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Camp Half-Blood
Year: 2003
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Luke Castellan approached the Big House, slowly, his pace slow and measured, almost as if dragging out the inevitable. Behind him, he heard the occasional snap and rustle, but he paid it no mind. He assumed it to be Annabeth, as the younger girl had a penchant for curiosity, and a tendency to follow him around. Besides, he had far more pressing concerns. His heart thrummed with anticipation, a mix of apprehension and curiosity swirling within him. He had been summoned by Chiron, and though he had faced countless challenges in his short life, there was something about this meeting that set his nerves on edge.
As he reached the front steps, he spotted the old centaur, sitting in his wheelchair, a blanket draped over his legs. Luke hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to approach the situation, but then Chiron smiled warmly at him, a twinkle in his eyes, and Luke felt a flicker of ease wash over him.
"Thank you for coming, Luke."
Luke shifted uncomfortably, the weight of Chiron's gaze settling on him like a heavy cloak, "Of course."
"It is time."
"Time? Time for what-"
"Your father has made a request."
Immediately, Luke's guard went back up at the mention of his father, his entire body stiffening.
"What could my father possibly want from me now?" he muttered, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone.
Chiron's smile faltered slightly, his expression tinged with sympathy. "Your father seeks to send you on a quest. To the garden of the Hesperides."
Luke's eyes widened in shock, his jaw nearly dropping from the sheer disbelief of it all. The Garden of the Hesperides? That was no small task—it was one of the legendary labors of Hercules himself. It was difficult to name the emotions that rose within him. Apprehension, appreciation, fear.
A part of him was skeptical, too. It was a quest of great honor, and he found it hard to believe it was coming from the very same father who had ignored him for years. He knew he was meant to be grateful, to appreciate the gesture, the recommendation made on his behalf by a god, but it was difficult to accept.
"He wishes...for me to retrieve a golden apple?" he finally asked, his gaze narrowing as he processed the enormity of it all.
Chiron nodded solemnly, his gaze unwavering. "I understand the challenges that lie ahead," he replied, his voice steady. "But your father believes that you are capable of this task."
"Does he?"
Luke didn't mean for that inkling of defiance to creep into his voice, but if Chiron noticed, he didn't say. The centaur simply nodded, his eyes softening further with a look that Luke couldn't quite place. It wasn't pity exactly, but something akin to it.
"He does. As do I. After all, you are one of the best swordsmen this camp has ever seen. One of the best I've taught. I have faith in you."
There was something about those words.
I have faith in you.
They were the very same Thalia had uttered to him, right before she had sacrificed herself for them. Some hero he was. He had a tendency to disappoint those who placed their hopes in him, but something about Chiron's affirmation made him want to try anyway. To prove himself worthy. To show his father, even if it would be out of spite.
He wanted to finally succeed at something that would make it impossible for Hermes to ignore him, to ignore what he had done to his mother.
Luke nodded finally, and Chiron's expression eased a little, almost as if he was expecting a different answer.
Then he reached out, handing Luke a small, unassuming shoebox. The brunette boy accepted it tentatively, his fingers grazing the smooth surface of the box. It felt surprisingly light in his hands, and he was tempted to hold it up to his ear and shake it.
Lifting the lid of the box, to reveal its contents, his eyes widened in surprise as he beheld the pair of Converse Chuck Taylors nestled within, their black canvas adorned with the unmistakable symbol of Hermes—a bold "H" in place of the customary star.
He blinked in disbelief, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Converse shoes? From his father? It seemed almost too surreal to comprehend. Yet there they were, lying before him like a tangible manifestation of the divine.
"Uh, thanks for the shoes," he murmured awkwardly, his voice betraying his confusion. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the gift—were they meant to be symbolic, practical, or something else entirely?
Glancing down at the worn-out sneakers he sported and nodded to himself, concluding the use of his new shoes to be purely practical.
Chiron chuckled softly at the boy's reaction, the sound carrying a warmth that eased some of the tension in the air. "They are a gift from your father," he explained, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "A token of his favour, if you will."
Oh great, his father showed him favour by giving him a new pair of shoes.
"Right."
Chiron looked at the shoes and uttered a single word.
"Maia."
The shoes immediately stirred to life in Luke's hands. Wings sprouted from their heels, unfolding with a soft rustle of feathers as they struggled against his grip, eager to take flight.
His eyes widened in astonishment, his mind reeling at the sight before him. He had seen plenty of magical artifacts and various gifts that godly parents gifted their children, but it was an entirely different matter to have something for himself.
"These are no ordinary shoes," the centaur reiterated. "They are akin to Hermes's winged sandals, gifted to aid you in your journey."
"Thank you. I won't let you down."
As Chiron uttered the trigger word once more, the wings on Luke's shoes obediently furled back, disappearing seamlessly into the fabric as if they had never been there. Luke couldn't help but marvel at the sight, his mind buzzing with wonder and excitement. However, before he could fully process the significance of his father's gift, Chiron began to wheel his wheelchair toward the entrance of the Big House, the wheels creaking softly against the ground.
The brunette boy fell into step behind him, his thoughts still swirling with questions and uncertainty.
"Trust your instincts," his mentor advised, his voice steady and reassuring. "The path ahead will be fraught with danger, but if you remain focused and keep your head about you, you will prevail."
Luke nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the ground as he absorbed Chiron's words. He knew that the journey ahead would test his mettle in ways he couldn't even begin to imagine, but he was determined to rise to the challenge.
As they reached the bottom of the staircase leading to the attic, Chiron came to a halt, and Luke instinctively stopped beside him, his eyes scanning the structure before them.
"There are some paths that you must walk alone, Luke. Places where no one else can tread, where you must find your way alone."
Luke knew that Chiron spoke of the staircase, leading to the Oracle who would give him the prophecy for his quest, but something in the centaur's ancient eyes spoke of other places. He had that indecipherable look in his eyes again, as if he saw things inside of Luke that he himself wasn't privy to, things that seemed to age him past his centuries.
With a determined resolve, he began to ascend the staircase, each step echoing loudly in the cavernous space of the Big House.
Four flights up, the stairs came to an abrupt end beneath a weathered green trapdoor, its paint chipped and peeling. Luke hesitated for a moment, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out to grasp the cord dangling from the door. With a hesitant tug, the trapdoor swung down with a creak, revealing a rickety wooden ladder that clattered into place.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for what lay ahead, the warm air wafting from the attic carrying the faint scent of mildew and rotten wood, mingled with something else—an elusive scent that tugged at the edges of his memory, but couldn't quite be placed yet.
Bracing himself, Luke began to ascend the ladder, the wooden rungs groaning beneath his weight as he climbed higher and higher. With each step, the unease in the pit of his stomach grew, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a heavy shroud.
Finally, he reached the top, pushing open the trapdoor and stepping into the dimly lit attic beyond. The space was filled with a jumble of Greek hero junk—armour stands draped in cobwebs, shields marred by rust, and old leather steamer trunks adorned with stickers bearing the names of mythical lands: ITHAKA, CIRCE'S ISLE, LAND OF THE AMAZONS.
As he navigated through the maze of artifacts, Luke couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with unease. Every shadow seemed to whisper secrets of times long past, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness.
Was this the life of a hero? Reduced to a few storage boxes in a dusty old attic. Sure the myths of glory and gore immortalized them to some degree, but this was their reality. This was going to be his reality.
By the window, sitting on a wooden tripod stool, was the most gruesome memento of all: a mummy. Not the wrapped-in-cloth kind, but an actual body shrivelled to a husk. She wore a tie-dyed sundress, an abundance of beaded necklaces, and a headband over long black hair. The skin of her face was thin and leathery over her skull, and her eyes were glassy white slits, as if the real eyes had been replaced by marbles.
Looking at her sent chills up Luke's back, made worse when she sat up on her stool and her jaw cracked open. A green mist poured from the mummy's mouth, coiling over the floor in thick tendrils, hissing like a multitude of snakes. Behind him, the trapdoor slammed shut, and Luke had a feeling that it would not open until this thing was done with him.
Inside his head, he heard a voice, slithering into one ear and coiling around his brain.
I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seeker, and ask.
Luke's stomach churned with a sickening sense of dread. The voice that echoed in his mind was too reminiscent of his mother's, those empty marble replacements reminding him too much of his mother's episodes.
Memories flooded his mind, unbidden and unwelcome—the sound of his mother's voice, tinged with madness; the green smoke that clung to her like a shroud, casting a sickly pallor over her features. He could feel the weight of his childhood pressing down upon him, suffocating him with its embrace, a mother's embrace.
In his mind's eye, he was six years old again, huddled in the darkness of his room, his small form squeezed into the narrow space between his bed and the wall. He could hear her wails echoing in the distance, the sound muffled and distorted as if coming from another world.
He remembered how she would trail after him like a ghost, her eyes vacant and distant, her words a jumbled mess of nonsensical ramblings. He would try to hide, to escape the madness that consumed her, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the horrors of her mind. Nowhere to hide from the accusations she flung his way and then her broken pleas as she begged him to return to her, even as he stood right before her unseeing eyes.
That same fear wrapped its hands around his throat now,
Luke was six again and all he wanted to do was crumple to the floor and cover his hands over his ears, knowing that it would do nothing to block out the voice that seemed to seep through the inside of his skull.
A grown man of seventeen; a child too tall.
Luke was six again and he wanted his mother. The moments after her episodes were a strange sort of comfort. She'd hold him tight, tight enough to suffocate, but that was a mother's love he had learned, and she'd hold on to him so tightly that she imprinted herself into his skin. It was as if she wanted to swallow him whole, as if the only place he would veer be safe was inside of her.
History was full of parents who swallowed their children. It would be no different. Love and fear were not so different.
There would be crying too. There would always be crying. In fact, he didn't think he remembered a time when the walls of his childhood home were not saturated with his mother's tears.
Luke found his fingers tightening in the shoebox in his hands. It was stupid. To take comfort in the memory of a father who never came. Even back then, Hermes had never come, had never interfered, so it was a foolish thing to take comfort in his keepsake.
The trigger word lingered on his tongue but refused to slip past his lips.
Maia sounded too much like Ma.
Neither parent could help him. Neither would.
Luke felt his chest constricting with each short, ragged breath. Panic clawed at him from the inside, threatening to overwhelm him entirely. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories that threatened to consume him, but they only seemed to grow stronger, more insistent.
The wailing persisted too, echoing in his ears like a relentless drumbeat, driving him to the brink of madness. He had heard of the occasional camper driven to madness by the Oracle, and wondered if he would share their fate. Madness ran in his blood after all.
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
In desperation, he screamed, his voice raw with anguish, begging for the torment to stop, for the voices to be silenced once and for all. He couldn't quite tell if they were real or memory. Perhaps they were both.
Even as he cried out, the mist spoke again, its voice soft and ethereal.
Approach, seeker, and ask.
Luke hesitated, eyes still screwed shut, his mind racing with a thousand questions, a myriad of uncertainties swirling around him like a tempest, and then with a shaky breath, he opened his eyes, his gaze meeting the unblinking stare of the corpse.
"Tell me about the quest."
As the mist thickened and coalesced into three distinct figures, Luke's heart lurched in his chest, each apparition evoking a different reaction within him.
The first to materialize was Halcyon Green, the elderly son of Apollo who had once spoken of Luke's fate. The brunette's gaze was drawn to him immediately, his eyes widening in recognition as he took in the sight of the man clad in the skin of a python and the writhing Leucrotae at his feet.
Beside Halcyon stood Thalia, her vibrant energy pulsating through her electric blue eyes. She was twelve. She was still twelve, and he was now seventeen. He had failed her, but she was watching him as if he hadn't. He would have dropped his gaze in shame if it wasn't for the third figure who drew his attention.
She didn't look like his mother, not exactly, but he knew her to be her. She was tall with a kind smile, and eyes that were clear and shining with nothing but adoration. There was none of the madness that usually accompanied her. He vaguely remembered her from pictures he had seen around their house, her presence a constant presence in his life even long after the real her had dissipated.
Halcyon spoke first, although it was the Leucrotae who did the talking, Halcyon's voice drifting from its gaping maw.
You will journey west to where the shadows flee
And seek out the fruit of immortality.
Thalia was next, a sad knowing expression marring her face.
In victory's embrace, a loss shall be found,
A treasure dear, beyond sight and sound.
Finally, his mother spoke, reaching out to graze his cheek with her hand, and if Luke held very still, he could pretend that the cool smoke that brushed against his skin was real.
Peer long into the darkness to prove a perilous art
And you will invite the abyss's gaze into your own heart.
The figures began to dissolve, and instinctively he reached out to grab at them, but they slipped from between his fingers easily, his last vision that of his mother entwining her fingers with his before vanishing once more.
At first, Luke was too stunned to say anything, but as the mist retreated, coiling into a huge green serpent and slithering back into the mouth of the mummy, the questions burst out of him.
"Wait! What do you mean by a loss? Who or what will I lose?"
The tail of the mist snake disappeared into the corpse's mouth, and she reclined back against the wall, her mouth snapping shut with a finality that told him that his audience with the oracle was over.
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The journey back down the steps was a blur in Luke's mind, but the next thing he knew he was standing outside, on the porch of the Big house again, inhaling the fresh night air in deep greedy gulps.
"Well?" Chiron prompted, thankfully giving him a few more moments to compose himself.
"I'm to head west to where the shadows flee —whatever that means— to retrieve the fruit of immortality, which is the golden apple I'm assuming."
"Anything else?"
Luke fidgeted, toying with the peeling cardboard of the shoebox still clutched in his hands. He didn't want to tell him the other half of the prophecy. It spoke too freely of loss and failure, and Luke did not want Chiron to think that he'd fail even before he began.
"No," he finally said. "That's about it."
The centaur studied his face, "Very well, Luke. But know this, the Oracle's words often have double meanings. Don't dwell on them too much. The truth is not always clear until events come to pass."
It was clear that he knew Luke was holding back something more ominous, and he was trying to make him feel better. Luke appreciated the gesture, although it didn't do him much good.
"You will need companions to aid you. You may make the selection tomorrow, but for now, perhaps it is best you get some rest. It is past curfew."
It was only after he departed, did Luke have the chance to mull the events of the evening over in his head, and he noticed with some resentment that Hermes had set the invocating incantation of his shoes to the name of his own mother.
Maia, mother of Hermes. May, mother of Luke.
Perhaps the gods too were once children, and no matter how old one grew, one never stopped needing their mother.
It was a cruel sort of irony, since Luke would never again have her, not as she had been anyway.
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A/N: As usual, don't be a ghost reader, comments really motivate me to continue writing so share your thoughts plz and thank u ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡