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Chapter Text

PRAXIS

It is a strange age when the universe turns on itself. No law of physics is left unbroken, no man, or beast, or god is spared their reckoning. The winds blow in from afar, reeling with frantic whispers and dying prayers. It is an age of death and an age of birth, as the heavens shift and groan. The weight of millennia is shed away in cosmic roars and the Earth stirs from its ancient slumber. It is an age of secrets and an age of truth.

It is an age of chaos.

But the human heart endures. The human heart must always endure.

…

In the silver halls of high Olympus, towering above the mortal world in a feat of spectacular power that broke no less than four laws of physics, the mighty thrones of the Dodekatheon(1) stood empty and cold. They were glittering, regal things, humming with the power of the cosmos, every inch a subtle expression of proud disdain. There were twelve in total, curving like a U around a central hearth; a roaring fire the size of a house, but radiating warmth and a distant sense of belonging.

Here, by this hearth, stood two of the great gods: Zeus, Giver of Signs, Father of Gods and Men, Lord of the Thunderbolt and his gentle sister Hestia, First and Last, Keeper of the Sacred Fire.

The Thunderer stared into the flames, deep in thought. His oiled beard shone in the orange light.

“Are we truly doomed to repeat the same old patterns?” he asked, his voice a soft rumble.

His sister smiled softly. “Only if we allow ourselves too.”

“We are not mortal,” Zeus replied. There was finality in his tone, and perhaps helplessness too. He would never admit to being afraid. Nor would he acknowledge that mortals had been given an enviable lot.

Hestia peered up at Zeus with flickering, flame-filled eyes, a question in her steady gaze. “So what will you do, my Lord?”

Zeus sighed deeply and the air around him crackled with electricity. “It is time to remind my brethren of exactly that. We are gods, and we must act as much.”

And so, as dawn broke over the East Coast, thunder and lightning burned the air high above Manhattan and the Council of the Gods convened.

…

Theodora snuffed out her last cigarette beneath sole of her well-worn boot. She wasn’t proud that she smoked. She definitely didn’t think it was cool like some of the stupider kids at her school. It was a bad habit that she’d picked up from her father who himself had never been sober enough to notice a few missing bogeys.

There was a biting chill to the October wind, and she hugged her bare arms tightly trying to preserve what little warmth she could. She wouldn’t be standing here very long anyways.

She hadn’t dressed smart. Of course, the point had never been to dress smart. Still, she pressed herself back against the glass doors of her apartment building, trying to soak in what little warmth made its way outside.

Finally, she heard the tell-tale sound of a car engine from down the road. A red Mustang, rather garishly painted, rumbled to a stop in front of her. The passenger side window slid down without a sound and her landlord, a rather unpleasant man who went by Derek, smiled up at her.

“Well don’t be shy darling, get in.” He winked at her.

Theodora’s insides roiled in disgust. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to run. She wanted to knee Derek in the groin and kick the headlights out of his car. Instead, forcing her revulsion down, she opened the door and slid in.

The seat of the car was so low, she could barely see over the pavement in front of them. She slid even lower to make herself seem smaller and pointedly refused to tug on the seatbelt. It would just be something to slow her down if she needed a quick getaway. Of course, she couldn’t exactly outrun a guy in a car but she clung desperately to that hope.

“Hey, don’t be so tense. It’ll be great, you’ll see,” he said in a pathetic attempt to reassure her.

Theodora looked away, pointed focusing on the rising moon, as they ripped out of the parking lot and down the road. She was acutely aware of every breath the man beside her was taking, his every little movement, every tick-tick-tick of the indicator, and every detail about the car’s interior. A filthy pair of fuzzy dice that might have been white once hung from the rear-view mirror. The car was otherwise clean, impeccably so, but something still felt off. There was a Febreze attached to the air vent, but it had clearly run out a very long time ago because the car smelled like stale sex. She knew, immediately for some reason, that he’d picked up a hooker the night before and he had almost choked the life out of the poor girl in the backseat. The thought made her fingers curl into trembling fists as her heart rattled in her ribcage. Would he choke the life out of her too?

Theodora almost jumped out of her seat when a hand came down to rest on her thigh. She stared at it, not daring to look up. There was a switch blade in her back-pocket, and it took all her restraint to not stab him. Her leg felt numb and foreign. Like she was looking at someone else. Someone else’s hand, someone else’s leg. Derek’s hand, her leg. No, no, no, she wanted to throw herself out of the car. Moving or not. No, what had she been thinking? She didn’t – she couldn’t – she—

The hand was moving. She felt sick. Sick to her stomach. Why were her hands so sweaty? She had wanted to this. She had taken up his offer.

The car pulled into another parking lot. The moon was high in the sky. It was large and bright tonight. Beautiful, very beautiful. The hand was moving upwards now, fiddling with the zip on her jeans. The other hand came up to tilt her face. She closed her eyes. She wanted to cry.

Soon, he dragged her into the backseat. It was awkward and the angles were all wrong.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt so much.

Her eyes were blurry with tears but she kept her gaze at the moon, it’s light muted through the tinted windows. She stared at its silver face and reminded herself that she had no other choice. There were bills to pay. The rent was just too high. Her dad had been fired. He wasn’t in a good place. She couldn’t quit school to get another job. They’d be out on the streets otherwise. Besides, two more years and she would have her diploma. Three more years and she would legally be an adult. She’d get out of this miserable town. She’d go somewhere far away.

She kept looking at the moon, imagining what life could be like. She was far away now. Somewhere better. Somewhere kinder. ‘Please,’ she thought, looking up, desperate, praying almost. ‘Take me somewhere else.’

But miracles are hard to come by.

Derek dropped her off in front of her complex afterwards. He was smiling. Told her not to worry about rent.

“I’ll let it slide this time darling.” He grinned, his gaze lingering.

She wanted to peel her skin off.

…

Her dad was a good man. He wasn’t abusive or anything. He was just sick sometimes and too proud to get help. Instead he would drown himself in a bottle of whatever was closest and pass out somewhere between the couch and his bedroom. But he wasn’t a bad man.

He loved Theodora. He wanted the best for her. But sometimes, on the bad days, when he was in a drunken stupor, he would call her “Delilah” instead. He’d yell at her, screaming, begging, crying. Why did you leave me?

Today was not a bad day.

“Theodora? Is that you?” a slurred voice called out.

“Yeah dad.” Her voice shook. Emotional clogged her throat, making it hard to speak. “I was doing homework at a friend’s house.”
“That’s a good girl. D’you want dinner?”

She didn’t have an appetite. The thought of food made her gag. The taste of Derek’s mouth was still fresh in hers.

“No, dad. I ate already.”

There was silence.

She quickly sped into the bathroom and locked the door before collapsing by the toilet. She finally let out the sobs she had been holding back for so long. Loud, gut-wrenching, ugly ones too. Makeup ran down her face along with snot.

Chapter Text

GLAUKOPIS

Malcolm liked to believe he was a rational, think-first type of person. He didn’t blindly rush into things, sword swinging, screaming like a banshee like some Ares kids he could mention. He figured that maybe it was just an Athena thing. She was, after all, the goddess of wisdom.

It still didn’t matter. All the wisdom in the world couldn’t get rid of the jealousy twisting in his gut. His entire time spent at Camp Half-Blood he’d been stuck in his sister’s shadow.

Annabeth this. Annabeth that. Everyone was always going on and on about her. Malcolm didn’t hate her, at least not at first. On the contrary, he had actually admired her. She was what a hero was supposed to be, like Odysseus or Diomedes from the old stories; the kind of heroes their Mother watched over and guided.

Of course, those feelings of hero-worship began to sour over time. Annabeth went on quest after quest after quest while he was stuck babysitting his younger siblings at Camp. As her second-in-command, he led Cabin Six through all of their daily activities, he put the little ones to bed at night, and he drafted their Capture the Flag plans. But it was an empty responsibility—people would only ever see him as second to Annabeth.

Apparently, even their Mother thought so. She gave Annabeth a cap of invisibility for her twelfth birthday. Which, as far as godly gifts go, totally unheard of by any means. But then, for his twelfth birthday? All he got was a pat on the back from Chiron and a slice of cake at dinner.

Where was Athena?

So you see, there was never really a point when he began to hate his sister. The envy merely goaded itself to newer and uglier heights. And as the jealousy grew, so did his desire to outdo his sister. Malcolm would be the best at something too. He would do great things and be a hero. He would slay monsters and he would be feared and respected. He would make Athena proud.

…

Malcolm slammed the hilt of his sword straight into Sherman’s face. The Ares head counsellor went down like a sack of potatoes. An overgrown, testosterone-jacked sack of potatoes no less.

“You killed him!” cried some newbie from cabin five. Then, after a count of five, “That’s so cool!”

“Oh please,” one of Malcolm’s younger sisters drawled. “He didn’t even crack his skull. It’ll be a concussion at worst.”

“I doubt that. You know how thick-headed Ares kids are,” one of his half-brothers called out.

Malcolm rolled his eyes at the terrible pun, viciously supressing the smile that tugged at his lips.

“Ellis, take him to the infirmary,” he said to the son of Ares.

Ellis grumbled something about Capture the Flag and lying, cheating birdbrains which Malcolm ignored. He was a wise and rational person who did not respond to an idiot’s childish provocations. He held himself to a higher standard.

…

Of course, the comment about his mother’s character was slightly uncalled for, and could you really blame him for trying to decapitate the other boy? A perfectly natural reaction. And no, of course not his divine mother, not even Ellis was that stupid.

Which was why Malcolm now stood on the porch of the Big House, frozen peas over his black eye (because gods forbid a hero training camp for demigods have a few extra icepacks), in front of slightly disgruntled, very unhappy Chiron, and a moody wine god suffering from withdrawal.

“Truthfully sir, I deeply offended by the comments that Ellis made. Not only were they upsetting because of what he was insinuating about my personal relationships, but I found it to be grossly sexist. We should expect better from ourselves in the twenty-first century. This is a safe place for half-bloods, no matter who they are or where they come from. It’s a place f equal opportunity, where everyone is given a seat at the table. People shouldn’t have to worry about the bullying, hate, and fear that they left behind. I didn’t think Camp tolerated this sort of crass, backwards behaviour and language.”

Malcolm took a deep breath. He had crafted the speech in his head about two minutes ago and while it was a bit rough around the edges, and entirely barren of any sort of argument or point, the wordiness would throw Chiron off. Besides, he couldn’t actually respond to that without looking bad himself.

Malcolm preened internally. Of course, he had his mother’s way with words. He’d heard a story that she talked herself out of punishment after an attempted coup-d’état up on Olympus.

“Mr. Pace, I am sure you and Mr. Wakefield will have ample time to work through your differences during stable duty.”

Malcolm and Ellis both protested, only to be cut off by a withering glare from Mr. D.

“For the next month, I should think. Maybe it’ll teach you brats to control your angsty teenage hormones. Or maybe you’ll tear each other apart,” Mr. D said. He looked bored out of his mind, and angry too. Although the anger was more of a permanent fixture.

“Now run along Michael Parson. And you too Elijah, before I lock the both of you in a bottle of merlot and throw you into the Atlantic.”

With that happy threat, Malcolm and Ellis both turned to leave.

“This is all your fault, Pace. Can’t take a fucking joke?” Ellis sneered.

Malcolm trudged ahead, not bothering to look back. “Well, I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Hey, what in Hades is that supposed to mean?” Ellis yelled after him as Malcolm speed walked down the path to the cabins.

He had no intention of going back the Big House any time soon. Mr. D was a lazy, entitled, selfish, uncaring, obnoxious, unintelligent sleaze, but he was also an Olympian. That made him a lazy, entitled, uncaring, obnoxious, unintelligent, sleazy toddler with superpowers. Anything could go very wrong, very quickly around him.

No, going back was not an option. Yet, as he made his way towards his cabin—a beautiful, marble building of stormy grey marble—he could feel something. Something not quite right. It was as if his mind was being pulled away from cabin six. The more effort he tried to put into walking across the green, the more his willpower crumbled.

He stopped, in the middle of the omega-shaped commons area, right by the centra fire. The hearth of Hestia or something. That was what Percy Jackson called it. Malcolm’s lips curled at thought of Percy Jackson. Again, he knew he shouldn’t hate him. The boy had never been anything less than a great hero. But glory was just handed to him because he was the son of one of the Big Three. What about everyone else who had trained their asses off for the same opportunities?

‘What about me?’ thought Malcolm bitterly.

His resentment did a good job clearing his mind. The bad feeling had receded until there was nothing more than metaphorical chill in the air. But still… There was clearly foul magic at work. Perhaps a monster, at least one of the more dangerous kinds, had made its home too close to the edge of the forest. This feeling would require some investigating.

He quickly ran to his cabin, walking in most of his siblings crowding around one of the smartboards by the far wall. There was a lot of jostling and excited yelling which meant that his siblings were drawing up a new strategy for Capture the Flag that Friday. Cabin five, from what Malcolm could pick out, needed a fresh and humiliating reminder of cabin six’s superiority.

Malcolm cleared his throat and the others turned to him with curious faces. Obviously they wanted to know how his talk with Chiron had gone.

“Everything’s fine. You guys have nothing to worry about. And uh,” Malcolm paused to think for a moment. Then, on a dime, he continued, “Layla will be taking you guys to dinner tonight. There’s a personal project that needs my attention.”

Layla, the second oldest camper, looked straight through his bullshit. He knew that she knew that there was no personal project. He had a difficult time not talking about the things he worked on. For example, his odd obsession with the Byzantine Empire a few weeks back? He wouldn’t—nay, couldn’t—shut up about the Varangian Guard¹. He blamed Annabeth for bringing up that cousin of hers up in Boston. She had sworn him to the strictest secrecy, on pain of telling Drew Tanaka from cabin ten about his embarrassing crush on her years ago. Of course, that didn’t stop him from taking interest into the intersection of Greece and the Norse.

He glared Layla into submission who, with one final suspicious glance, turned back to the smartboard. Malcolm then collapsed on his bunk, the best one in the cabin. It was right next to the window and had all sorts of secret compartments and whatnot. The Hephaestus kids weren’t the only ones who could trick out their bunks.

…

About an hour later, the conch horn sounded for dinner. Malcolm, who had been pouring over maps of the camp, sent a meaningful look to Layla who sighed and began rounding up the campers.

After they left, Malcolm jumped from his bed and began tearing through the may bookshelves and battle maps pinned to the walls. He pulled out a binder that the children of Athena had historically kept. It contained information about magical anomalies and other weird and unexplained events in camp history. Some of the information was so old, it talked about old camp locations, before the flame of the West moved to America.

He was looking for anything that might explain the dark, ominous feeling he had had earlier. There must be some rational explanation. He didn’t have feelings like these without there being some explainable cause.

After 30 minutes of searching, he found nothing. Dinner would soon be over, and people would begin to head over to the campfire. The ones that didn’t would inevitably come back to the cabin.

Desperate for answers, he walked over to the trapdoor in the corner opposite to his bunk. A pile of bronze shields were haphazardly thrown over it. The door led to a massive library built beneath the cabin. It was no Library of Alexandria, but it still kept many of the old works from the ancient days, much of which had been lost to the modern world. There were tomes on magic, scrolls on magical bestiary, on architecture and engineering, on medicine, on prophecies and oracles; the list was endless.

As he opened the door and moved to make his way down the ladder, he heard soft giggling behind him.

His reaction was instant. He whirled around, eyeing the person in front of him while simultaneously grabbing the first weapon he could find, a huge bronze hoplon².

A nymph. Why would she be here? What business did she have with him? Surely there was no other reason she would sneak into the otherwise empty cabin.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm asked with suspicion. He lowered his shield only slightly.

The nymph, a hamadryad most likely, offered him a flirtatious smile. “Follow me.”

“Why?”

She giggled again and turned around. Casting him a soft smile over the shoulder, she said, “The Mistress calls for you.”

…

“Why can’t you tell me who this Mistress is?”

The nymph only gave him one of her gods-damned cryptic smiles.

“Okay can you tell me why ‘Mr. I-think-I’m-so-macho’ is with us?” he asked, gesturing to none other than Ellis Wakefield who was staring very indiscreetly at the dryad. Malcolm rolled his eyes.

“Now you’re just asking for it.” Ellis tore his eyes away from ogling the nymph to give Malcolm a death glare.

Malcolm ignored him.

“So, what’s your name?” Ellis tried.

Again, no response.

They walked like this, in silence interspersed only with the occasional barb thrown between the two boys, for another ten minutes.

Malcolm was completely on edge. Not only had the day’s earlier ominous feeling returned, but he was unarmed other than shield which he had adamantly refused to put back. He wouldn’t be walking into what could very well be a trap entirely without a means to defend himself. He had wanted to grab his sword from under his bed but the nymph, whose name he didn’t know either, didn’t give him the chance.

They had stayed in the shadows of the cabins to avoid being seen by the campfire-goers, and walked around the perimeter to cabin five where they had picked up a very disgruntled Ellis Wakefield. He had threatened to gut Malcolm like a fish if the whole thing turned out to be some kind of practical joke or revenge for their earlier talk with Chiron.

Malcolm would have loved it if it was. He wasn’t above humiliating cabin five whenever the opportunity arose. Unfortunately, just like Ellis, he was walking into… whatever this was, totally blind.

And he hated it. He liked well-structured plans, carefully though-out strategies, and 30 page intelligence dossiers. He never walked into anything completely blind.

Yet here he was, following a total stranger into the deadliest part of camp. At night no less.

As they made their way to the forest, Ellis stopped in his tracks. “No way, I’m going in there with him.” He pointed at Malcolm.

Malcolm shrugged. “The feeling is mutual. Unfortunately, I don’t think we have a choice. I’m not sure I want to anger whoever this Mistress lady is.” With that, he followed the nymph into the shadows that loomed over them.

…

The trudged through the forest for another 15 minutes until they came across a stream. In fact, stream might have been a generous word considering it was no more than a trickle of water.

The dryad stopped by this stream and then simply disappeared. Most likely, she had poofed away back to her tree. Unfortunately, she had left them with not further instructions or explanations. He was stuck, in the middle of a monster-infested forest, with someone who not only hated him, but was the son of one of his mother’s bitterest rivals.

Naturally that was when the drakon attacked.

Chapter Text

XENOS

May it be known that nothing can bring people together like their shared, impending doom. Never had Malcolm been more aware of that fact until now.

The thing came flying through the forest, well not actually flying since drakons typically did not have wings, and he desperately flung himself to the side to avoid getting mauled. He hoped Ellis had gotten out of the way too.

The drakon made a not-quite-roaring noise, as if it hadn’t hit puberty yet, and turned. It was about twice the height of Malcolm, and by all means, he was a tall guy, and about as fat as a school bus. Which, as far as drakons went, was small so it was probably a baby. Of course, that didn’t make it any less deadly. It glowered at him with yellow eyes and Malcolm tried his best to avoid meeting its gaze. There was an old rumour about drakons being able to paralyze their prey with their eyes and he was in no mood to test that theory.

The creature did the not-quite-roar thing again, and Malcolm immediately understood what was about to happen. As the beast opened its mouth to spit poison at him, he threw his hoplon like a discus. The shield wouldn’t have provided him with much defense anyways given that drakon poison could melt through six feet of celestial bronze and he was more nimble without it anyways.

It caught the drakon straight in the mouth, with enough force to knock it backwards, it’s head smashing into a tree trunk. While the creature was dazed, Malcolm took a few moments to recompose himself. He did a quick analysis of the situation at hand, looking to see where in Hades Wakefield went while simultaneously assessing his hopeless odds against the drakon.

Ellis, the annoying, intellectually stunted creature that he was, had jumped out of the way of the drakon’s initial attack only to trip and fall into the creek. May the gods have mercy on him, he wouldn’t survive a day outside of camp. At any rate, he had finally managed to pull himself up and was reaching for his sword. Meanwhile, Malcolm himself was now weaponless, staring down a drakon. This was… less than ideal, to say the least. But he was a son of Athena, he could work with impossible odds. Besides, he had an idea.

“Distract it!” he yelled at Ellis, who, for once, had no dimwitted comeback.

As the drakon got back on its field, coughing up the bronze shield, which by now had half melted away into a sizzling puddle of bronze on the ground, Ellis charged the creature, screaming like a banshee. It would have been suicidal for anyone other than a child of the war god. Ellis, very much a child of Ares, used the flat of his blade to smash the drakon in the head before jumping back and slashing at its legs.

As Ellis went toe to toe with the creature, Malcolm did his best to sneak behind it. He skirted past its backside, which smelled about as pleasant as his half-brothers’ dirty socks, and ran to what remained of his shield. It had been damaged quite thoroughly but the half that remained would serve his purposes well enough.

He carefully held the hoplon up by the edges untouched by poison and did his best to gesture quietly, yet wildly, to Ellis who seemed to be having the time of his life. He was hurling insult after insult at the drakon, in a strange mix of Ancient Greek and English, while slashing and dodging like a complete maniac. A skilled maniac though, Malcolm would admit.

After a few awkward minutes of doing something that resembled the rain dance, he got Ellis’s attention. He gestured at the creature’s feet and prayed to Athena that Ellis would understand.

Thank the gods, Ellis got his memo. Unfortunately, while he was distracted, he got solar plex-ed by the drakon’s tail. He went flying a good twenty feet backwards, crashing into a tree with a loud crunch, and did not move again.

That was bad. That was really bad because the drakon now turned its full attention to Malcolm. Who was armed only with a half melted shield. He wasn’t even wearing any armour. Yes, this would be bad. And a rather pathetic way to die.

Malcolm frantically looked around, trying to assess his surroundings for something that he could use to his advantage. He was surrounded by trees, soil, and a stream. Some rocks too. Very helpful.

‘Think. Think. Think,’ Malcolm internally screamed at himself.

The drakon had slowed down now, no doubt completely confident in its ability to rend him limb from limb. It inched forward, growling lowly. Malcolm took a few small steps backwards.

He continued backing away from the monster, slowly but surely, until his foot caught on something uneven—a rock—and he almost fell. The sudden movement on his part spurred the drakon into motion. It lunged at him, wide jaws lined with razor sharp teeth dripping poison, and Malcolm prayed to the high gods of Olympus that his time spent playing little league soccer would finally pay off. He kicked the stupid rock that had tripped him and, with an accuracy that stunned even him, it nailed the drakon right in the eye.

The beast roared in agony which was the opening Malcolm had been looking for. He hurled the remains of his shield with all his might straight into the maw of the monster. The hoplon was small enough that it fit through the creature’s wide mouth but it definitely wasn’t small enough to make its way down its esophagus.

The shield caught somewhere in the back of the drakon’s throat and the poor creature began to choke. It would not be merciful death, but it would die.

The drakon reeled backwards, making pathetic whining noises, arms and legs flailing. It reared its head to the heavens which only served to lodge the shield more firmly in place. In its panic the drakon turned in its spot, its tail knocking over half a dozen trees. Malcolm himself was almost knocked aside, but he quickly ducked and began crawling his way over to Ellis, with the occasional look over his shoulder to make sure the beast was indeed dying.

With one last pitiful moaning sound, the drakon collapsed on the ground, it’s body slowly dissolving into golden dust. Malcolm slumped in relief. That had been nigh disastrous.

He took a few moments to catch his breath and steady his trembling hands before walking over to where Ellis, the absolute moron, was a groaning heap on the ground.

Malcolm looked down at him in distaste. Ares kids, what could you do?

Ellis rolled over and Malcolm almost yelped. There was bone sticking out of his arm, in a place where there most definitely should not have been bone in the first place. His orange camp shirt was drenched in blood and he was very likely also concussed. Most troubling of all, Ellis was going into shock.

Malcolm was furious. He didn’t have any ambrosia on him so he would have to drag Ellis’s stupid ass back to the infirmary which would: 1.) raise an assortment of questions he did not know the answer to and he hated not knowing the answer, and 2.) he would incur a fresh wave of Chiron’s wrath.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave Ellis here. The guy would die. Malcolm considered if that would truly be a terrible loss and then decided he wasn’t that awful of a person. Whoever this Mistress chick was would have to wait. Which, to be fair, would be entirely on her head because who meets in the monster-infested forest of all places?

…

He had been dragging a very dazed Ellis through the forest when he tripped over a twig and landed flat on his butt. In his very graceful process of falling, he managed to twist Ellis’s other arm, and rather painfully too. Thankfully, the poor guy was already thoroughly in shock and would likely never remember the details of how he very nearly ended up with two broken (well-loved?) arms.

Malcolm glared at the twig. He glared at the trees around him. He also glared at the sky. He was having a terrible night and every second somehow managed to be worse than the last. Now while the whole grey-eyed-death-stare standoff with the forest might have seemed childish, especially for him, it made a good excuse to get a better look at the girl in the Grecian dress, standing in front of him, whom he had noticed on his unfortunate way downwards.

In the oppressive darkness of the night, he could make out one thing for certain. She was beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful in the way the dryad from earlier had been, who had reminded Malcolm of some of his own past flings with the wood nymphs of Camp Half Blood. No, she wasn’t that type of sex-on-legs hot. This girl made his skin freeze and his blood boil. She made his mouth go dry and his eyes glaze over. She was beautiful and dreadful in the way that only goddesses and natural disasters were. (Not that there was a difference between those two in Malcolm’s personal opinion.)

In other words, Malcolm, for all his infinite wisdom and silver tongue, was at a total loss. He stared. She looked back at him, politely bored.

“You’re late.”

“Um…” She smelled like Chanel No. 5. It was intoxicating and he realized he had taken several steps towards her before he managed to reign himself in.

“Sit,” she commanded, and a lawn chair appeared out of thin air.

Malcolm stared at the lawn chair for a few moments, recollecting his thoughts. “Are you the Mistress?”

The girl, who was a few years older than him, smiled. There was something not quite right about the way her lips curled upwards. “I am.”

“Right.” He coughed awkwardly. “And you are…?”

The girl giggled as if the question had amused her. “I have been known by many names.”

This piqued Malcolm’s curiosity and he immediately found it easier to ignore her intimidating beauty. He was back on his laser-focused, psychoanalyzing game, trying to look for some sort of symbol on the girl’s appearance or in her surroundings that might give her away.

“Okay… So are you a goddess then?” he tried again.

The girl sat gracefully in her own lawn chair, which considering it was a lawn chair must have taken some serious effort, and peered up at him with eyes that were in equal parts ancient and alluring. “I am a friend.”

Right. Normally when gods or goddy people tell you something that outright dishonest, they want something. To be specific, they usually want you to do something. And dear gods, this was the opportunity Malcolm had been waiting his entire life for.

He sat down in the opposite chair, ignoring Ellis’s weak moans from somewhere behind him. “Why are you here my Lady?”

The girl smiled but in a genuinely pleased way. Despite what Annabeth and Percy might have thought, respect went a long way with the gods.

“It seems that an old possession of mine, something I thought lost eons ago, has been drudged up. How those clever mortals managed it, I do not know. But I would very much like it returned to me.”

“Okay… What object?”

“Don’t worry. Follow the signs and I’m sure you’ll find it. You are quite clever so I’m sure it will be no issue.” Then she leaned in, almost conspiratorially, and gave him a wink. “Besides, I’m sure you will agree that it’s more fun this way.”

Malcolm swallowed hard. “Yeah, but I don’t even know where to start looking.” His argument sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

“Dodona, I imagine. For a prophecy. And definitely not Delphi. Under any circumstances.”

Malcolm gave her a confused look. “Why not? Delphic prophecies are the most powerful.”

“Dodona,” she emphasized, and Malcolm saw her eyes flash with power. He was filled with a sort of despair that seemed to rend him into two, and then the moment passed. He breathed hard, still reeling from… whatever that was. He felt like he’d been slapped across the face with anguish and heartbreak.

“Yeah, Dodona it is,” he managed.

She beamed and then pointed behind him. “I want you to take that one with you.”

Malcolm spared a glance behind him to Ellis who had finally passed out, probably form a mix of the blood loss and concussion. He also probably needed immediate medical attention, which Malcolm probably really should have been giving him.

“Leave before dawn.”  With that final statement the girl leaned forward to plant a kiss on Malcolm’s cheek. He shivered involuntarily as her lips brushed over his ear to whisper, “Don’t fail.”

With that, she disappeared into nothing, along with the two lawn chairs. Malcolm once again fell flat on his butt, but this time with a raging hard-on, cheeks flushed completely red, and about a hundred unanswered questions.

He tried to control his breathing as he stood up and brushed the dirt off of himself. Only one thought was going through his head: what the fuck what the fuck whatthefuck. Actually make it two thoughts.

…

Malcolm tried everything. He splashed water on Ellis’s face. He slapped him around. Gently, of course. He screamed in his ear. He threatened him. He even prayed to the gods. But Ellis Wakefield was very much dead to the world. Hopefully, Malcolm prayed, he was not actually dead.

The son of Athena had done his best to set the bone, or at least push it back inside, but he imagined that wouldn’t exactly help much. What was more important was making sure Ellis remained awake. He had never bothered to learn why, but passing out in these situations was bad. Like really bad.

“Wake up, wake up, please!” Malcolm begged.

After another two hopeless minutes Malcolm began to drag him through the forest again, but not towards to camp.

He dragged him over to a particular maple tree, and collapsed on his knees before the trunk.

“Maple!” he called out. “Please help me, my friend is dying! Please I need your help.”

Maple had been his most recent fling but things had gotten awkward when she started asking what they were. She wanted something more while Malcolm really only cared about the absolutely amazing sex they had. Suffice it to say, they weren’t really on speaking terms right now. But surely, as a dryad, kindness was in her nature. She wouldn’t let an innocent person die, even if she hated him. At least, that’s what Malcolm hoped.

Finally, a girl about his age seemed to walk out of the tree. Her skin was tinged pink, and she wore a white chiton¹. She looked down at him, more coldly than he ever thought a nature spirit was capable of. “What do you want?”

He gestured to Ellis. “Look, he’s probably gonna die and I know things are weird between us but this is about him. I just need you to keep him stable or do some nature magic or whatever just as long as I can go get some ambrosia and nectar,” he pleaded. He was still on his knees and for once, he couldn’t give a damn about his monumental pride.

Maple turned to look at Ellis and a brief look of horror passed over her face, before her eyes softened and she set her mouth into a steely line. “Fine. But this doesn’t change anything between us.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped past him and knelt by Ellis, as Malcolm got up and sprinted back towards the cabins.

…

He practically threw open the door to Cabin Six, completely ignoring his siblings, who had all stopped to look at him, and went straight for his bunk. He yanked open the chest underneath his bed and pulled out a doggy bag of ambrosia before flying out of the cabin.

He raced across the commons area and back into the forest, jumping over fallen logs and gnarled roots, and dodging trees and rocks. In any other situation, he might have spared a moment to marvel at his own agility and nimbleness but now was hardly the time.

By the time he got back to Maple and Ellis, he was completely out of breath and could hardly manage two words.

Maple, true to her word, had managed to do something to Ellis, and he didn’t look so dead anymore. Malcolm quickly ripped open the package of ambrosia and shoved the entire square down Ellis’s throat, opening and closing his mouth to help him chew.

With his fists curled tightly, he bounced on his toes as he watched colour finally return to Ellis’s face. The bone seemed to begin to set back into place on its own but it would still need medical attention.

Unfortunately, Malcolm thought grimly, they didn’t have enough time for that. The two of them needed to leave before dawn and Chiron would never let Ellis go in this condition.

Malcolm considered seeking out Chiron alone and convincing him to let him do this on his own. He could then sneak off with Ellis. At least the quest would be somewhat official then. But then he considered how the girl had told him to not to consult the Oracle of Delphi. It had been strange but she had been adamant. He knew that somehow she wouldn’t appreciate him going to Chiron either. Speaking to him in the forest, at night, seemed highly secretive and she would have gone to Chiron to officially issue a quest otherwise.

He scowled and trashed the idea of going to Chiron. It would seem the two would need to sneak out. Which meant that he would have to do his best to treat Ellis on his own and gather supplies for the two of them without anyone noticing.

A good thing he was as clever as he was.