“I’m still not sure about this,” Hector said as they stepped out onto the icy tarmac of the landing strip, glancing at his lover.
“Eh, the girl said she Saw it this way? Why argue with the Fates?” Achilles told him, squeezing his shoulder as he looked around him.
“Because the last time we did not argue with the Fates we ended up knee-deep in blood. D’you remember?”
“I’m not likely to forget the ten-year-long war that made us who we are today, love,” Achilles murmured.
“Keep your wits,” Hector put in, motioning as Medea made her way out of the jet, “I do not trust this.”
“You were ever wary of open spaces.”
“I’m more wary of the Prince’s minions, he’s more resourceful than I’d like,” Hector muttered.
Achilles nodded and looked up into the sky.
“You’re right.”
“He’s very right,” Medea said as she came down the steps, “the air is heavy with magic.”
Amy stepped out of the jet then, holding Bast’s silent form. Jessica followed her, Michael at her side.
“Come here, child,” Medea instructed and gathered Amy to her almost absently. Long-lost maternal instinct perhaps? Or long suppressed?
When Amy was sheltered in the scarlet curve of the length of Medea’s fur coat, they started to cross the tarmac to where the cars were waiting. They had gone two steps, maybe three when Hector raised a fist and they stopped.
“What?” Medea asked.
“Miss Medea...I’m scared,” Amy whispered.
“It’ll be alright, child,” Medea murmured, her eyes were scanning.
“Do you see anything?” Jessica asked, her voice nervous.
“Quiet,” Achilles hissed and Jessica pressed herself again Michael.
Medea glanced at the couple, and sneered at the energy that was taking shape around the young man. Ah, Arcs. Pitifully chained and thus, limited. Luckily, she was neither.
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