with Camp Jupiter, Cicero knew. He had sifted through the ruins himself. And his family was a family of survivors, he knew that. Could it be possible, then…? Cicero could hardly allow himself to think about it, to hope for so much. After everything that happened, it seemed impossible anything could go right for the boy…and yet here he was, sitting in front of the boy Cicero had revered for years.

Calix must have been uneasy, for Cicero could see the unnerved motions the praetor was making. The boy’s emotional state had, at the mention of his sister, shifted to something seemingly more stable, and yet more precarious. A cocktail of emotions was forming in his stomach, with hope among them. And mostly, fear. So much Cicero didn’t know, so much he needed to know. At Calix’s last statement, Cicero spoke. “I don’t know anything. Please, Calix,” the boy’s tone turned into a more begging tone, something he hadn’t used in years. His hope and fear was taking over, and he needed answers. “Please, tell me everything.”