A 20-something's attempt at a mature online presence. Here goes.
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Horse forms are as natural as water to kelpies. He doesn’t need to teach her that.

For their first outing, Niseag chooses a similar form so that familiarity can help bring it together. He steps out of the water near Drumnadrochit on cloven hooves, a red backed king with a fourteen point crown. Little Nis masters her long legs and bounds ahead, the spots flowing over her back like the first snowflakes of the year.

They run with the wild herds from the woods of Delshangie all the way through to Lochletter before little Nis begins to tire. Niseag leads her to the banks of Meiklie to rest: the tiny loch is the most peaceful area he knows. Little Nis dozes while Niseag wanders the south bank. He knew Meiklie once, the little merrow child that named the loch. A fishtailed half-breed, her father dead, her mother returned to the sea. She is long gone, but her touch remains in the quietude of the still water.

They sleep the night beneath Meiklie’s trees and start the next day on velvet feet, hunting shadows beneath the pines of Lochletter. Nis struggles with the lynx shape, and Niseag can’t help laughing at her long legged, maned kitten. It’s an admirable effort for a foal regardless and he praises her for it once he has apologised for laughing.

By the end of the day, it is impossible to tell Nis from any other tuft eared kitten. Niseag is astonished.

Trickster blood. He knew it would show through.

He ups the ante the next day, to see if she can keep up. They climb to the top of the tallest pine as red squirrels (though Nis still has lynx ears in minature) and he shows her how to take wings and feathers as her own and break the bonds of gravity. They start as blackbirds, flitting between the trees, and ride the evening thermal as a falcon and his fledge, rising to heaven then folding into a bullet and diving for earth.

They run the next day as deer again, though Niseag indulges herself and runs as a hind with her fawn. She doesn’t comment that the fawn at her side begins the day as a doe and ends it as a buck. It isn’t a trick for capall uisge: she hadn’t even considered trying to teach Nis. Nis shouldn’t have been able to do it.

Trickster blood.

Godlings aren’t common in the North. The Southern pantheons might have seeded heirs like they seeded fields, but the North guarded its blood more jealously. Niseag herself was likely the closest to a god the Northern lore came near to anymore.

She tries not to let it bother her. Niseag is an old creature, the eldest of the each uisge. It takes a lot to spook her. She knows that anomalies occur among those with a touch of God in their veins, but if Nis is already so capable-

Nis grins at her with poison green eyes and doesn’t understand why she doesn’t smile back.

Galahad did not have friends. Elaine found a doll for him when he was young that was his companion, but beyond that he had never had anyone. Convents were hardly places to raise children.

The first time he met Lancelot, his father had tried to replace his doll with knights. Carefully carved knights, with their own horses and shields and lances. A pair of them, a matched set. They looked perfect together.

Galahad loved them, but he never played with them. They stayed on his shelf, side by side, while he played with Doll, and that seemed better somehow. Sometimes he hid them when he saw Elaine looking at them for too long, tracing the shape of the shields’ argent dragon and rampant gules lion with her eyes when she lingered in his doorway.

She would take just one if he gave her a chance, and would think it was ok. Just one was ok. But they were a matched pair and had to stay together. So when he saw her looking he hid them under his bed, still together, and Elaine would smile like she was watching the path to the convent for a knight on a horse and had seen a friar on a mule instead.

“You love your knights like I love mine,” she said to him once when she caught him hiding them away. He wanted to tell her that he did not love them, they just had to stay together, but she would not understand. So he nodded and let her touch his hair and call him her knight though he knew she was lying.

Convents were not places for love between people. You learned to give your love to God in the quiet spaces between the bricks and mortar of the chapels and the bare rooms. His mother had hidden herself and Galahad away there so she could hone her martyrdom to sharpness with an appropriate stone, where people could see but she could pretend to be unseen. His father was somewhere far away, but he could never be sure which of them had chosen to let that be.

Elaine told stories of Galahad Lancelot between her prayers, and Galahad ate them up like they were foretelling of his own destiny. They might as well have been, for the names were the same, and Elaine did not seem to know the difference.

“He is the best knight in all the world.”

“He has fought every knight who ever challenged him, and won.”

“He is the best knight and friend of the King. Arthur’s closest friend and confidant.”

“He always fights for the Queen as her champion.”

“He has never worn the favour of any woman that has asked him.”

Galahad folded the sentences of these stories away in his mind and held them there as precepts for his life.

“But you have achieved the grail, the highest honour any knight could achieve.”

“The grail?” Galahad laughed, the ugly sound echoing in the cavernous chapel.

He wrapped his hand around the stem and lifted it to eye level, watching the distorted reflection of his face in the gold.

“You don’t understand, not really,” he said, and smiled when he saw the way Lancelot had frozen when he touched the grail. He let his hand tremble and had to restrain himself from laughing when Lancelot leapt to his feet.

“The purpose of the quest was never so crass,” Galahad said, spitting every word like it held a bitter taste. “The grail was just a sign of the greater prize, the grace of God.”

“This? This is a cup.” Galahad threw the chalice at Lancelot’s feet. The clatter of heavy gold on stone was like hoof beats, rolling on until the grail fetched up against Lancelot’s boots. He froze in place, staring down at it. The thunder of Galahad’s footsteps barely registered compared to the blasphemy at his feet.

"Raise a toast to your lady, whoever she is this time," Galahad said, soft as sin in his ear. "That’s all it’s good for." 

Epimetheus hasn’t had guests in years, and he’s ill prepared for the sudden incursion on his house in the middle of the night.

He retreats to the kitchen to boil water for drinks just so he can get some distance from the sudden group presence in his solitary home. The buzz of their chatter in the living room drowns out the dim purr of the kettle. It’s too loud for him: he’s not used to it anymore.

They’re here because they want something, from him. People have been asking questions, and not the usual dross the media think up. Questions about their abilities have only ever been a short hop away from being hauled away for “their own good”. The kids were smart enough, or maybe cynical enough to run before the white coats and the black bags turned up on the doorstep, but now they’ve run to him and he’s not sure why.

Epimetheus is the eldest, but he’s by no means the easiest to find, or anything like equipped to help them. They could have run to Atlas, or to Loge. Either of them would have taken a flock of 2nd Gen Saturnians in at a moment’s notice. Why him then?

It was probably the media. After the interview he agreed to, the renewed interest in him and the other older Saturnians, and then that whole rumour about faking deaths that got way out of hand, it was no wonder they’d come looking for him.

He’s halfway through filling cups when it dawns on him, and the kettle goes skittering across the kitchen floor, coughing out puddles of boiling water onto the tiles.

They weren’t looking for him at all.

The eldest, the tall girl with scales and a dark mouth, comes looking for him after hearing the kettle, but he can’t hear her questions over the rushing in his ears. He shoves her away, screeching at her to leave and screams the same at the rest when they come barrelling in to stare.

"Get out! Get out of my house!"

He shouts and snaps and buffets them with his flared wings until they all retreat out onto the porch, frightened and baffled as to what has just happened. He slams the door on their questions and flees upstairs to hide, hunching himself down as small as he’ll go.

All the stories about the older Saturnians, about all the work Tethys had done, everything Keri and Hyperion had fought for, the rumour that Hyperion wasn’t as dead as first reported-

The kids he’d locked out in the rain weren’t here for him, the broken man hiding in the wardrobe. They were looking for someone to help them, someone who could do something.

They were looking for Hyperion.

Hyperion was a hero, but he’s not here anymore, and Epimetheus is just a farm goose with clipped wings pretending to be angel. His grief nearly chokes him, and the tears in his eyes burn like Hyperion’s touch once did.

He hears a tap at the window beyond the wardrobe door.

"Mr Epimetheus?" Fornjot, it had to be. Who else could reach the second storey window so easily. "We’re really sorry we upset you. We won’t do it again, but could we please come back in? It’s really wet out here."

Heroes didn’t lock children out in the rain. Hell, decent people didn’t do that.

"Go away," he says, though Fornjot can hardly be expected to hear him through the window and the wardrobe door. "Just leave me alone."

The interview was all the news can talk about the next day. “Epimetheus Speaks” glared out at him from the scant few net feeds he kept in the house, until he had to shut them all off to spare his sanity. He’d known he’d regret it, but he hadn’t thought it would happen so fast.

He settled on the shapeless sofa in the lounge and dared to boot up the interface on the opposite wall, but as expected all the news outlet links swarmed up as soon as he did so.

“Epimetheus isn’t wearing his prostheses at the moment, and it is difficult not to trace the abbreviated lines of his wings with your eyes,” the reporter said in one window before he could close the video.

“It doesn’t need to be said that his left wing hasn’t survived anywhere near as well,” she said from another as he blocked the first.

He told the interface to block all incoming information under keywords “Saturn Children”, “Saturnian” or “Epimetheus”. The finicky tech struggled with his request for a minute or so as the audio kept playing from a variety of different links.

“That one was a bomb,” he heard his own voice say. “Can you believe it? Someone hated me so much they actually-“

The interface finally shut them all down and the screen was blessedly silent but for a minimised movie advertisement that sounded very apologetic about still being there.

Someone hated me so much they actually “planted a bomb on my transport,” he finished, and felt his face twist into a smile that could only be hideous.

“I’m such a liar.” There was no one there to reply. The interface remained silent, the movie ad finished.

Someone loved me so much they tried to take me with them.

The house was quiet, and empty but for him.

It didn’t work.