During the events of #004 Circe’s Island, pt 2

In the Hall of Mirrors

Corlissandro had remained a silent sentinel against the wall, his entire body coiled and taut as they waited for each member of the crew to emerge from the hall of mirrors. He said nothing to anyone, his only act that of holding up his coin to affirm each and every one of them bore a similar token.

The moments wore on, until Chester was the only one missing. Alathea had reported his near death experience, and that she lost him again inside that accursed place. Corlissandro’s mouth had remained a thin, tight line, the muscles aching with the strain of holding such a visage. Scarlette seemed ready to abandon him, and Corlissandro was on the verge of finding a way back in to find the boy in the same way Alathea had.

Then it all became moot, as the artillerist emerged into the room. Corlissandro relaxed for the first time since taking up his place against the wall, satisfied that everyone had made it at last.

In Circe’s Throne Room

The world had shifted, but perhaps less so for Corlissandro than for others. The revelations made in the throne room were akin to a squall that had blown their ship off course, yet there were still a few facts that remained the same: They had to finish their mission, they had to escape the Phantom Sea, and Corlissandro despised Percy regardless of whether he was a mere mortal or a Grigori.

As for everything else, those were problems for later.

Only one concern stood front and center before him, and it was the lad who had come ever so close to meeting his maker. Scarlette treated the situation with a stiff upper lip, and there was no fault in that–a captain who seemed to believe their men could fight on in the face of certain death could, in fact, make those men do that very thing. It was not a good time for her to dote on the boy, no matter how ill he looked.

Corlissandro worried for his morale, though. The crew had been dismissive of the boastful young man, and for good reason: The loudest mouths were often the weakest knots in the rigging. He was guilty of thinking the same thing about the Englishman in the beginning, but Corlissandro had watched the boy rather expertly repair the Night Wind under adverse conditions, fight off aboleths, and provide invaluable insight about Mayan iconography of all things. The final clencher was watching him sit there, half frozen and near dead, crafting balls of thread to help them navigate the maze. It was a simple trick, but the boy was extremely clever in making it work under difficult conditions–and extremely dedicated to do it despite being the most in need of rest among them.

So Corlissandro walked up to Chester and draped his own coat over the boy, hoping to give him some much needed warmth as he worked at the balls of thread. Corlissandro sat next to him, then began the task of helping Chester wrap the thread up into balls. He said nothing at first, but merely worked with Chester as an equal.

---

Don’t faint.

Don’t puke.

Don’t shit your pants.

DO NOT SHIT YOUR PANTS. YOU ONLY HAVE ONE UNIFORM.

Chester attempted to assemble his thoughts as he unraveled. God damn he was cold. Gods damn? They referred to Percy as Poseidon, the other as Circe. The supposed creatures of fiction. And he witnessed their magic. Was almost killed by it too. That suuuuuucked. Two things: this is the adventure he was looking for. He could practically guarantee his backstabbing family were too ordinary for this. Number two: Catholicism is full of shit! Fuck you, Father Vincent! I always knew your lectures were a waste of time!

How to process the rest though? Scarlette stabbed Perc-eidon too. Regular people can’t do that. Magic dagger? No, probably a magic Scarlette – she’s not who she says she is. Another God thing? Ah fuck this. It’s not rational. Stupid unscientific magnificent magic that he had always dreamt about –

Something wrapped around him. Another mythical bastard?! It was warm and comforting. It was the ex-admiral’s coat. Amidst the divine shell-game, Chester had forgotten that he was on-board with others, let alone that the living legend among them had given him his coat. Chester had been selfish but still they cared. He was a little overcome.

Do not shit your pants.

Between shivers, Chester spat out, “Th-thank you sir. This means a great” –

Chester puked violently on the floor and passed out.

Wait. Wouldn’t these balls of string lead the minotaur straight to them?

---

Corlissandro’s hands paused at the boy unceremoniously vomited all over the floor, and his eyes casually moved over to see the boy. He was still upright, slumped against a wall he had been using as support, and he was still breathing. With that detail observed, Corlissandro shifted to the second priority, his gaze reaffirming the kid had not vomited on the most decent jacket he had found to wear the past week. Thank God, Chester had avoided getting it on the jacket.

He waved away a couple of curious glances in their direction. There was no sense in drawing more attention to the boy’s plight. The Spaniard’s eyes glanced around the room, spying whatever could be best used to clean up the mess Chester had made. He had been a sailor far too long to convince anyone this would be the first time he had cleaned up after a sick shipmate, but it was certainly novel for being the first time he had to consider what would or would not invoke the wrath of a Greek goddess. He rose at last, fetching a carafe of water and some hand towels, hoping Circe would find some soiled linens less offensive than a pool of vomit on the floor. A few minutes turned into a passable job of removing the mess, with enough water left over for Corlissandro to wash his hands.

He returned to his place next to Chester at last, and he returned to wrapping the balls of string up. Corlissandro idly thought of practical uses for them: Lead lines between a scout and the rest of the party to communicate silently, marking off passages, and placing string across unexplored thresholds to indicate if something else had across it while they were in a different area. All of them seemed like reasonable ideas, and simple enough that even the untrained crew would be able to execute them without issue.

And, every so often, he would reach over and check on Chester’s pulse and breathing, just to be sure.