Who: Bren Gallagher and Zoƫ Katsaros What: Nostalgia and source conflicts. Where: The ruins of the Temple of Artemis in Ephesus, Turkey When: Saturday, April 4; evening Warnings: TBD, but mild.
Bad memories were like sore teeth. You kept poking at them, over and over, hoping that they'd hurt less the next time. They never did, even when they weren't actually your own bad memories. Bren knew he should just leave Ash's issues alone, but they were always there. Right under the surface. The Atlantean had enough of them that Bren was never going to be out of sore teeth to poke, when he had the urge. In some ways, it actually felt good, sometimes. It reminded him that it was there, and that it wasn't happening to either of them. Sometimes, there was the guilty relief that it hadn't actually happened to him, that it was all Ash's pain and Bren only knew it secondhand.
This time, though, the tooth poking trip was making them both feel better. After all, the temple where Ash had met Artie was just ruins now. There was only a pillar and scattered stones left of the building where Apollo had killed him in a rage. It wasn't the same building, true, Ash's version had been fictional, but it was the closest they were getting and there wasn't much of it left. It didn't make the memories fade, but it was a good reminder that all of that was ancient history. So far, Bren hadn't even run into any of the Greek gods that he knew were around. It was a good feeling, and he would be happy to keep it that way. They'd hunt, they'd protect people, but Bren had his chance to be normal for a while longer, in a way that Ash never really got. Sure, someday that whole immortality thing was going to catch people's attention, but he'd worry about that when he got to it.
Tourists weren't supposed to get so close to the ruins, he was pretty sure. Bren had never gone as a tourist, and there weren't any tour groups still going at the time of night he'd chosen for his visit. Besides, he wasn't a tourist. In a way, he'd walked the floors of the temples before. Done other things there, too, things that the hypocritical bitch Artie had never wanted to admit to. It hadn't been his feet, and it hadn't been these exact stones, but it was close enough. Close enough that he had the right to stand so close, looking up at the pillar, the wind ruffling his hair. He didn't really need the black canvas military jacket that he wore, a replacement for the one he'd never gotten back from Tori, but it was an extra layer between them and the crumbling pieces of Acheron's past.