A Hero's Tears

Baby Steps

Hey, guys. I'm back, and this chapter is significantly less weird than last chapter! Enjoy!

~LotP
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"Woah, there, tough guy. Easy," he heard from an unfamiliar voice, as gentle hands eased him back onto the bed.

He lied back, pain still coursing through his head and chest. The only thing he knew was he was somewhere in Camp Half-Blood. He didn't know where, as his surroundings didn't look like the infirmary, nor did he know how long he had been out. Hell, he didn't know how long he'd been topside. He had no idea what day, month, or year it was. All he could guess, was it was winter, due to the fact that Camp seemed somewhat vacant, given the amount people he had seen when he came back. Not that he was counting, but it seemed less than how many it'd be if it was summer. Then again, this might be unreliable, because he also remembers seeing two Chirons, an extra Artemis, and he could've sworn one of those reindeer pulling the sleigh had a red nose.

"Did you hear me? Can you tell me your name?" the voice asked, and Luke turned to look at its owner.

Standing at his bedside was a frizzy red haired girl with deep green eyes, almost reminiscent of Percy Jackson's. Her shirt was purple and had some eco green slogan on it that he couldn't read, thanks to his father's very wonderful gift of dyslexia, with blotches of paint splattered on it in some places.

He nodded slowly. "Y-Yeah. I'm Luke Castellan, Son of Hermes," he croaks, only now realizing how dry his throat was.

"Hello, Luke. My name's Rachel Dare. I'm no demigod, but I am the Oracle of Delphi," she tells him, and holds a glass of nectar to him. "Up so you can drink. It'll make you feel better."

He looked wearily at the glass, not entirely keen on tasting his mom's old cookies, considering his dream, but sits up anyway, causing little jolts of pain to shoot through him. He winces as he braces himself against the backboard.

Rachel goes to help him drink it, but he insists that he can drink on his own. After insisting incessantly, she decides to let him try, knowing he couldn't, but also that he wouldn't, himself, until he realized how weak he was. Of course, when he tried on his own, he nearly dropped it, and would've, were it not for Rachel's hand hovering by the glass, and he grudgingly accepted her help.

He nearly tears at the taste, which was, as predicted, his mother's cookies. He blinks them away before they can truly form, and continues drinking, the once welcome and heart-warming taste now spawning guilt and bitterness.

"What does it taste like?" Rachel asks.

"Um... buttered popcorn," he lied. He really doesn't feel like taking about his mother, much less to this girl he just met.

"Well, dinner's in twenty. Feel up to it, or do you want meal in bed? If you're up to it, I can have someone give you a tour, also."

"I think I'm game," he says.

"You sure? Not a minute ago, you couldn't hold a glass of nectar. Can you be sure you can walk around and stomach some grilled delicacies?"

"Maybe... Help me up?"

She nods a 'yeah', and he goes to sit on the edge of his bed. He takes a tentative step off the bed. Both of them are surprised to see that he's standing.

"I think I'm go-" He stumbles and falls back onto the bed.

"Maybe tomorrow," Rachel laughs good naturedly, and he smiles, though he can't help but feel... disappointed in himself. He used to be the King of Camp, the guy everyone knew and loved, the best swordsman in a millennia, but here he is, unable to walk and reduced to requiring help to drink a glass of cookie-flavoured apple juice.

"I've got a meeting in five. I won't be far, but if you need me, hit this button here." She shows him the button. "Once you do, either myself or an Apollo nurse will be here as soon as we can. And a Spirit will deliver your dinner when it's out. Any questions before I go? Again, I'll just be in the front room."

He shakes his head no, and she leaves him to his bed. To his thoughts. To his contemplations of his dream, and his sense of self disappointment.

After a bit of boiling in that wonderful concoction of steamy emotional juices, there's a knock on the door, before it opens to a dryad carrying a plate of food.

"Thank you," he says, sitting up, with effort, as she places it on the nightstand. She offers him a quick, fleeting smile, though her eyes conveyed a slight sense of fear, and she vanished in a green poof, leaving behind the subtle scent of pine.

And, like that, he was alone, again.
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I did say less weird, nothing of the emotional levels...
~ Still LotP