Just had a thought and couldn't resist writing! Done for justafanwarrior on tumblr.

Come yell at me on tumblr: Percabeth4Life

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Mortals have a sixth sense for humans.

It's something noted by scientists. This instinctive dislike of things that aren't quite human. A hatred, a fear.

Mortals have always been able to tell.

Out of necessity.

Out of desire.

Out of desperation.

Because once upon a time those not quite humans walked amongst them.

Once upon a time you saw a child, eyes shining too bright, skin gleaming too smooth, smile too sharp, and strength too much.

Once upon a time you saw this and thought "godling" "powerful" "protector".

Your fear was a guide, a protection, a sense of awe overlayed.

Now you forget the Gods.

Now you see a child, eyes shining too bright, hair too dark, smile too wide, and gaze too knowing.

Now you see this and think "not-human" "freak" "troublemaker".

Your fear leads to hate and anger.

Now you see the child, his voice like the crashing waves and the lapping tides. His eyes like a storm at sea then clear calm pools.

Now you see this child who speaks with storms and who's steps make the earth shake and you fear.

You see this child in too large clothes and too small bodies and you think that someone had best hold him back.

You see this child flinch at your words and yet you can't help but flinch when he smiles, and can't help but flee when he scowls.

Mortals have always been able to tell, and because of this the ones who were once

Honored

Loved

Worshipped

Are no more.

Now these children flinch back.

Now these children try and make themselves smaller.

They hide themselves away.

The mortals wonder, in an abstract kind of way, if the child bled, would it be red?

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This child was born more than human.

Could you call her human at all?

She was carried down by winds so strong in a cradle so gold that looking at it burned.

She was not burnt.

She shone.

Her eyes are a grey so sharp that that diamonds look soft.

Her hair is "blonde" … sort of. It is blonde, and it shines, and it is gold.

You watch this child read books, or absorb them, or devour them, and you wonder what the books lost in her hands.

She gains so much with every read. Her eyes are too knowing, too wise. Her hands move through crafts with knowledge masters with kill for, have killed for.

You look at this child and fear what she may become.

This child is six years old and bleeds red like roses.

This child is six years old and flinches when a spider gets near.

This child is six years old and all the mortals know she is more than human.

This child is six years old and the mortals forsake her, and the monsters come.

This child is seven years old and she runs away.

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He is a boy standing in a yard.

The neighbors look at him and wonder, they wonder of him and of his mother.

But then they look again and know.

He is something ever moving. The words that pass his lips seem to be of every language and none.

His blue eyes are so bright and clear that you could drown in them.

His hair is like sand and shifts like it too. You could bury your hands in it and lose them.

His mother steps out and is frail and broken and you wonder if the strain of bringing this child was enough to break her.

But then the mother looks at you, and her eyes are like acid, her voice like snakes, and you stumble away knowing.

This boy is not human, he was born this way.

This woman is not human, she was made this way.

Which is more of a monster?

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The world knew this girl.

Beautiful as her mother, and yet her mother could not compare.

She had eyes that crackled, blue like electricity. You fear if you look too long you'll be struck down.

She walks into a room and your hair stands on end. The air is light, and she is not, she is so very heavy. Your ears pop and you stared at her as she moved.

Her presence bends you, and you look at this girl and wonder why you must bow.

The girl has no answer for you as she stands like a queen before her throne.

She is a pressure front; her scowls bring rain and her smiles sun.

She is a force of nature.

Her mother holds the place as top actress, but none believe it is by her own merit.

How could she be anything but the top with a daughter that brought such awe.

Such terror.

The girl sparked and snarled, and storms rose and the movie industry bowed to her, bowed to her mother who held the throne when this child was queen.

You would ask the girl where her storm comes from.

But you'd be swept away.

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These children were odd.

Even without their otherness.

They spoke in a style unfamiliar. They spoke of things you did not know, that seemed long gone.

You mentioned a song and they could only shrug.

They spoke of days long passed as if they were yesterday.

If it were only this, you could dismiss it. Odd children, but not dangerous.

If it were only this.

These children walk into a room and the temperature drops.

They look through you as if they can see everything you've done. Their eyes holes that bury you.

You stand before them and feel judged. One wrong move in their presence could damn you.

He shows you his cards and figurines and you smile and nod and your skin crawls like maggots in a corpse.

She tucks away in a corner and you breathe a sigh of relief for the respite.

They stand together, and you can't help being grateful for Mr. Thorn who keeps them separate.

They disappear and you move on.

The shadows still cling to the walls.

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Mortals always know.

They have always known.

Look at this boy and flinch at the tides in his voice.

Step back at the tempest of his rage.

Yet can you resist leaning into the soothing caress of his delight?

The mother stands next to him, and the comparison isn't one.

He is not of the land, he is not of mortal blood.

And yet he is.

He's more than human, for all that he is surrounded by human filth.

It is a miracle that any couldn't see it.

There is humanity in every aspect of him, he seems coated in the presence of a human so human that you could almost let your eyes slide over him.

But he is more than human.

He doesn't smell like seafoam or salt in the air, yet his every move reminds you of the deep depths you fear.

He is of the oceans that his eyes reflect.

You stand in his presence and remember, an ancient fear that every human knows.

There is a reason we seek to flee to the stars rather than dive into the depths of our own oceans.

He is the son of the storms. Born of rage and love and holds the weight of fate on his shoulders.

He is a reminder of all that humanity fears.

Mortals always know.

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