in a sea of mist

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27543646.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: One Direction (Band)
Relationship: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Character: Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Demigods, world building, Camp Half-
Blood (Percy Jackson), Explicit Sexual Content, Hate to Love, (kind of),
Bottom Louis, Top Harry, Quest, Mythical Beings & Creatures,
Violence, Slow Burn, Fluff and Angst, Magic, Misunderstandings, Pining
Collections: Bottom Louis Fic Fest 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-11-28 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 126725

in a sea of mist
by tomlinvelvet

Summary

A Greek Mythology/Camp Half-Blood AU where Harry is lost, the road to peace is a

wretched one, and somehow, through a mist of confusion and regrets, Louis seems to be the
only thing that makes sense and everything Harry needs.

Notes

hi! first of all, thank you for coming here and checking out my fic!
This fic was written as part of the 2020 Bottom Louis Fic Fest. I hope you will like it...
I can't believe I wrote over 100k, it's absolutely nuts!! Please know that this fic was
heavily influenced by Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters. Anything taken from Rick
Riordan's verse belongs to him, and him only.
Also note that it is pretty violent, and there are graphic descriptions of blood and
wounds and gore. Proceed with caution.
A massive thank you to my wonderful beta, Annie, for putting up with me and my
grammar! You helped me so much, made me confident and helped avoid plot holes.
I'm very grateful to you <3

I would rather reveal the prompt at the end of the fic, so if you're still there and plan
on proceeding, then happy reading! And again, thank you for being here <3

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

“Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: some things are within
our control, and some things are not. It is only after you have faced up to this fundamental rule and
learned to distinguish between what you can and can’t control that inner tranquility and outer
effectiveness become possible.”

— Epictetus

The Pearl of Versailles is a tall building cocooned between a mainstream shop and a thousand-
dollars-per-designs tattoo parlor. It is a pretentious thing. It opens for lunch, dinner and for tea
when customers are able to enjoy their pause gourmande with a crème brulée or a fondant au
chocolat avec une boule de glace vanille, or something that sounds equally fancy. On the building
ledge should have been pigeons peering down and dirtying the cobblestone street. But instead,
hues of red, white and pink catch the eyes, for the ledge is layered with roses. They never lose their
vibrance, even when it is winter and the air is cool and the frosted-sunlight dull. Harry secretly
guesses they are artificial flowers but he won’t dare even whisper such a thing in the vicinity of his
boss, who swears that at the Pearl of Versailles, nothing is fake, and everything is authentic gold.

It is a load of bullshit, but considering his mundane job as a waiter, the pay is way too great for
him to run his mouth about how everything regarding the restaurant screams over-the-top. With its
snobbish decor of dark grey painted walls, maroon cushioned chairs and rare, five-thousand-dollars
paintings hanging next to the customers to contribute to the faraway vibe, it is the kind of
restaurant that is reserved for the elite. It screams, 'screw the poor’, while also being the ideal
place for a poor person to work; the tradition does it that every single customer, all of them richer
than the next one, is to tip the waitresses and waiters richly, a symbol of their great-heartedness, of
course. It allows him to round his bills at the end of the month and he is more than grateful to have
landed himself a job in such a place, taking into account his lack of academic feats.

What he wants to say is, he will never give up his job, not for anything in this world. Not even for
the three year old brat at table twenty-two, who has just thrown on the ground a macaroni and
cheese worth forty bucks.

“Darling,” the woman tries, hoping to sooth the child by offering it a glass of homemade lemonade.
The little girl knocks it with a chubby, small hand, almost pouring the sweet liquid on the pristine
white dress of the smart-looking mother. The girl is obviously an only-child, spoiled rotten, for the
parents don’t scold her even once, instead opting for an apologetic smile that she throws Harry’s
way, knowing fully-well that he will be the one mopping up the yellowish mess until the tip of his
fingers turn velvet.

He hopes they will at least tip him generously for this.

The restaurant, he always thought, is shaped like a giant fish. The backroom and the kitchen are the
tail, and the front of the restaurant the whole body and the head. Doubles doors face him, one for
the kitchen, the other for the dishroom slash backroom. He goes for the appropriate one and, when
he reaches the cabinet, he opens it and takes out a steel bucket, along with a floorcloth. He fills the
offending thing with lukewarm water, adding a generous amount of liquid soap, and then drags the
mopping behind him, making sure to not spill a single drop of water. He spots a few of his fellow
waiters and waitresses grimacing, and others, those who never liked him, holding back their
laughter. Over the years he has learnt to ignore the mocking glances, or the painfully indiscreet
gossips about the tall, curly-haired, short-tempered freak who has trouble reading and whose social
skills are so rusty that he often acts like some kind of ape-raised man with the emotional control of
a pheromones-nurturing teenager. He has taken upon himself to tune them out and not allow the
words get through him lest he would start acting out, fuelled by the gut-wrenching anger within
him.

To add to his plight, the mac and cheese has flown everywhere, random bits sticking to a few
unnoticeable corners. This will be a pain to clean. The cheesy, greasy goo is still steaming hot on
top of everything and, as he drops to one knee, he is surprised he doesn’t burn himself while using
several tissues to get the most of it off the ground. The pain doesn’t register to his brain at all even
when his skin turns rosy. He ignores it to focus on the task properly, eyes scanning everywhere for
rogue bits of pasta. Once he is sure nothing is hiding from him, he stands back up and dumps the
mopping into the soapy water, then starts rubbing the tiles furiously until he is sure they are clean.
Using a cloth, he dries up the floor.

“Thank you so much,” the woman says, a kind smile on her attractive face. “She tends to be a
handful, that one.”

She playfully pinches the girl’s cheek, causing her to jerk away from the grip. In the process, her
curly blonde hair falls down to her nose, partially hiding half of her face but, still, Harry is able to
see her eyes.

The irises have completely disappeared, leaving in their wake two pitch black almond-shaped eyes.
They are looking straight at him.

He blinks, taken aback. Something stirs in his lower belly as his body goes cold, as if somebody
had thrown a bucket of ice cold water over him. But then the mother is pushing the girl’s hair back
from her face, taking her attention away from him. He takes a few steps to the left, which confirms
that the girl’s orbs are now baby blue and not as black as pitch. He is hallucinating, again. Gulping,
he hurriedly walks to the backroom, throwing away the dirty water and rinsing the floorcloth.
There is a mirror above the double sink, large and clean. At first, he doesn’t want to look up,
scared of what he will see. But curiosity gets the better of him and he glances into the reflective
glass, frowning at his complexion, which is a shade lighter than usual. A bead of sweat runs down
the side of his temple, cuts his cheek in half, to finally disappear slowly as it travels further south.
He looks sick. He looks like someone who has seen a ghost.

The double doors open and Stacy walks into the room, carrying a pile of used plates in her arms.
She stops short when she sees him, eyebrows furrowed as she quickly looks at him up and down.

“Damn, son. You look rough,” she bluntly tells him, dropping the plates into one of the sinks and
leaning against them, face even closer to Harry’s. She is a forty-something woman who has always
been kind to him, taking it upon herself to show him the ropes around the place when he was still
the newbie.

“Thanks,” he replies sarcastically, not at all affected by her candid answers. She never beats around
the bush, instead choosing to go straight to the point. After working for two years there, Harry has
grown immune to it, even enjoying it when she would straight up tell the others how much of a
pain in her arse they were (the others usually being those who made it their main mission to make
his life a living hell).

“No, but really, you look like you’re two seconds away from passing out on me. You caught a bug
or something? Let me-,” she goes on her tiptoes and puts one of her palms on his sweaty forehead,
whistling in shock.

“Honey, if my heater could heat up as hot as you are right now, I’d never go cold. You better go to
the hospital.”

Harry shakes his head and starts washing the dishes. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Oh shut up, I don’t need you to die on me now. You go home, sweetheart, I’ll take care of that.”

Harry glares at her and gently pushes her away with his taller, broader body, blocking the access to
the sinks. He doesn’t want to go home and loses money, because he can’t afford it. “I’m fine I'm
telling you, now leave me alone.”

He hears her sigh and stalks away, muttering under her breath about ‘stubborn, stupid as fuck
younglings’. It makes his lips twitch into a tiny smile, forever amused by Stacy’s antics. He scrubs
and scrubs until everything is spotless, then splashes cold water on his face. He pinches the apple
of his cheeks to bring a bit of colour to them, then takes a deep breath. He has to finish his shift.

If he is relieved to see that the customers at table twenty-two have, by then, left, then no one is the
wiser.

In a matter of hours, the sky has become stormy, thick grey clouds chasing after him as he makes
his way to his dingy, small flat. The streets are devoid of any other soul but his own, but he barely
notices it as the music pounds into his ears through the earphones. His hands are deep inside his
jean pockets, and his hoodie’s hood is pulled over his head. He isn’t exactly looking around,
instead choosing to focus his gaze on his worn out boots as he steps over the filthy concrete
sidewalk.

At one point, rain starts to dribble down. It is then that he comes across a stuffed pink rabbit, laying
in the middle of the street. He is able to see it only thanks to the dull, yellow light coming from the
streetlamps. He bends down and picks it up, big hands cradling the delicate plushie. One of its
black button eyes is missing, remnants of its existence still visible through the contrast between the
dirt-filled fur and the small circle of lighter pink fur, where the button had once been. All over its
body, several stitches are cut, balls of cotton pushing against the openings, ready to burst out. The
rabbit looks sad, destroyed enough to belong to the trash. He has no idea of how it ended there, if a
child had dropped it by accident, or if it had been left there to rot. He is deciding whether he should
throw it away or bring it back home with him, when a movement catches his eyes, urging him to
look up.

A good distance from him, far enough away that he can’t see the colour of her eyes, but close
enough to him that he can still recognise her, stands the three year old girl that had spilled macaroni
and cheese earlier in the night.

He slowly takes the earphones out of his ears, messily pushing them into his pocket, his eyes fixed
on the child.

Something is wrong, but he can’t quite tell what. The girl’s parents are nowhere in sight. Now that
he thinks about it, no one besides him and the girl are in the streets, which is simply impossible in
a city such as New York. Even at such an hour, there always are people lingering in front of clubs’
entrance, smoking and laughing and chatting and flagging down cabs. He looks behind him and
blinks in astonishment when he is met with a dead city. There are no cars on the roads. The night is
devoid of its usual luster. New York is the city of lights but it paints a sad image tonight.
Something is wrong, Harry knows it, can feel it deep in his spine, but he has no idea of what it is.

Is he dreaming? Has someone at work slipped mushrooms into the sandwich he had chucked down
when the last of the customers were gone? It all feels real, somehow. The gentle crystals of water
falling from the sky are sweet against the exposed skin of his face. The usual cold of the dead of
the night is there, making him shiver and regret not bringing a thicker hoodie. He tightens his
fingers around the stuffed rabbit, then looks back at the child. She is still standing, straight as a
ramrod. Without meaning to, he thinks back to the pair of black eyes he had seen earlier.

He doesn’t remember seeing the girl with any kind of toy when she was eating at the restaurant,
and he sincerely doubts the tattered plushie belongs to her. She is more likely to play with dolls
whose dresses are decorated with diamonds, or to own stuffed animals so big they take up half the
size of a king-sized bed. He walks closer to her until the lines of her face are clear. She should be
crying, he thinks. Any lost kid cries. But her sweet face is devoid of any expression, and her skin is
as white as alabaster. She looks a lot like he did earlier, sick and worn-out. He realizes, as he takes
a few steps closer, that he can’t tell if the tears on her face are from the sky or from her own eyes.

It’s just a little girl. He tells himself. Are you seriously scared of a three year old?

He digs his fingers even more into the stuffed rabbit as he makes his way towards her. He tries to
make his stance as unthreatening as possible, not wanting to scare her away by any means.

The wind blows stronger through the city, its dance camouflaged by the darkness surrounding
them. Dead leaves are picked up from the ground and taken miles away while unwelcomed earth
particles stick to his clothes, wanting to bother him. The girl’s white dress and shiny blonde hair
curl along with the wind. Her fragile arms are limp on either side of her hips, hands clenched into
tiny fists. Her shoe-cladded feet are pointing inwards, a telltale sign that she is pigeon-toed. She
looks delicate, as if all it would take for her to fly away would be for the wind to pick up its
already erratic pace.

He leaves a bit of space between them as he crouches down. The yellow light above their heads
makes her blue eyes darker, almost completely golden. They are too big for her face, innocent-
looking. There isn’t a single spot of colour on her face besides her icy blue irises. Her lips are
purple, their previous rosy shade having vaporised to leave only a pale copy of how they used to
be, and the apples of her cheeks are just as unpigmented, her freckles standing out like a sore
thumb. She fits the idea he has of a vampire child.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he begins, not quite sure of how to act from there. He isn’t used to interacting
with children since they usually steer clear of the weird, tall man that daydreams too much. Being
an only-child, and a troubled one at that, has resulted in him spending his entire life alone, his
mother being his only real friend in a world where no one seemed to fully understand him besides
her. So tentatively, he stretches his arm out, the stuffed rabbit at the end of it, held loosely in
between his tall and thin digits. Maybe the plushie will act as a token and coax her into trusting
him. He knows for a fact that her parents are the kinds to say, ‘don’t believe in strangers, don’t
listen to strangers, don’t respond when a stranger calls you’, and to her, he is a stranger.

Just as she is one to him, really.

For a moment, she doesn’t do anything, and just as he is about to lower his arm in defeat, she takes
it, eyes never leaving him, and promptly bite down on one of its ears, letting the rabbit hang from
her mouth by that single contact. Harry is definitely creeped out by the sudden change of
behaviour, but he also figures this might be a coping mechanism, to help her not panic. He smiles
softly at her. She makes him think of himself; when he was younger; he used to take his anger out
on his toys, destroying them and throwing them around using his teeth and short nails. Attention-
Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, they call it.

He clears his throat, brushing a bit of rain from his face with the back of his hand.

“Where are your parents? Are you lost?” He knows he is asking useless questions, but they seem
fitting to the situation. He hopes to coax her into opening up and telling him what exactly
happened. She and her parents left the restaurant five hours ago so he doubts they are still around.
When he doesn’t get any answer, he nods to himself and grabs his phone from his jeans’ back
pocket, with the sole purpose of calling the cops for them to deal with the little girl since he is
clearly unfit to do so. She seems traumatised, her round eyes fixed on his face. They are empty, he
notices, like a doll’s. He quickly looks down at his phone, trying to boot it up, but all he gets
instead of the home page is a glitchy screen, squares of mismatched colours going from purple to
neon green, overstepping one another.

“What the f- heck, ” he mutters, being mindful of not swearing in front of the kid. He harshly
presses down on the main button, fully expecting for the device to start working again but he gets
the opposite effect when it goes completely dead. It doesn’t make any sense, the thing was working
perfectly fine minutes ago.

He is alone in the middle of New York with somebody else’s child, and his phone is dead. The
clock is ticking down, crawling closer to one and a half o’clock in the morning. On top of
everything, the weather is getting worse. What has started as a gentle drizzle is now mutating into
regular rain, fat drops of chill water penetrating the fabric of his clothes. Just a few more minutes
and his skin will itch and his naturally curly-hair will become damp, and curl even more, before
flattening down over his forehead. He will look like a wet, starved stray dog. It doesn’t help that
the girl is not wearing any jacket to protect her from the upcoming downpour.

He wets his lips, the natural taste of rain tickling his tastebuds, and he glances around for a public
phone booth. All he is met with is parked cars, their colours dulled under the glow of the
streetlamps. He didn’t realise earlier, too caught up into his head, that a mist has somehow made its
way into the streets. It puts him on edge, and he oddly feels like it is a predator, and he is the prey.
Where has everybody gone?

“Listen,” he finally tells the girl, standing back up, grimacing when he feels his knee bones crack.
“There is a police station not far from there, I’ll take you. If you get tired, just tell me, I’ll carry
you, ok?”

He is lying. The police station is thirty minutes away from his flat, and he still has ten minutes to
walk before reaching his building. But he is willing to do the trip. He will not risk bringing her
back to his’ and be accused of child trafficking. He looks around one last time, praying that he
finally catches sight of somebody so he can ask them for a call, or better yet, a ride, but when he
realises he will have to go through with his original plan, he drops his shoulders in defeat. He fixes
his green orbs on the girl. She is so small, the top of her head not even reaching the upper part of
his knees. He is considering taking off his hoodie to wrap it around her, even though it will make it
more difficult for her to walk. Whatever. At least she won’t get sick.

“What’s your name?” He wonders, waiting for an answer that never comes. She simply stares at
him.
He shakes his head at her weird behaviour, unconsciously reaching out towards her face to push
her blonde fringe back and away from her eyes. He has got a hair tie in his backpack, he thinks.

It is then that everything goes to hell.

The plush toy falls to the ground, and as fast as light, she lurches forward and bites his hand so hard
that blood gushes out of the skin, sliding to the ground through her bared-teeth. He screams,
painfully trying to pull his hand back to his chest, but she won’t let go. He can feel the top of her
teeth meet the bottom ones. He stares in horror as she does it all while keeping eye contact and
Harry is not religious at all, he doesn’t believe in god or the devil, but he swears he sees a demon in
the girl’s cruel expression. She no longer looks like a three year old girl, hell, she doesn’t even look
human anymore as his blood slides down her neck, tainting her white dress.

When she finally lets go, he staggers back, almost falling onto his arse. His whole hand is coated in
his own blood, the velvet liquid sipping into his hoodie. He feels a river of it start to form against
the skin of his arm, rendered easier by the rain that makes the blood come out faster and fall to the
concrete, tainting it. He breathes harshly through his nostrils, the pain so intense he swears white
spots begin to dance underneath his eyelids. He isn’t even sure a three year old should be able to
inflict such damage. Her teeth have made it to his bone and he fears that soon enough, he will pass
out from blood loss and pain. He takes a few more steps back, groaning and fighting against the
gruesome sight of his wounded hand as he tries to stop the blood flow. The metallic smell of it
reaches him despite the earthy scent of wet cement beneath his feet and he feels like he is two
seconds away from retching. He doesn’t even bother talking. He wants to get out of here as fast as
possible, sensing that something is definitely wrong and he isn’t ready to face it, whatever it is.

The little girl smiles, slowly, showing off her bloody fangs. She licks them with her tongue,
lapping the juice happily. It's the first time Harry sees an expression on her face, and it is pure
ecstasy. He has no idea if he is hallucinating or if he is asleep and dreaming, but one thing he
knows is that his throbbing hand feels too real, as does his arm that seems to stop functioning,
going limp at his side. He quickly spares a look at it, going white when he spots his blackened
veins that painfully stand out from underneath his skin. The black liquid progresses slowly up his
wrist and forearm. It's as if he had been poisoned. He doesn’t have time to panic because an ear-
splitting shriek comes out of the girl’s throat as she throws her head back.

He drops to his knees, his heart beating in his throat. He feels wrong now for mocking all those
characters in horror movies who become paralised upon meeting their worst nightmares, because
he can’t bring himself to do anything but stay rooted to the spot as the girl’s head splits open.
Sharp, long black claws grip each side of the girl’s face, pushing them apart as if they were the
folds of a zipped dress. A bald head comes out and with it, a scream so powerful the ground
shakes. Feathers appear next, a set of large wings extending to their full length. The creature is tall
and has the body of a woman, feathers covering most of it. It's completely naked and, as drops of
rain hit its skin, smoke arises. The sound that comes from the coal-tainted fumes is like water
being thrown into boiling oil. The few spots where its skin is visible make Harry think of charcoal
and it looks hard to the touch. If it were not to move, it could be confused for a statue.

Harry has never seen anything like it. Not in his other dreams (assuming that right now, he is in
one) and not even in movies. Instead of feet, large eagle talons lay on the cement, the sharp and
curved claws digging into the hard ground, breaking it. The three year old child is long gone and
where she had stood is now a literal monster. Its face is probably the worst part. Its eyes are
completely black and shining, exactly like the eyes of the little girl at the restaurant. Harry can’t
bring himself to look at them, instead dropping his gaze to the creature’s mouth, which is opened in
a sneer, fangs menacing him and making his wounded hand jump in memory of how it felt to have
those exact fangs going through it. The choppers are pristine white as opposed to the black
feathery body, and something is dripping down its mouth and onto the ground.

Through the rain and the mist, he can tell it’s his blood.

The creature opens its mouth and Harry is fully prepared for yet another screech that will,
hopefully, take mercy on him and open the ground underneath his feet, but instead it starts
speaking. Its voice is unpleasant, neither male or female, and it seems to echo all around him.

“Harry Styles,” it chuckles, voice curling around his name with unfiltered pleasure. “I have been
looking for you.” It takes a deep breath. “Stinking the way you do, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

“What,” he lets out, voice shaking. They say that in dreams, people have an extra finger. He
glances down and starts to back away when he sees that both his hands look absolutely normal,
except for this mutilated one which is still bleeding, albeit with less intensity for the flow is
blocked by the rapidly drying blood around the teeth-shaped holes. This is not fucking normal, he
says to himself, because with the rain it shouldn't clog up the way it does. He panics, his chest
rising up and down at an unnatural pace, because while he is bleeding less, his blood has become
black. “What do you mean?” he finds himself wondering, hoping to buy some time before his
imminent death. The half-human, half-bird creature smiles maciously, its hands resting flat on the
ground, claws scratching the surface irritatingly.

“You don’t know,” it says, a look of what Harry assume is surprise crossing its face. “Imagine how
much stronger you’d smell if you were aware of whose child you are.”

Harry is getting more and more confused by the seconds and his body is growing weaker. It seems
bizarre that he is reacting so badly to a bite wound, but again, the wound does not look normal. He
staggers several meters back, his body meeting a car, the vehicle helping him remain upwards.

“I bet you are not even aware that we are conversing in ancient Greek.”

Harry puffs out an hysterical laugh. “Ancient Greek. Right. Because I’d fluently be speaking a
language I have never learnt. Of course.”

“Are you mocking me, demigod?” the creature snarls, creeping closer to him, making his blood run
cold. He takes one look at the monster’s face, then whirls around and starts running as fast as his
weakened body is able to. He has no idea of where to go, and it doesn't help that he is running
away from his flat and into nothingness. The streetlamps start to flicker, their lights appearing and
disappearing to a rhythm that matches his heartbeat.

The woosh of wings slapping the air echoes behind him, growing closer. The creature is flying
close to the ground, fast, way too fast for him to make it. When he is sure he feels a warm breath
against his neck, he throws his body sideways, crying out in pain when he hits his clothed shoulder
against the hard road. The creature, as it has been flying at full speed, has trouble stopping and goes
crumpling to the floor, hissing horrendously. He doesn’t wait for it to get back up and immediately
dashes for the opposite sidewalk, disappearing through a narrow alley. He knows this side of the
city by heart and, with his heart hammering, he throws his upper body down a flight of stairs. The
sound of a wall breaking echoes behind him, and he winces as another screech puts horrible
pressure on his eardrums, and he fears he will end up deaf. He chances a glance over his shoulder
and closes his eyes in relief when he doesn’t see it. The alley is too narrow for it to follow him
through, but he keeps moving, not trusting the sudden silence around him.

He comes out of the alley somewhere between a flower shop and a Starbuck. The streets are still
deserted and the streetlamps have gone out completely, leaving him having to focus harder to see
through the gloom. He can’t tell where the monster is, but just as he is thinking that maybe, maybe
he is safe there, a car alarm blasts through the city, louder and closer to him than he expected. At
the end of the street, said car’s lights are going in overdrive, beautifully contrasting with the
darkness since it is the only spot of colour around him.

He doesn’t think twice; he looks in the opposite direction and starts to run again. The moment he
takes off a car is thrown in the air and lands where he had been seconds ago. He trips but cushions
his fall with one hand, crouching and using every bit of strength left in his lower body to get his
legs up and about again. The adrenaline is pumping through his veins like alcohol, making him
jump over a car to get faster to another block. He is fast and quick, and most importantly, silent,
the urge to live outweighing the chilling fear within him. He goes to the only place he can think of,
and where he might shelter himself. He needs somewhere with loads of trees to block the creature’s
wings. A place where nature is abundant enough that its smell will overshadow his own, because it
is clear his scent, whatever it is, is greatly helping the creature in locating him.

He heads towards Central park.

He has no idea of the time, and if the park is still open, nevertheless he pushes his body until the
tall gate of the park comes into sight, barely visible against the pitch black sky. He doesn’t think,
doesn’t stop to see if there is another way to get inside. He jumps on the thick gate and climbs, the
wound on his hand not hurting even when a sharp edge scratches his palm, cutting it open. His
forearm has gone numb and he struggles moving his fingers, but he stops himself from thinking
about it lest he'll lose his composure completely. He is at the top of the gate when the creature
shoots into the sky, a penetrating scream causing a second blast of wind to hit him full force,
almost knocking him over. Panicking, he only climbs down a third of the gate before jumping.

He hears a crack, then feels pain. His mouth opens in a silent shout. When he tries to stand up, he
finds out he can't manage to. He reaches down to one of his ankles with a shaky hand, feeling the
unusual jutted out edge of a bone. Tears fall down his cheeks, showing just how vulnerable he truly
feels but somehow, it also contrasts with the anger bubbling within him. He doesn't understand
why he is being chased by a creature that seems to have come straight from hell, a creature that he
had no idea existed until tonight. He doesn’t understand anything and it makes him so mad he
starts breathing quickly and hard, so hard actually that he can’t catch his breath. His heart is
pounding against his chest and the sound it makes fill both of his ears. Thump thump thump. He
turns his head to the side and spits out a chunk of blood. Thump thump thump. He wants to kill it.

“Demigod!” the monster gushes, landing in front of him. “You’re a tough one, I admit it. It was fun
while it lasted, though. I wonder who your dad is. But, I don’t want to waste any time. I’m going to
kill you, demigod," it licks its lips, long, snake-like tongue darting out menacingly. "I’m going to
sink my claws into your heart and rip it out of you. You’ll be one less mistake in the cosmos.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, looking into the creature’s eyes with so much hatred it causes the smile to fall
off its face. The thing is, Harry has never felt welcomed in this world. Wherever he went, he was
always the odd one out. He was the castaway coming back to the city. He doesn’t want that
anymore. If everything that’s happening right now is real, then there is something greater hiding
somewhere else and he wants to discover it. He staunchly refuses to die at the tips of this monster’s
claws, forever doomed to remain on the edge of knowledge, in a perpetual state of confusion and
frustration.

His body suddenly shakes, as if it got short-circuited. It doesn’t hurt at all. It’s quite comforting
even, a warm feeling spreading from the tip of his nails throughout his whole body. He feels his
fear go down a notch, but his anger never alters in its intensity. He gets another shot of adrenaline
and it allows him to stand up. His broken ankle, miraculously, isn’t painful anymore. It feels weird
to stand on it, but it’s bearable. Around them, the wind picks up and the branches of the trees clack
against one another to join the cacophony of the night.

Above their heads, the sky shifts. The clouds grow bigger, more threatening and they take the
colour of dark ash. The rain comes down harder and blurs the landscape around them. It drenches
Harry completely, drops of water falling into his eyes but he finds that he can keep them open. He
can clearly decipher the creature despite the change of weather, can make out the way its feathers
glisten under the sudden glow provided by a single lighting bolt as it cracks the sky open. It feels
like a storm has swallowed New York whole, crashes of thunder resonating across the city like
bombs landing on land. He takes pleasure in seeing the creature curl on itself, an aura of fear
appearing around it.

“No, it cannot be,” it screams, uncurling its wings and flying straight at Harry. He dodges it, as fast
as lighting, his fingers brushing one of its wings. Upon contact, he senses energy transfers from his
hand to the creature, sending it flying several meters away. A blood-chilling screech comes out of
its throat, and the murderous expression on its face is enough for Harry to know that this will be
the last strike, the one that will send him to his grave, or send the creature to its downfall. He has
the sudden conviction that he can do it, that in a few hours, he’ll get to see his cosy flat again, play
with the stray cats down his building and listen to his vinyl records.

It charges at him. He moves swiftly to block its attack, trying to touch it again, hoping to wound it
just like he did before. One of its claws gets him though, going down his bicep quickly and creating
a gash there. He groans, falling down when feathers push him, and he rolls on his back to get into a
crouching position. He looks up at the creature, breathing hard through his nostrils. It grabs the
front of his hoodie and lifts him up in the air, its other hand ready to strike.

I don’t want to die, he thinks, over and over again. Still, he closes his eyes, waiting for the final
blow to arrive. He feels drained now, the adrenaline fading from his system. The only thing he
feels other than dejection, is an unfamiliar but comforting tug in his guts, prominent and asking for
his attention. He reaches for it in his conscience, touching it, begging for something to happen.

There is a crack above their heads, then the deadly sound of electricity meeting the air, growing
louder and louder. When he opens his eyes, there is something diving from the sky at full speed,
momentarily blinding him. His eyes widen when he realises it’s a lighting bolt. The grip on him
loosens and he falls on his back just as it strikes the creature with so much force that the energy
goes through him too. The surrounding trees burn along with the monster, the ground shaking and
cracking under the pressure. He gets one last opportunity to see the creature disappear, the
nauseous smell of sulfur polluting the air around him. He doesn’t feel any pain.

His head falls back against the ground, his body sinking into the wet dirt, and darkness taints his
consciousness.

The sun has barely broken through the early morning mist, and the clouds that have been hiding
the stars since winter arrived have hardly lessened in their number, though they haven’t brought a
single downpour for three days now. When Harry wakes up, his head is pounding, his whole body
is sore, and he can’t feel his right arm. He struggles opening his eyelids, his top eyelashes sticking
to the bottom ones, but when he does pry them open, a The War of the Worlds poster is looking
down at him from where it’s stuck on the white ceiling. The sight of it is familiar and comforting,
and once his headache dies down a notch, he straightens up so fast a wave of dizziness punishes
him, making him groan and rub his temples.

He is in his bedroom, that much is sure. There is a pile of dirty clothes next to his desk chair that
should have been washed a few days ago now, and there are several opened books on his desk,
thick blocks of text highlighted in bright neon pink. His candles have all burned out, he notices,
leaving in their wake a faint smell of cinnamon. His trash can is filled to the top with balled up
paper.

His bedroom is messy, which isn't an exceptional thing. Nothing looks out of place, thankfully, and
he closes his eyes as relief floods him. He throws his legs off the side of the bed, cold toes meeting
a soft carpet, and attempts to stand up despite his whole body screaming at him to remain where he
is. He takes a few more seconds to compose himself, staring out of the window and gasping when
he finally realises that he is in his bedroom. Not on the ground, passed out cold, in the middle of
Central Park. He is so shocked by the realisation that he has to sit back down, eyes stinging with
unshed tears. He's just so relieved that everything had been a dream, that the harpy, or whatever the
creature was, had been just a fragment of his fucked-up imagination. He looks down at his right
arm, turning it in every possible angle, looking for a wound or even a scar, but there's nothing. He
only feels sick, as if he had caught a cold overnight.

He's in his bathroom when he looks at himself in the mirror and sees that he has never looked
worse. His usually shiny curls are falling down over his face, greasy, and he is as white as a
corpse. Enormous bags add a bit of colour to his overall bland reflection. He can’t tell how he
feels, really. He is definitely tired, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed, but he also
weirdly wants to go on a run. He sighs and grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste, planning on
brushing his teeth in the shower, and starts undressing, which doesn't take long since he only has
plain black boxers on and a white tank top. He almost gags when his own smell reaches him, a
sickening mixture of sweat and something else he can’t quite describe. He throws his dirty clothes
in the clothes basket and hurries into the shower, turning the tab as far to the left as he can bear, his
skin rapidly turning red under the steaming hot water. He suddenly has the gut-wrenching need to
scrub himself from head to toe, and he does exactly so, using a loofah, scrubbing and scrubbing
until he is on the edge of peeling off his skin.

His throat tightens when a pair of black eyes flash through his mind.

It's only when he feels more like himself that he steps out of the shower. The entire bathroom ends
up clogged up with the scent of coconut, and a fog has settled over the mirror, which he's secretly
grateful for since he doesn't have to gaze at his face. He wraps a towel around his hips, drying his
hair with a smaller one. He goes to his bedroom blindly, still focused on getting his hair dry. When
he is satisfied, he throws the little towel aside, then dresses into comfortable clothes consisting of a
simple white shirt and old black track pants. He slips on a pair of thick red socks and passes a hand
through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. He is about to step out of his bedroom and in
the corridor, but before doing so, he opens a drawer and takes a black hoop earring, putting it into
his right ear.

As he goes into the living room, he's glad to find that nothing is out of place, though he has no idea
of why he even feels that way; there's no reason for his flat to be upside down. It was a dream,
Harry, pull yourself back together. His television is turned off, there is his favourite mug on the
coffee table with a bunch of pencils in it, his cactus is on the window still, soaking up the bit of sun
filtering through the glass. He goes straight to his kitchen to put on the kettle, the need for a plain
black coffee stronger than anything else. The machine is deafening in the otherwise silent flat, and
it seems especially loud in his own ears, his eardrums beating to a non-existent rhythm, a headache
forming in his temples. He sighs and pours himself a tall mug of plain coffee, blowing on the
steaming hot liquid while making his way to the couches. He sits there for a while, not knowing
what to do. He never watches the television, finding the documentaries on his laptop much more
interesting than whatever programmes the basic channels diffuse when it still is early in the
morning. He doesn’t feel like getting the damn laptop though, which is probably on his desk with
an opened Word document waiting to be finished.

Whenever he reaches a state of mind where nothing gets him going, where despite the borderless
landscape of possibilities, nothing appeals to his conscience, he calls his mother. She lives in
Boston in the flat she got from her parents, a medium-sized shoebox where Harry grew up, feeding
the neighbouring cats as if they were his own. She owns a flower shop and a bakery, and she tends
to split her time between both stores, the morning usually dedicated to the bakery because to her,
there is nothing better than the juvenile smell of freshly baked croissants paired up with the rising
sun. Harry used to love being in there, too, but the flower shop was his safe place when, as a
teenager, nowhere else was peaceful enough. The flowers were the only ones to truly never judge
him.

He longs to be back in the flower shop, is the thing. His fingers miss caressing the amaryllises' soft
petals, his nose yearns for the fragrance of damp mud and life-kissed sunflowers, and he hasn’t felt
that way in so long it takes him by surprise, makes him want to curl in the corner of the sofa and
never go out ever again. He is a fucking mess, to put it simply. He doesn’t feel like himself
anymore, even if he is pretty sure nothing has happened to justify his feeling that way. He chugs
the coffee, not even grimacing at the unsweetened mess, and does the only thing he can feel
himself being able to do: he goes for a run, even if he has already showered.

His body is sore, for some reasons, and he is aware that any physical efforts will worsen his
condition, but he doesn’t care. He could be doing a hundred other things, such as cleaning his flat
seeing as it is dirty enough to be a source of shame, or puking some more words onto the half-arsed
novel he started writing just because he wanted to, but somehow he chooses to go for a run. Maybe
he's got something to prove to himself. A dream, it was only a dream. He eyes the thin layer of dust
that has collected over the furniture while he puts on dark grey jogging shorts which stops just
above his knees, a black tee-shirt, then a neon green, red and blue Nike windbreaker. He slips on
his old running shoes, ties a homemade head scarf around his head to hold back his unruly curls,
then leaves his flat, the door banging closed behind him, no doubt disturbing the person living on
the opposite sides of the paper-thin walls. He locks it swiftly then starts to run down the stairs,
somehow eager to be out and about.

The streets are bustling with life. People are rushing everywhere, in a hurry to get to their final
destinations, and he never though he'd feel that way, hell, he has always avoided big gatherings,
preferring to be in quiet places where he can think more clearly, but right now, as he gets a glare
from a middle-aged man for standing in the middle of the street, he feels pure, unfiltered relief. He
almost drops to his knees to kiss the ground. He remembers the distress he had felt in his dream,
when he was running through the empty streets of New York city, steadily bleeding out, without
anyone in sight to help him. He can’t quite tell why that dream has had such a big impact on him,
but he stands there for several minutes too long, enjoying the body heat around him, only moving
out of the way when another person tells him to fuck off. He is so unbelievably happy that
everything is back to normal that he smiles as he puts his earphones in, turns on his old and faithful
iPod, and runs towards where the trees cast shadows over the cement.

He quickly loses track of time. Physically-speaking, he has always been great, exceptional even,
mostly back to when he was in school. He has no trouble running for hours on end without
breaking into a sweat or lifting extremely heavier weight. His stamina was often described as ‘out-
of-this-world’, and he can bear a lot of pain. It is a sharp contrast to his severe dyslexia that has
made him practically unfit to pursue his dream studies, even when he was offered an athletic
scholarship. He started working when he turned eighteen, dropping out of school after he
miraculously passed his SAT by the skin of his teeth. He manages just fine on his own and he has
recently started writing again, figuring it won’t do any harm to familiarize his brain with words
again. Most of the time he can’t focus, and the letters end up eating at each other, twisting together
until he can’t make out a single word, but sometimes, when he is lucky, he can get a sentence or
two out.

When he finally comes to a stop, the sun is at its peak in the sky, its brightness muted by thin
clouds. It is already noon, and Harry’s stomach is growling, asking for food. He doesn’t have any
money on him though, so he has to go back home even if his body is able to run for a few miles
more. Not a single drop of sweat is running down his face, but he uncaps his tiny bottle of water,
gulps half of it, and splashes the remaining on his face, the liquid coating the back of his neck and
sliding down his back. His muscles are unsurprisingly in pain, but he welcomes it, finding that the
stinging sensation is more addictive than awful. He takes a few steps back, then turns around,
planning on running all the way back to his street. Birds are chirping, pigeons are flying away
when he gets too close to them, and everything should be enough to keep him focused, but one
moment he is running past the familiar Walmart several blocks away from his home and the next,
he is rounding a corner that’s not on his usual path and continuing along the Academy of Sciences
until he is at Central Park.

He can see through the few trees that people are walking in the park, peaceful, unaware of Harry’s
inner turmoil. He round the park until he is at the black gate, frowning at the yellow barricade tape
forbidding people from going through. He gets as close as possible, curious to see what's going on.
A truck is parked behind the gate, effectively blocking the view from bypassers. Through its
windows, he can spot a bunch of people in front of the scene, but he can’t see anything more. The
only way to know what’s going on is to ask the man who is scrawling down on a notepad, his
glasses on the tip of his nose, threatening to fall as it slides down due to his sweaty skin. He is
standing right behind the barricade tape.

“Excuse me,” Harry says, catching the man’s attention. “What’s going on here, if I may ask?”

The man looks him up and down, then shrugs. “Some unusual activity happened here. I’m a
journalist, and these fuckers don’t really want to give any information away, but from what I’ve
gathered, somehow, despite the lack of activities in the sky, a lightning bolt struck the ground with
enough force to shatter it.”

Harry pales, his heartbeat picking up, and an uncomfortable tug appears in his lower belly. “A
lightning bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“But,” Harry adds, his eyes glued to a woman clad in a leather jacket as she walks in front of the
window. She looks troubled. “Was it really a lightning bolt? Are we sure?”

The man’s expression goes from bored to annoyed, but thankfully he decides to answer Harry
instead of telling him to go away. “It was definitely a lightning bolt, and one powerful enough to
not only shatter the nearby street lamps but to also send a few people in the air. Last I’ve heard,
five people are at the hospital with severe injuries.”

His body is too hot, and he's sweating way more than he did a few minutes ago. He is just numb.
So what if in his dream he had been lying right where the lightning bolt had apparently struck? It’s
just a coincidence, nothing more. Right? He wants to fucking puke his guts out, actually. He
clenches his jaw and breath harshly through his nose. He needs to see it for himself.
He ducks underneath the barricade tape, ignoring the man’s shouts and protests, and makes a
beeline for the group of people. He remarks the truck is grey, and there’s the logo of a grey cloud
cut through by a lightning bolt painted on the side.

The blonde woman he had seen is the first one to spot him. “Hey! This area is currently forbidden
to people.”

He ignores her and approaches the blackened ground. The tip of his sneakers meet a thin crack in
the ground, and when his eyes slowly trail up, he is shocked to see that there are probably
thousands of fissures, all of them growing bigger in the middle to form a huge hole, undoubtedly
where the bolt had struck. Undoubtedly where his body had been.

In your dream, he reminds himself, letting himself be guided back to the front of the gate. This is
all a coincidence. The bald man behind him shoves him gently under the tape, and tells him to get
out of here.

“Hey, man!” the journalist shouts. “Mind telling me what you saw?” he sounds excited, his pen at
the ready, but Harry can barely hear him over the frantic beating of his heart, and he is pretty sure
he is going to collapse. He shakes his head and stumbles towards the road, hastily crossing it,
getting honked a few times. The journalist doesn’t chase him, probably because he looks like
death, and he is glad for that. He does glance back again, hoping that he hallucinated the barricade
tape, but it’s still there and the fucking truck is also still there, glaring at him from all the way
across the street. He retches and he has just the time to turn his face towards a building corner
before he vomits, his empty stomach spitting acid and what remains of his last night’s meagre
sandwich.

He would feel sorry for the shop owner, but he can’t even bring himself to care, dry-heaving for a
whole minute before he is able to straighten up and walk the way back to his flat. He needs to be
there, to be in his familiar, safe zone, or else he's going to lose his bloody mind. People are
narrowing their eyes at him in suspicion, and he can only imagine the picture he makes, a tall,
twenty-two year old man who has the complexion of a ghost, who needs the wall to walk and who
has his eyes wide open in terror. At one point he swears he feels eyes on his back, which causes
him to stop and look back, green orbs going from one stranger to another, expecting for the thing
from his dream to be lurking in the crowd, its dark eyes and smirk directed at him. But nothing of
the sort happens. He gets cursed a few times, a little boy runs head first into his legs and
apologises with a toothy grin, a pregnant woman drops one of her gloves and Harry bends down to
get it, passing it over with a small, fake smile. There’s no one behind him, and no one in front of
him, that seems to want to kill him.

And so he arrives at his flat, completely drained of energy. He has to lean against his door after he
closes it, taking a deep breath. He is itching for a shower, and as he makes his way further into the
room, he unzips the windbreaker and balls it into his hands, his grip too tight. The silence of his
flat isn’t exactly soothing contrary to what he expected, it actually sounds as bad as the silence of a
deserted New York. It’s a dream, he repeats to himself hysterically, and the more he tells himself
that the faker it sounds. But there are so many things he can’t explain, like how he woke up in his
bed and not on Central Park's smouldering ground, when it is clear that no one helped him back to
his bed (or else it would be in the news, because it's not everyday that someone is struck by a
lighting bolt and survives, or at least he'd have woken up in a hospital bed), and he doesn’t
remember ever waking up and making the journey himself. He can’t also explain why the bite
wound on his hand is gone, not even a scar left to act as an evidence for the nightmare he had —
most likely — actually experienced.

He can’t understand anything and it’s driving him up the wall.

He strips completely while he makes his way to the bathroom, dumping the dirty clothes into the
clothes basket. When he turns the water on, he grimaces when cold water gushes out of the shower
head, and when several minutes pass and the water is still ice cold, he groans and punches the
shower wall, ignoring the pain that sparks in his knuckles and accepting that he will have to shower
in cold fucking water. It does nothing to calm him down, instead making his muscles tense and his
jaw clench. He feels like the universe is turning against him, purposely making his life a living
hell. He just wants to work at the restaurant, write poetry when his brain allows him to do so, and
maybe one day, once he has saved up enough money, build his own house on his own piece of land
in the countryside, away from the busy streets. He has planned on getting a dog once he moves into
said house, and then finds a partner to share everything with. But instead he is slowly losing his
mind, and he's afraid that at the end of the day he’ll move, not into a house, but into a mental
institution.

He quickly washes himself, the coconut soap bringing sun-kissed streams of familiarity through
the water-clogged clouds of struggles hovering above his head, then he steps out and brushes his
teeth, wanting to get rid of the lingering taste of puke. He doesn’t look his best when he gazes at
his reflection in the mirror, and there’s more hair over his jaw and cheeks than usual, but he
decides to not shave, liking how it looks on him. He dresses in casual, comfortable clothes, then
grabs his laptop and goes to the living room.

He plans on sitting down with a mug of steaming hot tea, and a few industrial cookies to get his
blood going and his energy up, but instead he is met with a stranger sitting on a chair, legs crossed,
eyes focused on their phone. And Harry has experienced enough weird stuff in the span of twenty-
four hours to not immediately freak out, but he does stop just before entering the living room, and
he does let his laptop slip out of his fingers, barely flinching when it meets the ground in a
painfully loud noise. It startles the stranger, causing them to look up and narrow their eyes at him.

“Dude, I don’t want to be rude, but you just dropped a Macbook, and according to me and my
wallet, that is a crime.”

And no, this is not happening. Harry angrily grabs the laptop, quickly checking for any broken
parts, and when he finds none he throws it on the sofa. He stalks towards the boy? Man? He can’t
really tell, but he gets close enough to see that the person is wearing mascara, and that he doesn’t
look older than fifteen years old. Harry notes that the boy doesn’t even flinch when he hovers over
him, his fists clenched.

“I’m not falling for this shit again,” he spits, fisting the boy’s front black shirt and lifting him a few
inches above the ground until their faces are practically stuck to one another. “What are you now,
huh? A fucking bull slash horse creature? Did you come to kill me, maybe? Or, are you going to
tell me just how much I fucking stink, and that I’m a demigod? Go ahead, my ears are wide fucking
open.”

His blood is boiling, but there is a drop of fear twisting his lower belly, reminding him that if the
boy is indeed another monster, then he truly is fucked, because he has nowhere to go. But the boy
starts to laugh, a carefree, genuine laugh, until tears leak out of his dark eyes. It takes Harry by
surprise and he loosens his digits, letting the stranger fall back on his two feet.

“Goddamnit, sorry, but the situation is just so funny! And no, ninja, I’m not a, what was it? A bull
slash horse creature? They exist actually, they’re called Elhorns, and they’re adorable, albeit a little
bit stupid. Sometimes I wonder if they’re not half-bull, half-donkey instead, but don’t tell them that
or they’ll get angry and make a roasted chicken out of you. Anyway, yes, you are a demigod, and
yes, I am a demigod too, and please don’t ever attack me like that again, I’m wearing Gucci.”
Harry blinks, fully expecting for the boy to tell him he’s joking, but when nothing of the sort
happens, and the boy blinks up at him with amused eyes, does he snap out of his mood and hastily
takes a few steps back. “Sorry,” he croaks out, embarrassed that he has attacked a stranger like that
out of the blue, though in his defence said stranger broke into his flat. He allows himself to look at
the boy properly, taking in his charcoal black hair, his all black outfits that contrast with his flashy
pink boots. He is also extremely pale, to the point it makes Harry worry. He looks fragile actually,
worsening Harry’s guilt.

The boy waves his hand in the air. “It’s fine, lad. Though do you happen to have some hot water
around here? I’m so thirsty, like really thirsty, especially after making the trip from Long Island. I
had to drive, please, because the stupid portals wouldn’t fucking work, can you believe the
audacity? My father’s the Lord of the underworld and those stupid portals can’t even listen to me.”

“Lord of the underworld?” Harry tentatively repeats, automatically going to his kitchen and putting
on the kettle, then pouring the hot water in a mug. “Tea?” he asks, and when the boy refuses, he
passes over the plain water to the boy who starts drinking it happily even if it’s still hot enough to
cause someone third-degree burns. Harry doesn’t even find it in himself to question it, instead
deciding to sit across the stranger, feeling awkward.

When the boy is done with the water, he smacks his lips in appreciation and focuses his attention
back on Harry. “So, we’ll make this very quick, because Julien is waiting in the car and I also
really do not want to risk attracting a monster. You didn’t dream three days ago. You were indeed
attacked by a harpy, and you’re honestly lucky you survived. I’ve heard of the lightning bolt, and I
have an idea of who your godly parent might be, but I’d rather not assume. We have to take you
back to safety, and figure out how you were attacked in the streets without anyone figuring out that
something was seriously wrong. I mean, I have yet to understand how you survived so long out
there in the mortal world. You’re twenty-five, right?”

“Twenty-two,” he corrects. “And what do you mean by three days ago?”

“Oh, my bad, it’s the beard, makes you look older,” he dismisses. “Yes, you were attacked three
days ago. Julien and I were the ones to find you and bring you back here. We healed your injuries
and extracted the poison from your blood system. You’re lucky I always break the rules and
decided to come check on you, well, more like check on why I was sensing a monster in central
New York, otherwise you’d be dead.”

Harry has to lean his forehead against his hand, shocked. “I slept for three fucking days? What day
is it? What the fuck?”

“It’s Wednesday and you got attacked very, very early on Sunday,” the boy tells him, his voice
gentler, an expression of sympathy on his face.

Harry knows his heart must have stopped beating. He missed three days of work. Now that he
thinks about it, where is his phone? He hasn’t thought of checking it. He had just assumed that he
had woken up from a very bad dream, and that it was still Sunday, which is his day off. He wants
to scream and bang his head against a wall, but mostly, he wants all of this to stop. He sincerely
hopes he isn’t fired, and he dreads reading his emails and finding one from his boss. Maybe he can
pretend he got a very bad flu? He shivers thinking about his boss’ deadly glare.

“Listen, mate, I can hear the wheels turning in your head. You’re thinking of your job, aren’t you?
Forget it, you have more important things to care about, like the fact you’re a demigod, as in, one
of your parents is a god, and your life's in danger. You’re coming back with us to Camp
Halfblood.”
“This is madness,” Harry whispers to himself, ignoring the boy when he snorts and jumps to his
feet.

“Yes, it is, but once we get to our final destination, you’ll understand everything better. Now,
please, hurry the fuck up, we have to go. We have to drive to Long Island.”

“Can I pack a few things?”

The boy huffs, but nods, and Harry stands up and walks quickly to his bedroom. He can’t believe
this is even happening, that he is listening to a stranger, that he is about to let himself be driven to
an unknown place, a place that apparently is the only safe place for him, seeing as hellish creatures
want him dead. Maybe this is all a prank, maybe he's stupid to go along with it all, but he doesn't
see what's left for him to do. He needs to call his mother, and asks her whether she knows about
this, and if his father, that apparently died in a car crash when he was still a baby, was his real
father or not. He sincerely doubts she is a goddess. He looks around but he can’t find his phone, so
he figures it must have fallen in the streets of New York while he was busy running away from his
death. He sighs and grabs a duffel bag in which he throws some clothes, all of his electronic
devices, and a few books that he never managed to read entirely but that he holds close to his heart
seeing as they are antic copies. When he comes back into the kitchen, he adds his laptop to the pile,
zips the bag closed and throws it over his shoulder.

“I’m ready,” he tells the boy, who cheers and makes a beeline for the door, gesturing for him to go
first. He takes a step out of his flat, the action oddly feeling symbolic, and an ache worms its way
into his heart. Silently, he bids farewell to his home, eyes tickling with the need to shed tears. He is
not going to cry, goddammit. He’s going to sort whatever is wrong with him, and then gets his life
back under control, even if he knows it’s going to be painful when he'll have to call his landlord to
tell him he's giving up such a nice flat with such an affordable price. He bites his lips and tries not
to grimace, thinking of how it's going to be when he'll end up jobless and unable to find another
unskilled job that pays half as great as his job as a waiter at the Peal of Versailles did.

The car is a slick black Colorado, parked rather badly on the side road. The boy jumps behind the
wheel, and when Harry notices that the passenger seat is already taken, he goes for the backseats,
throwing his duffel bag next to him. Julien, he assumes, has got a pair of sunglasses on, a huge
black hat pulled down to his eyebrows, and he is holding a magazine up, opened on an article that
reads in bright yellow letters, Hephaestus jealous? Rumour has it he poured a bucket of bull
sperms into Ares’ wine. He frowns and is about to read the rest of the article, pleasantly surprised
that he can read the thing with so much ease, but Julien snaps it closed and turns towards him,
grinning.

“Hello Mick Jagger, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Julien Matsui, and I guess that emo fucker didn’t tell
you his name, as is his wont. He thinks it makes him more mysterious or something, but really, it
just makes him creepier than he already looks. He’s Hamlet, and yes, he was named after the play,
which is so funny if you take into account the fact that his father is Hades.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, and shakes Julien’s hand. He can’t see what’s funny about Hamlet’s
name, but he cracks a smile when Julien gets whacked in the face by Hamlet, who has rolled up the
magazine.

“He ain’t laughing, you stupid donkey, which proves once again how unfunny you are.”

Julien turns red. “Donkey? Bold of you to make fun of how I look when you look like a corpse.
And not even the freshly kind, but a thousand year old, rotten to the core fucking corpse.”

Hamlet rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment, as if with time he got used to being compared to a dead
body. Harry doesn’t exactly know what to say, and he doesn’t really want to say anything anyway,
so he gazes silently out the window while Hamlet and Julien keep bickering. When they finally
stop, Hamlet turns the engine on and pulls the car into drive while Julien opens the magazine
again. Harry is actually curious about that odd article, so he leans forward to read too, and Julien
seems to pick up on it because he angles the magazine in a way that allows Harry to see the whole
thing, but then Harry leans forward so much that when he glances down, he has to swallow a
scream.

Because where Julien’s feet should be, there is a pair of cloven hooves attached to two furry legs.

He snaps his eyes back on the block of texts, trying to calm himself down. He decides right there
and then that he cannot be dreaming, because he's never had a great imagination and he surely did
not muster the mental ability to come up with — all of this. The fury, the half-human half-goat
creature, the lightning bolt… he gulps and focuses his attention on Hamlet's profile, trying to see
what’s different about him. He looks completely human, but there is an aura radiating off him that
Harry didn’t detect at first, too caught up in his own head and denial, but now that he's starting to
accept that everything might be reality, things that had evaded him are becoming more and more
obvious.

Hamlet radiates death, fear and anxiety. It causes a shiver to go down Harry’s spine. Up close,
Hamlet does look like a corpse. His skin is alabaster white, there are profound dark circles
underneath his eyes and his lips are devoid of any colour. Harry takes his attention off him and
glances out of the window again, watching the landscape fly by, the city getting blurry the further
away from it they drive and the closer to Long Island they get. They have been driving for thirty
minutes when Harry straightens up and remembers something.

“Hold on, Hamlet, are you even old enough to drive?” he wonders, scared of the answer. Hamlet
looks particularly young, no older than fifteen years old, and Harry does not want to die in a car
crash after surviving an attack from a harpy, or fury, whatever it is called.

“Yes, ‘course?” He scoffs. “I’m older than you, actually.”

Harry sighs in relief.

There’s the faraway smell of the ocean, which Harry hadn’t realised would make him feel so
peaceful. The landscape is a mix of buildings and forest, and in the distance there are hills crossing
each other and calling out for him. He loves hiking. When it was his tenth birthday, his mother had
taken him to the Buttermilk Falls Gorge Trail, and he had loved it so much he hadn’t wanted to
leave. It does help that even back then, his stamina was exceptionally great, and whenever his
mother had to sit down to catch her breath, he was hopping on place and pointing out to the birds in
the tree foliage or the occasional lizards on the trunks, impatient to get going. Looking at the
serenity surrounding him is making him yearn for his mother, and as much as it embarrasses him to
be so emotionally dependent on her when she lives so far away from him, she has been the only
constant friend in his life.

His attention shifts from the window to Julien when the satyr (he was told what Julien is earlier
when he had made the mistake of confusing him for a centaur) turns on the radio and slips a CD in.
Instantly, loud music fills the vehicle. It’s all acoustic guitar, flute, traditional Hellenic drums and a
few other instruments that Harry isn't able to pinpoint, and there's a voice singing a joyful tune.
When he grows accustomed to the alien song, he starts singing along and soon enough, they’re all
harmonising together. Hamlet especially has got a wonderful voice, deep and low, and it merges
perfectly with Julien’s high-pitched and boyish vocal cords. Harry chooses to hum at one point, a
happy little smile on his face. He's having a lot of fun, which he hadn’t known would be possible
seeing as he's been confused since he woke up this morning. He should be sulking and maybe
freaking out a lot more after being told he's a... what was the word again? A demigod, but instead
he's jamming to a happy-go-lucky tune with two strangers.

It's unbelievable, especially coming from him, the world's most taciturn person. But it feels good to
get along with people he just met. It's something he's not used to, being a recluse and a person who
has just never fit anywhere.

“Mick Jagger,” Julien shouts over the music, spinning around in his seat to get a look at Harry.
“Are you even aware you’re singing in Ancient Greek?”

Harry’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, frowning because… how? He has never taken any
Greek lesson and the only time he was actually exposed to the language was when he was
introduced to Greek mythology back in sixth grade. He had also once tried Latin, but no matter
how hard he had worked and focused on the texts he could never get the words into his head. He
had chronic headaches the whole time he was attempting to study it.

“How is that possible?” he asks, really focusing on the words of the music for the first time since
Julien had put it on. To his surprise, he can understand everything perfectly, as if it were English.
Even the foreign sounds of the letters seem familiar to him, almost as if Ancient Greek was his
mother tongue and English a side language he learnt later on. He sputters out a shocked laugh,
staring at Julien in disbelief.

It’s Hamlet who speaks, turning down the volume of the stereo. “See how you’ve had trouble
reading ever since you were born? It’s like the letters are floating off the page and merging
together in an absolute mess? That’s not because you’re dyslexic, because I know that’s what the
doctor told you, but because your mind is hardwired to interpret Ancient Greek.”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes. He has spent his entire life thinking there is a problem with his
brain, and there is one, but it’s completely different from what he thought. Ancient fucking Greek.

“Are you kidding me? Are all demigods that way?” he wonders, leaning back into the cushioned
seat and deciding to stare out of the window. The rural landscape helps him clear his head.

“Most of them, yeah, although I do know a few who never had dyslexia and were able to go to
school like normal people. There’s William, Louis and Faizan, right Julien?” Hamlet switches lane
smoothly to drive past an elderly couple in a slick midnight blue Bentley.

“Yeah,” Julien adds, opening the glove compartment to look for something and frowning when he
doesn’t find it. “Hey Hamlet, can we please stop at the next gas station? I’m hungry.”

“We’re almost at camp, can’t you wait?”

Julien gives Hamlet a look that says, ‘what do you think?’, resulting in Hamlet sighing, annoyed,
but when they reach a gas station that’s innocently waiting among dried grass and cooking up
under the unforgiving sun of southeastern New York, Hamlet manoeuvres the Colorado in front of
the store.

Unsurprisingly, Julien is the first one to jump out of the car, heading into the store without a single
care in the world. Harry watches, flabbergasted, as a customer walks by the satyr without even
glancing at him, even if Julien is walking around pantless when he is half-goat from the waist
down. Hamlet nudges him with his elbow, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, I put a mist around him. To humans, he’s got a nice pair of jeans and red sneakers.”

Harry nods even though he can’t quite believe there’s such a thing as a mist that hides mythological
freaky things to the human eyes, but he figures nothing from now on should surprise him. They
enter the store and instantly spot the top of Julien’ hat peeking out from the chips aisle. While
Hamlet goes to buy a pack of cigarettes, Harry pats his jeans for his wallet as he grabs a cool bottle
of cognac, ignoring the price. He’ll need that afterwards to process everything that’s happening to
him.

“Hey, man,” Julien calls, coming up next to him with his arms full of candies and greasy food.
“Tuna or chicken?”

“Tuna,” he replies right-away, making Julien let out a loud cheer.

“Told you, Hamlet, he’s a tuna boy.”

Harry cracks a smile at that, then walks to the till, putting the amber-coloured bottle down in front
of a stern-looking woman. Her blonde hair is pulled tight into a bun, half hidden under a green and
white baseball cap with the gas station’s logo printed on its front. She punches in the number
without even looking away from him, then in a monotonous tone tells the price. Harry gives her a
wrinkled fifty dollars bill, stows away the change, and is about to pick the bottle up and get out of
here when her hand closes around the neck of the bottle, refusing to let go no matter how many
times he tugs. He is about to snap at the woman, but then her eyes change colour, going from icy
blue to golden brown.

No, he mentally begs. Not this again.

He has just the time to snatch the bottle of liquor away and stumble several steps back before the
woman starts transforming in front him. She grows several feet tall, so tall in fact that the ceiling
begins to crack under the pressure of the woman’s head. Her clothes disappear, leaving in their
wake a muscular, positively male chest, with biceps five times the size of Harry. Her skin grows
hairier, and the vein-webbed skin bulges under the pressure of her muscles. Her face changes from
a pleasant woman’s face to a bull’s head, with two long and sharp-looking horns growing on either
side of her temples. Her little nose expands to become a long snout whose nostrils are joined
together by a gleaming brass ring. Harry watches in horror as claws grow out of her huge fur-
covered hands.

He does the only thing he can think of; he screams and throws the bottle of alcohol at the... thing,
watching as it shatters against its head, pieces of glass flying absolutely everywhere, some of them
even landing on Harry, prompting him to raise with his arms in front of his face lest they would cut
him. The alcoholic liquid is dripping down the Minotaur’s body, and its dark and cruel eyes are
directed at him, hatred burning deep within the black orbs like a bonfire. Harry stumbles
backwards and makes a dash for the doors, using his shoulder to push them open. He runs outside,
momentarily glad for the fresh air that contrasts wonderfully with the smell of the monster, an
horrendous strong stench of rotten meat. Hamlet is leaning against the hood of the car, smoking
and flicking through Julien's magazine. Harry can’t see the satyr anywhere.

“Run!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, grabbing Hamlet’s attention just as the Minotaur appears
through the store’s roof, roaring so loudly that the ground shakes. Harry watches as Hamlet’s fair
complexion turns even whiter, and he casts a look of utter panic at Harry.

“Julien’s in the fucking restrooms!”

He knows the restrooms are behind him. Fuck. “Get the car out of here, I’m gonna get him!”

The Minotaur is still roaring, as if making a statement, and Harry makes the most out of the
situation to run to the restrooms, glad that its attention is on elsewhere. He opens the red, cheap
wooden door hastily, letting it bang against the wall, and he's glad when he finds Julien in front of
the sink, washing his hands, instead of in one of the stalls, taking care of his business.

“We have to get out of here, right now!” Harry stresses out while grabbing the back of Julien’s
jacket, dragging him out of the dirty room. He questions Harry about what’s going on, somewhere
wondering about an earthquake, but Harry is too busy trying to get them to the car in one piece to
even answer. It’s only when Julien seems to catch the Minotaur’s impressive figure that he starts to
grasp the severity of the situation, and that it wasn’t an earthquake that had cause the earth to
shake, but the half-bull half-man monstrosity currently sniffing the air and angling its body
towards the Colorado.

Hamlet has managed to get the car back on the road, and he has his hands up in the air. Harry sees
several rocks levitate in the air and change shape, becoming pitch black and as sharp as daggers.
Hamlet makes a motion with his fingers and the rocks shoot forward towards the creature, which
roars as it gets cut several times, one of the deadly sharp rocks even managing to hit one of the
Minotaur’s eyes despite the fact that it has been using its huge hands to dodge them. Blood gushes
out of the wounded iris, and with a pained cry the Minotaur jerks the rock out of his orbs. Harry is
shaking, and Julien is panting behind him, but he doesn’t stop running. At one point, Julien runs
ahead of him, panic written all over his face.

“I call shotgun!” he shrieks, before jumping head first towards the car, breaking apart the window
and landing face first into the passenger seat. Harry himself hurries into the backseats, throwing his
whole body inside and ignoring the outline of his laptop as he feels it dig into his rib, and the
moment he touches the seat, Hamlet takes off, the car’s tires screeching horribly as he makes a
sharp turn and drives past the station. With his heart beating in his throat, Harry closes the door,
the wind slapping his face harshly. Julien’s hooves are still dangling outside the broken car
window, but he quickly straightens himself, his face red. Bits of crisps are stuck to his cheeks from
when he landed on the snacks, exploding open several bags of candies and crisps.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. “What the fuck?” he repeats, shouting now. “The Minotaur? Really?
What the fuck?”

“Shut up,” Hamlet snaps, anxiously glancing into the rearview mirror. Harry sits up and looks in
the rear windshield, his breath catching in his throat when he sees the creature roaring, looking
everywhere, seemingly sniffing the air. Harry sees the exact moment it spots them, because its
body turns towards their car, and it starts running. Its long, strong legs are fast and allow it to
quickly catch up on them, and Harry feels a lot like he is watching his death approaching him.
He doesn’t know much about the Minotaur, but he definitely knows that once the creature gets its
hands on him, it’s over.

“It’s on our asses,” Harry tells Hamlet, who takes one look into the rearview mirror then stomps
brutally on the gas pedal, sending the car forward. Harry looks around them, surprised to see that
there are no cars anymore, the road completely empty save for them and the monster.

“Why are there no other cars in sight?” he wonders anxiously. It looks a lot like what happened to
him the night he was attacked by the harpy. “It’s exactly like the night I was attacked," he informs,
gulping down the excess of saliva in his mouth, a telltale sign that he is anxious. "The streets were
deserted, and we all know that New York city never sleeps,” he adds to explain his concern,
causing Julien to let out a bleat.

“I think the creatures have been using a different kind of mist. How else are they able to modify
the landscape? They’re using a mist so strong that it affects both the demigods and the humans. I
didn’t even know the Kindly Ones could do that!”

“Yeah, well, that's because they can't,” Hamlet groans, his fingers tight around the steering wheel.
“It’s not fucking possible, and I think they are being helped by a or several stronger beings.”

“Stronger beings? Like who?” Harry voices aloud, his eyes going back and forth between the road
ahead of them and the Minotaur chasing them.

Hamlet sighs, as if the answer pained him greatly. “Like a minor God, a God, or worse; a Titan.”

The drive to their destination is quick, which doesn't come as a surprise when taking into account
the speed at which they were going, but before they can make it past the hill that apparently hides
Camp Halfblood, a rock the size of a little car is thrown at them and lands on the hood of the
Colorado, causing the vehicle to come to a stop, its bottom jumping off the ground. They are all
thrown forward, Hamlet hitting his forehead against the steering wheel, activating the airbag,
Julien flying against the front window, and Harry knocking his head against the vehicle’s roof. He
groans as the pain slowly but surely spreads to his forehead.

“Fuck,” Hamlet croaks out. “We have to get out of here. Now!”

Harry has just the time to open the door and jumps out of the car and into the green grass before
something big collides with the back of the vehicle. The stench of rotten meat assaults his nostrils,
and he crawls away, standing up and starting to run, not even daring to glance over his shoulder.
He can see in the corner of his eyes that Julien is running ahead of him, a comatose-looking Hamlet
thrown over his shoulder. The ground tremors as the Minotaur takes off after them, its gigantic
hooves crushing the grass, making mud fly around. As much as he is fine running for a long time,
and even though he is faster than the average people, he isn't quite able to outrun the Minotaur, so
he stops even though his whole body is screaming at him to get the fuck out of here.

But he knows it’s useless. The Minotaur is too fast, and it's clearly coming after Harry, not even
glancing at Julien and Hamlet. He pictures the situation like a bullfighting game. When a bull is
running at full speed, it is hard for it to change direction halfway through. Harry spins around, the
need to vomit extremely strong, especially when he makes eye contact with the Minotaur. He waits
a bit more, and when the now familiar stench of the creature waltz into the air around him, and
when he can feel the thin layer of dust rising from behind the creature flies to him, does he throw
his entire body aside, feeling the Minotaur run past him and straight into a thick tree. It roars, and
Harry takes off towards Julien.

It’s not long before the Minotaur is hot on their heels again.

“Fuck, we have to go up this hill,” Julien pants, daring a look above Hamlet’s skinny-black-jeans
clad arse, and he lets out a panicked bleat when he spots the Minotaur. “We’re never gonna make
it.”

And Harry believes him. Fear tugs at his lower belly, and desperation twists his guts painfully. He
has just met two people he could see himself becoming friends with, he has just learnt why he is so
weird, why something seems to be wrong with him, he has just started accepting the whole
demigod-concept, and yet his death is hanging by a single thread of fabric, nearing way too
fucking soon in his opinion. He looks at the Minotaur and spots the way its skin glimmers under
the sun, seemingly still sticky from the drying up liquor, and when he looks in front of him, his
eyes instantly land on one of Hamlet’s back pockets, and he notices the tip of something silver
poking out the edge of the pocket, threatening to fall.

A lighter. An idea sparks into Harry’s brain.

He thrusts his hand into the pocket and grabs the lighter. Thankfully, it is a zippo, and a bubble of
hope grows into him. He really hopes it works and kills the monster, or at least slows down the
Minotaur so that they have enough time to make it to Camp Halfblood.

“Keep running!” he tells Julien just as they arrive at the bottom of the hill. It's not too challenging
to climb, but it’s a rather slant one, and they will never make it to the top and down the other side
before the Minotaur. For the second time, he turns towards the monster, and for the second time,
he wants to shit his pants.

He opens the zippo, waits for the Minotaur to get closer, then throws the lighter at it, praying for it
to work. Just as the zippo makes contact with the Minotaur’s right shoulder, the alcohol sparks and
tall flames appear, following the trail of liquid that has slid down its stomach. The creature stops
running and curls on itself in agony, roaring so loud that the ground trembles and nearby trees go
tumbling down to the grass. The mountains around them crack, large pieces of dark brown rocks
falling down. He doesn’t waste time and starts to climb the hill. Halfway to the top, Julien is
waiting for him, his eyes wide open. “C’mon!” he shouts, and Harry uses his legs to push himself
forward, going as far as using his hands to climb faster. He hears another roar, then the
unmistakable loud noise of hooves breaking the ground.

Die already you piece of shit, he thinks bitterly, reaching Julien who has begun climbing again.
They’re almost to the top when the Minotaur roars again, causing the whole hill to shake, and
Harry loses his footing, sliding several meters down, closer to the Minotaur. Half of its body is just
burned skin, and Harry takes great pleasure in the fact that he's the reason for it, but when he
realises that the monster is a hair’s breadth away from grabbing his ankle and dragging him
towards its horns, he accepts that he won’t make it. One of the Minotaur’s hands cut through the
air, ready to grab him, but then the ground underneath the creature opens.

The reek of death, the pained screams of lost souls, and the bright glow of a green fire are the last
things Harry hears and sees before the Minotaur falls, disappearing for good as the hole mends
itself back together. The grass looks completely normal, the sky's still blue, and Harry is still alive.
He looks back, and sees that Hamlet has his head up, with one hand extended forward, a small
smirk on his face. There’s dried blood under his nose and coating the side of his head, hair matted
down. Julien lets out a joyful shout, smacking Hamlet’s arse, and Harry huffs and winces as pain
ignites throughout his body.

He tries to stand up, but then the world goes blurry, and gloom overtakes his consciousness.

When Harry blinks his eyes open, a wooden ceiling fan is spinning slowly, barely producing any
breeze. He’s hot, probably because of the several layers of bed sheets piled on top of him, and he is
positively parched. He tries to turn his head to the side, hoping to spot a bottle of water, but instead
he realises he is in a room he has never seen before. Its decor is all picturesque, the walls made of
wood with several paintings hanging on them, each of them depicting either the unforgiving waves
of the sea or the beautiful warm hues of the decaying vegetation in autumn. There is a thick tree
trunk in the middle of the room, and the ceiling opens to let the top of it peeks out, vibrant green
leaves camouflaging the blue sky from Harry’s eyes. Everything is absolutely stunning, and he
relaxes completely into the soft pillow, which smells like lavender. He is on a little cot in the very
back of the room, and there are identical cots next to him and in front of him, lining up the walls.
There are little tables next to them, and wooden trunks at the foot of each cot. Next to him, against
the wall, there’s a cart shelves stocked with medical supplies and herbs. It’s definitely an infirmary,
but it’s warm and so different from the usual cold and all-white infirmaries one would expect.
Instead of being alarmed that he has woken up in a place he doesn’t know, there’s an aura waltzing
in the air that tells him he’s safe.

He is not the only one taking shelter there. There’s a girl, no older than fourteen, on one of the
cots, her curly dark hair cascading around her face as she focuses on a thick, opened book on her
lap. She’s under the sheets from the waist down, and Harry can see that half of one of her arms is
bandaged professionally. Her skin is a gorgeous russet, reddish-brown and to his surprise, most of
her exposed skin has got intricate gold tattoos. He tries to sit up, and while doing so, the girl’s
attention snaps to him. Her eyes are brown with specks of gold in them, and they look kind and
wise. She smiles a little and closes the book, leaving it where it is.

“Hello,” she greets him, her voice high and rather breathy.

He clears his throat. “Hi.”

It’s awkward, Harry thinks, but then she stands up from the cot, revealing a long, quaint dress.
Harry watches as she opens a cupboard and grabs a glass from it, then fills it with tap water. She
approaches his cot and hands him the glass, which he drowns eagerly, until not a single drop of
water is left at the bottom. He has no idea of why he is so thirsty, but he hopes it’s not because he
spent another three days in this cot, unconscious. He doesn’t want his arrival at Camp Half-Blood
— at least, he supposes that’s where he is — to be like this, him being in a hospital cot for too
long. He yearns to talk to Julien, and make sure Hamlet is alright; why isn’t he there, by the way?
He sighs and breathes a thank you at the girl, first for the water, and second, though it is left
unsaid, for being there. He doesn’t fancy waiting in that room alone.

“Harry, right?" she checks. He hums. "I heard Julien mentioning it when they brought you here.
I’m Maïa. Daughter of Hecate,” she reaches towards him to shake his hand, and he looks at her
curiously. He isn’t the most educated when it comes to Greek mythology, and Greek gods, so he
isn’t sure of who Hecate exactly is. She must see it on his face for she giggles and sits on the edge
of his cot, as if preparing herself for a long conversation. Harry doesn’t mind. There’s something
warm and welcoming about Maïa, urging even a stranger to open up to her.

“She’s the goddess of magic, witchcraft and some will even say prosperity.”

“That’s dope,” Harry tells her honestly. He fluffs the pillow behind his back and leans against it.
She draws a clothed knee closer to her until she is sitting on it. Up close, Harry can see that there
are strands of gold even in her dark brown hair, appearing whenever she shifts and the sunlight
caresses the fine, curly strands. “Are there a lot of demigods at the camp?” he finds himself asking.

She takes a moment to answer, frowning as she thinks. “Probably a hundred-twenty, or so. Chiron
knows the exact number. A hundred twenty-one, now, I guess,” she eyes him, her glowing orbs
gentle, and Harry lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. Right. He is a demigod, too.

“What now?” he wonders. He’s awake, and he feels fine, but he doesn’t know if he’ll still feel that
way once he steps out of this room and into the unfamiliar world outside. He will face a hundred-
twenty other people like him, that apparently are all the offspring of some Greek gods. He’ll have
to look into Hamlet’s eyes knowing he had sent the Minotaur to the underworld, or to once again
accept the fact that Julien is half-human, half-goat. He's pretty sure the Chiron Maïa had
mentioned is a centaur. He’s completely out of his elements, and while he has accepted that he is
not dreaming, it will still take him a while to accept that yes, he is Harry Styles, and yes, he is a
demigod. He’ll have to call his mother and confront her, probably, and he can already picture how
painful the conversation is going to be.

Is the man in all those pictures back home, that his mother had told him had died in a car crash, his
real father? He is pretty sure his mother is not a god.

“Well,” she says cautiously, her attention still entirely focused on him. She’s definitely trying to
figure him out, and she seems to do it quite well, as if he were an opened book, and it should make
him uncomfortable, but he welcomes it. It’s such a relief, when you don’t understand what’s going
on, that there’s someone with you that's able to explain everything that at first doesn't make any
sense, without you having to put into words what’s confusing and what needs explaining. “We
don’t know who your godly parent is, and usually we wait until you are claimed to put you into a
cabin. It usually happens through the appearance of a hologram of the god’s symbol of power. For
instance, the children of Aphrodite are claimed through a pink aura. Poseidon’s, through a glowing
green trident. I, for instance, was given these tattoos, also called runes. They glow in the dark,
representing the torches my mother, Hecate, carries. They’re like a compass, guiding me when I’m
lost. I was claimed before I was at the camp. She did it because I was trying to find it but couldn’t.
And ever since these tattoos have been my anchor, providing me with power.”

“That’s incredible,” he manages to get out, still trying to process the onslaught of information.
“What about Hamlet?”

She looks amused. “Don’t tell him I told you, or else he will never let me hear the end of it, but he
was claimed when he went skinny dipping into the lake in winter, and he was basically freezing his
ass off, but then Hades, because he’s actually a cheeky god, set Hamlet on fire. Don’t worry, it’s a
fire that doesn’t affect Hamlet in the slightest. It was a bright green fire unlike any other, and we
didn’t even have time to panic because Hamlet was sighing in relief, happy to not be freezing
anymore.”

They both laugh for a good minute, and when they calm down enough to be able to talk again, she
starts to speak again.

“But anyway, I hope you will be claimed. You’ve suffered quite a lot of attacks in your life, it
might be safer for you to know who your godly parent is, so you can prepare better for eventual
future attempts to kill you. I don’t mean to scare you, but you must be a big deal if the Minotaur
was sent after you.”

Harry grimaces at the mention of the Minotaur, black eyes and the stench of rotten meat crossing
his mind. He shivers as he remembers the tall creature chasing after them.

“What do you mean by ‘big deal’”? he asks tiredly, and she must sense that he’s growing more and
more disturbed, because suddenly there’s a soft hand on his own, and an unfamiliar energy courses
through him. Peacefulness settles very deep into his bones as all the unpleasant thoughts fly out of
his head, leaving in their wake only the gentle glow of the sun as its rays penetrate the tree's foliage
and the glass of the windows. The images of the harpy and Minotaur disappear from his mind to
become soft grass in the summer and blossoming flowers. There’s also a flash of icy blue, and
smooth white fabric waving along the waltz of the wind, and to add to the vision there’s also the
appearance of silk-like hazelnut-coloured hair.

Maïa snatches her hand away from his, as if she had been burned, and her eyes are wide open. But
before he can comment on it, or ask her what’s wrong, she schools her face into the same agreeable
and friendly expression she seems to perpetually have. She stands up.

“Chiron should come out of the Big House soon. Let me get you some clothes. There’s a folding
screen over there,” she points to a tall deep brown folding screen leaning against the wall, and
Harry nods, throwing his legs to the side and tentatively putting his toes on the room temperature
floor. He looks down at himself, cheeks colouring when he realises he was stripped down to his
boxer brief. Maïa comes back with her eyes closed, putting a stack of new clothes on the cot. He
grabs them, thanks her, then walks quickly to the folding screen.

The clothes feel nice under his digits, and he first pulls on the tight leather trousers, followed by a
white, short-sleeved shirt, then a bottle green leather jacket that has a button on the side and a strip
of leather dangling from the other side, ready to be tied in case he wants to close it. It’s original and
feels authentic, and he also puts the white socks and combat boots on, agreeably surprised that
everything fits him perfectly. He passes a hand through his hair, finding it slightly damp. He
doesn’t feel as dirty as he would have expected after running for his life, and that makes him
internally freak over how long he has been out. He takes a deep breath and folds the folding screen
again, putting it back to where he found it, and he spots Maïa waiting for him, her book cradled
into the crook of her unwounded arm.

“By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to you?” he asks, gesturing towards the
bandage.

“Burnt myself trying a spell that was too hard for me,” she shrugs, and Harry doesn’t ask her
anything else. She smiles at him then makes a movement with her head towards the door, inviting
him to finally see what Camp Half-Blood is really like. He lets her take the lead, and with great
apprehension he watches as she twists the doorknob and pushes the door open, strong sunlight
instantly flooding the room, making Harry squint.

“C’mon!” she laughs, and with excitement bubbling within him, Harry takes a step out of the
infirmary and into his seemingly permanent home for the next undefined amount of time.
-

Camp Half-Blood is, if Harry has to describe it in very few words, heaven on earth. It’s almost like
the Golden Age he's been told about during the few Latin classes he took. There are trees taking up
most of the space, ripe fruits waiting to be collected on some of them, and as he walks further away
from the infirmary, he is welcomed by bushes of berries. He can’t help himself from picking one
and popping it into his mouth, sweet juice exploding amazingly against his bitter tongue, lessening
the odd sensation in his mouth from waking up and not brushing his teeth. There are people
everywhere, from children no older than ten years old to adults such as himself. They’re either
chatting, working on the land, relaxing into the sun-kissed grass or, to Harry’s absolutely surprise,
fighting each other with huge smiles on their faces. They all seem to not have a care in the world,
perfectly comfortable with each other’s presence. Maïa greets a lot of people in passing, and every
single one of them looks at him in curiosity, but they always end up giving a smile that says,
welcome home newbie.

Harry wants to cry.

“Welcome to Camp Half-Blood, Harry! Let me give you a tour around, and brace yourself because
our camp is the biggest one!” Maïa exclaims, a flush on her face, probably from joy and
excitement.

“The biggest?” Harry wonders, hurrying to keep up with her quick pace. She is fast, her long dress
moving along with the gentle breeze in the air. It’s only then that he notices that she is barefoot,
golden-painted toes almost flying above the ground.

“Yes, there are other camps. But I’m not going to dive into that, it’s going to be too much
information for you in one setting! Okay look, if you go that way, you will come across the
cabins," she points to her right. "That’s where we demigods sleep! There’s one cabin for each god,
or well, at least for those who claimed a child. Except for the Big Three, they have a cabin
regardless of whether they have a child here or not.”

Harry keeps silent and follows her to the cabins, jaw dropping when he is met with huge houses
capable of accommodating at least thirty people easily. The cabins are placed in a circle, and above
them, encrusted into the marble, is the name of the god they each belong to. There are twenty
cabins in total, Harry counts, the first one being Zeus’. It looks a lot like a mausoleum, or maybe
even a fancy bank, with heavy columns adding to its intimidating architecture. The double doors
are big, and bronze, and they are polished in such a way as to provide a holographic effect of
lightning bolts flashing across, depending on where one stands. Harry is admiring it when,
suddenly, a loud noise pierces through the air, sounding a lot like thunder. He watches with big
eyes as it so obviously comes from the cabin, and it’s so unexpected that even when Maïa moves
on to the next cabin, he is still stuck in front of Zeus’ cabin.

“Talk about dramatics... especially Zeus,” she rolls her eyes, and fisting his shirt, she urges him
forward to the next cabin, which happens to be Hera’s.

“That’s Zeus’ wife, right?” he acknowledges, searching into his old memories for the Greek
illustrated book his mother had gifted him at Christmas several years ago, and Maïa nods.

It’s also made completely out of marble, and it looks less intimidating and cold than Zeus’ cabin,
with its graceful slim columns garlanded with pomegranates and flowers. Peacocks are carved into
the walls of the cabin, as well as into its doors. When he squints his eyes, it looks as if the flowers
were opening and closing, or moving to follow the wind. It’s gorgeous.

“Fun fact,” Maïa chips in. “That cabin will forever be empty, because Hera is the goddess of
marriage and she doesn’t run around having affairs with mortals, as opposed to her husband, of
course, though we still have yet to find an offspring of Zeus. The cabin is mostly there to honour
her as she remains a prominent goddess. Next cabin belongs to Poseidon’s children! It’s made out
of rough sea stones.”

Poseidon’s cabin is a long, low one, and when they walk further to the side, Harry can tell the
windows are facing the ocean. There are pieces of coral and seashell embedded into the outside
walls, and there’s a trident with a big bronze number 3 over its door. As opposed to the other
cabins, that one is not pristine white but instead sea blue, the corals bringing even more colours
such as red, green, even purple. Harry finds it stunning, even more so than Hera's and Zeus'. The
fourth cabin is Demeter’s, and it's covered in flowers. Tomato plants grow on the light brown walls
and doorway, so red and round that Harry wants to take one and bite into it. On the porch, there are
wild flowers and roses, and the roof is made out of real grass. The cabin is the most gorgeous one
so far, and draws the eyes easily. They don’t waste time there though, moving to the next cabin,
which is Ares’. While Maïa continues providing information about the children living in the cabins,
Harry takes in the badly painted red walls, and the large boar’s head over the door. There are
barbed wires on the roof, glinting in the sunlight.

Cabin Six is for Athena, and it is a grey building with plain white curtains. There’s a beautiful,
realistic design of an owl over the door. It’s a contrast to Zeus’ and Hera’s pretentious cabins, and a
shocking sight next to Ares’ dark one. Apollo’s cabin isn’t much better when it comes to blending
with the lot. It is made of solid gold, and is literally glowing, from the sun or by itself, Harry can’t
tell. There are flower pots of yellow blooms and red and purple hyacinths on the windowsills, and
since the windows are large, Harry can spot a well stocked bookshelf against the wall in the back,
and weapons and coats hanging from sharp-looking hooks. The next cabin is Artemis’, and it is the
opposite of Apollo’s, with its silver walls and silver curtains. Paintings and carvings of wild
animals add flavour to the building.

“Apollo’s cabin glows during the day,” Maïa says, “while Artemis’ glows at night, under the
moonlight. It’s funny, seeing as they’re twins and yet they are the polar opposites. Apollo is the
sun while Artemis is the moon. Artemis doesn’t have children of her own though, but she remains
an important goddess, so the cabin is honorary. She does sometimes adopt children, often those
who are unclaimed but still catch her attention, so the cabin is currently inhabited by three
demigods.”

Hephaestus’ cabin isn’t ugly, but it’s not agreeable to look at either. It looks like a small factory
with its brick walls and smokestacks. Around the entrance, there are gears, mostly big hammers
that might break open the earth with a single hit from them. Harry isn’t surprised when Aphrodite’s
cabin comes next, but the fact Hephaestus’ and Aphrodite’s cabins are next to one another
translates the toxic nature of their relationship pretty well, and honours all the tales about the ugly
god marrying the goddess of beauty, and how much one isn’t willing to engage with the other.
Aphrodite’s cabin is wooden-made, and its roof is painted in a blue matching the sky. The colour
spreads to its pillars and there are steps attached to a checkerboard deck. The walls are grey and
bring out the pink door. By the windows there are potted carnations. When they walk past the
cabin, a strong but pleasant smell of expensive perfume reaches them, and to add to the beautiful
picture, birds are chirping from the ledge of roses.

“This is Hermes’ cabin, and let me tell you, it’s a giant mess,” Maïa informs him, her eyes going
over the big house with a grimace. Harry can’t help but agree with her. The brown walls are
peeling, and there’s a caduceus overhanging the door. “It’s the one in the worst shape because it
used to be overpopulated. Back then a lot of demigods were not claimed, and because of that, they
were put into Hermes’ cabin until their godly parents manifested themselves. Moreover, the
children of minor gods lived there as well, but since we’ve started building new houses for those
demigods, the cabin has been doing much better. I’m sorry to inform you that you’ll be living there
until you’re claimed, but I promise you that it’s become an agreeable place.”

Harry puts his hands into his jacket’s pockets, tilting his head to the side. “And what if I am never
claimed?”

Maïa waves her hand in the air, dismissing the question, and she starts to walk again but Harry can
tell exactly what that means; he’ll be staying at Hermes’ cabin. He casts one last look at it, wincing
when crumbs of wood go flying from the roof as several birds rest their weight on it. He joins Maïa
to Dionysus’ cabin, which isn’t anything special except that the walls are lined with grape vines,
and then Hades’ cabin is next. It’s nothing more than a windowless cabin made of what Harry
assumes is solid obsidian, with heavy columns and torches that burn green. Faithful to what Hades
represents, there’s a skull over the door.

“Hamlet told me that the inside is worse than the outside. The beds apparently resemble coffins,
and the blankets and pillows are of a deep red, like blood. By the way, the fire’s green because
that’s the Greek fire, and those torches burn twenty-four hours a day. Hades’ cabin looks comical
next to Iris’ though.”

Harry lets himself be dragged to Iris’ cabin, which looks as if somebody had drenched it into
rainbow-coloured puke. Not a single inch of the house is white, and instead it is an odd mixture of
colours, and the flowers on the walls are hard to see as they match the colours underneath them.
The outline of the wind is drawn on the door in gold. Then there’s Hypnos’ cabin, which is an old-
fashioned prairie house whose walls are made of mud and whose roof is made of rush. To Harry’s
delight, there's soft music coming from the house, and it sounds a lot like violin. From the opened
window comes the smell of fresh laundry, and the heat of a crackling fire caresses his skin as he
gets too close. He doesn’t actually end up entering the charming house because Maïa grabs his
elbow and drags him past Nemesis’ cabin, which holds nothing special besides a broken wheel
above the door, to Nike’s cabin.

“Nike?” Harry wonders, having never heard of that god before.

“Nike is the Greek goddess of victory, and she assumes the role of the divine charioteer. She’s
quite important seeing as she joined Zeus in his war against the Titans.”

Harry nods as if he understood what she had just told him, though he has to wrack his brain to
remember what war she is talking about. He lets his eyes wander all over the cabin. It consists in
four modules, back-to-back with two on each side, and it has four entrances. Maïa smirks at him,
then steps forward and lays a flat hand against one of its walls, and Harry watches, awestruck, as it
changes from a burgundy colour to a pink one. He copies her, and giggles when the pink becomes
midnight blue.

“That’s awesome,” Harry says honestly.

“It is, right? The next cabin, Hebe’s, is practically identical to that one as they were both designed
by the same architect. But Tyche’s cabin, which is right next to Hebe's, is probably one of my
favourites, come!”

And Harry can see why; Tysche’s cabin looks like a miniature Las Vegas casino, with its magical
paint that changes from red to black, to yellow, again and again. There are big yellow numbers
drawn everywhere, and black roses curl around the roof's edges, which is painted a bright yellow.
A big grandfather clock is hung over the big double doors, except the needle goes back and forth
between two words; luck, bad luck.

“The inside has got loads of games, you’ll love it," she winks at him. "Now, last but not least, my
cabin!”

Harry smiles at Maïa, who is basically hopping in place. He takes a look at Hecate’s cabin, the last
one of the lot, and finds that it fits Maïa’s personality perfectly. It’s rather quaint, built from blocks
of stone, but there are magic inscriptions written on each and every single one of the stone blocks.
Its roof is slanted, and from the top to the bottom, several statues are lined in front of each other,
first a three-headed dog that seems to be chasing a horse, then a bear, then a snake that’s ready to
bite a lion.

“I’d invite you in, but we still have so much of the camp to visit, so! Let me put away my book,
and then we’ll continue.”

He watches Maïa go, and while she gets rid of her thick book, Harry seizes the opportunity to walk
to the centre of the circle made up by the cabins, where there’s a gigantic hearth. It's not burning,
but Harry can easily imagine how big it must be once lit up, and how much light it must cast
around at night. There’s a new kind of energy now, as if Harry could taste the cooked meat, the
people dancing around the fire, the laughs and shouts and overall good ambiance. Even the statues
of the gods dispatched a bit everywhere, their entire being frozen into a single position, devoid of
soul, seem to be moving to the rhythm of a local upbeat music. He can’t help but drop to his knees,
fingers diving into the mellow grass, thinking that where he currently is, there has been, probably
yesterday night, another demigod watching the spectacle before them like Harry is trying to
imagine.

Fuck, another demigod. As in, another person that hasn’t had a place in the world for a while until
Camp Half-Blood, that has probably been chased after by Greek creatures wanting to kill them.
Another demigod with whom Harry will be able to relate with, in a way that he hasn't been in the
capacity of doing before. Harry is no longer alone, and if somehow he doesn’t manage to perfectly
blend in with the lot, if he still has to sit in a corner and watch as others share and care about one
another without ever paying an ounce of attention to him, then he’ll still be happier than when he
hadn't known about the camp, because at least he won't be feeling as lost as he did before.

He won't be feeling completely whole either, but it will be progress.

A hand settles on his shoulder, and when he looks up, Maïa is watching him with a soft, gentle
expression. Her hair whips the air with the wind, and like this, she looks like an angel. Are there
angels in Greek mythology? Probably not, but Harry doesn’t care, because then Maïa tells him,
“let’s go see the mess hall, you’re going to love it,” and there are suddenly more important things
to see and discover and think about than the gaping hole inside his chest, which is a first.

And he loves it. He loves that there are new things for him to look forward to.

The mess hall is a beautiful, huge building. It’s rectangular and peripteral, and it's surrounded by
thick and tall columns. Harry has to crane his neck to even see the top of the building, cuddled into
its shadow, and he knows that this is pure Ancient Greek architecture. It makes him wonder how
back in the days human beings were able to build such prominent pieces of work when they didn’t
have it easy like nowadays. There are ivy leaves draped over the marble, bushes of roses at the
bottom of the columns, and some people are lying here and there, reading or making flower
crowns. He follows Maïa inside, feeling intimidated by the fact he is stepping foot into such a
stunning place, but when he sees the purpose of the building, he understands why it is so big. There
are long tables spread throughout the room, with equally long benches on either side of them.
Those tables are thick and large, and can probably sit forty people each comfortably. There’s a pit
fire in the very back. When he asks about it, Maïa tells him it’s for the goddess of the hearth,
Hestia.

“She sometimes does visit us, but people often mistake her for a nymph.”

He nods and glances around him, spinning on himself to not miss a single detail. Maïa gently
coaxes him out of the mess hall and they start to make their way to the arena, where apparently
takes place all the sword, bow and hand-fight training, when someone comes barrelling into him at
such a speed that he is thrown forward, his front body hitting the mud hard. He groans under the
added weight on his back, but he can’t help himself from smiling when a loud bleat fills his ears.

“Yes bro! I knew you weren’t dead!” Julien screams, hugging Harry's middle, his head smashed
between Harry’s shoulder blades.

“If he weren’t dead before, he sure is now,” Hamlet mocks, pushing Julien off Harry and taking
Harry’s hand to help him stand up. Harry dusts off the grass and mud on his clothes, his white tee-
shirt now stained brown, but he barely acknowledges it as he pats both Julien and Hamlet on the
back, glad to finally see them.

“How have you been?” he asks in his usual, deep voice.

“Fine,” Hamlet tells him, and Harry purposely lets his eyes linger a second too long on the bandage
around Hamlet’s head. “I bashed my head too hard against the steering wheel, but nothing too bad,
I just hope I won’t end up with a big bump on my forehead.”

Harry nods. “Great, that’s great. By the way, thank you, for the trick you pulled on the Min-.”

“Don’t say its name!” Julien shrieks, flailing limbs almost smacking Harry upside the head.
“Names hold power, don’t say it.”

Harry holds his hands up in surrender, and once Julien has calmed down, Hamlet winks at him. It’s
enough of an answer for Harry, and he has to hide his own smile in his shoulder while Julien keeps
muttering under his breath. Maïa, at one point, bids them goodbye, promising to show him more of
the camp later, and before he can protest, assuming that Maïa is going because she feels like she is
intruding on them, Hamlet grabs his hand and pulls him towards the strawberry fields.

“Chiron wants to talk to you, so we better hurry, because we spent the whole time before that
looking for you, and Chiron doesn’t do late.”

Harry isn't given enough time to marvel at how beautiful the wedding of green leaves and tiny red
dots is, they completely bypass the strawberry fields to reach a little bridge made of stone, built
over what Hamlet told him is a river of water coming from the lake above. It’s steady, to Harry’s
surprise, and once they walk to the other side, the Big House greets them. It honours its name
seeing as it has four floors. It is painted sky-blue, giving it a welcoming, almost innocent-looking
charm. It apparently serves as the main administrative building of the camp. On the roof, there’s a
bronze eagle weathervane with wind chimes that turn into dryads as they spin, and the curtains that
Harry can spot through the many windows are pitch black. The house doesn’t look frightening, but
it doesn’t do anything to squelch the growing anxiety in his lower belly. He has heard enough
about Chiron from Julien on their way to the Big House to know that when Chiron wants to talk to
someone, it’s always because it’s important.

Hamlet knocks on the big, thick wooden door, his hoodie’s sleeves pulled over his knuckles to
prevent them from hurting, and when a bit of time passes without anybody answering, Hamlet goes
to knock again. Except that just as he is about to meet the hard surface of the wood, the door
swings open, revealing an expressionless tall man dressed up as a butler, with white hair and
prominent cheekbones. He wordlessly steps to the side to let them in, and Julien joyfully says
“hello, Alfred!” but the man doesn’t answer him, though Harry does see a tiny smile flash across
his face.

He is led to an office, and the entire of it is bronze shielded. When he enters, an expensive-looking
and beautiful record player attracts his attention, as well as the rows of records underneath it.
There’s a mahogany desk the size of half his bedroom, and it’s taller than a desk should be, but
Harry figures it’s to adapt to Chiron’s size. Indeed, behind it, stands Chiron, completely covered
from the way down by the desk while a baby blue button down covers his torso. Harry has to look
up to meet his eyes, and Harry himself is quite tall. He gulps when Chiron’s light brown eyes settle
on him, his hazelnut hair pulled back into a bun.

“Harry,” he says pleasantly. “Have a seat! I’d like to talk to you alone, please.”

Both Alfred and Hamlet walk out of the door, but Julien remains standing in front of a deer’s head,
poking its snout. Hamlet dashes back inside, mutters an apology, then drags Julien away by the
back of his green tee-shirt, all the white muttering about stupid hybrid goat. In any other scenario,
Harry would have laughed at his friends’ antics, but he's hyper aware of the centaur’s eyes on him,
staring straight at his soul. It’s not that the centaur is scary-looking, on the contrary he has a nice
face, and a certain warmness deep inside his irises, but there’s also decades of knowledge etched
onto his face. He is intimidating, that much is sure, and as much as he is anticipating the
conversation, he quickly realises, with great relief, that Chiron might be the only one around here
that will be able to provide him with answers.

Chiron brushes a few stacks of paper to the side, and puts the cap back on his fountain pen.

“Welcome, Harry, to Camp Half-Blood. I believe you met Maïa already, right? She’s always the
one we ask to show newcomers around. How are you liking it so far?” Chiron asks in a deep,
almost animalistic voice. Harry takes a moment to think, not because he struggles putting into
words the thoughts rushing through his head like swarm of bees, but because he wants centaur to
go straight to the point, because if he isn't told the reason as to why he was summoned over to
Chiron's office, then he might just explode. Patience is a virtue, his mother would always tell him.
He wants to scoff.

“It’s beautiful,” he answers at last, his fingers twitching and gripping the tight fabric of his leather
pants. “Very peaceful. I feel... welcomed here in a way that I can’t quite explain. There’s this…
pull? As if this camp was exactly where I should have been ever since I was born.”

Chiron smiles. It slightly takes Harry by surprise, because it's a genuine, fond grin that makes
Chiron look younger, somehow. “I’m glad, Harry, indeed, very glad. The camp is a safe place for
people like you, for demigods. It’s safe because of the pine tree up the hill, you—,” he stops, and a
troubled expression falls upon his face, his eyes darkening and his nostrils flaring in apparent
distress. Harry frowns. You what? “You were attacked twice in less than a week, right?”

Harry nods. He can’t speak, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his brain once again thinking
back to the harpy breathing down his neck and the minotaur’s clawed hand grazing against his
ankle.

“Harry, I know what I’m going to tell you will come as a shock to you, but I am positive you've
encountered monsters way before that week. In fact, I want you to dig into your memories, and
think back to your school years. Do you remember any abnormal occurrences?”

Harry gives Chiron a blank look, because no, he does not remember ever meeting any kind of
demigods-assassin monsters when he was in high school. He has experienced rather normal school
years, putting aside the fact that he barely managed to go through a year to another because his
grades were horrendous, or that he got expelled out of five different institutions all because he
drove his teachers up the wall. Even though he was often on his own, and even though he spent his
free time at home instead of outside with friends, he still considers his teenage years normal. He
used to have crushes on people that were clearly out of his league, and he would scrunch his nose
up at the food the cafeteria served. He had people to talk to in classrooms, and more than once he
had wreaked havoc during the lessons he hated. Especially in Mrs Esmeralda’s English lesson,
where he had pulled so many pranks that she ended up crying at her desk for two whole hours (and
after that he had felt so bad that he stopped).

His hearts lurches forward, and his eyes widen. Mrs Esmeralda. Mrs fucking Esmeralda.

Harry is sure he has grown pale.

He has never paid them any mind, but suddenly, a flood of memories comes back to him, and all
the weird things he had experienced are now making much more sense, becoming obvious. There
was that time on a school trip to the local library, where for a second, Mrs Esmeralda’s eyes had
flashed completely black. He had blinked, take aback and ready to make a dash for the door, but
then her stern grey eyes were back to glaring at him, something which wasn't abnormal. Or a few
years before that, when he had gone to a party for the first time, he had ended up in a car with a
much older girl, drinking and listening to music. He had felt her hand creep up his thigh, and he
can practically still feel it when sharp nails had dug into his jeans, breaking the fabric and piercing
through his skin. She had pulled away when her friends had jumped into the car, but when Harry
had snapped his eyes down, focusing on the girl's hand, instead of claws or... anything, really, that
would explain whatever happened, her nails were clipped short, and chipped red nail polish was
probably blending with his blood. They were too short in fact to leave claw-shaped marks on him,
so in the end he had crossed out the whole weird thing as his brain acting up.

In third grade, a police officer had stood across the school’s gate, staring at him. When he had
moved closer, the police had crouched down to be at eye-level with him. Except that Harry could
only stare in one lone eye, which had been right in the middle of the police officer’s head.

Or even earlier, when he was in preschool, the woman who was guarding him had basically
growled at him, sneering and, in the process, showing off two rows of sharp fangs.

He feels faint, and he has to put his forehead over his hands. The worst of it all is that whenever he
had crossed paths with those creatures, somebody had stepped in, basically saving his life. He risks
a glance at Chiron, who has a sympathetic look in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem surprised, as
though it isn't the first time he has had a clueless demigod in that very chair, questioning their
entire life.

“I know it’s not easy to accept this abrupt flip of your life, but you’ll find yourself quite
comfortable here anyway, and I see you’ve made some friends already. Hopefully, you will be
claimed soon.”
“What if I’m not?” he can’t help asking out loud.

“Then you’ll spend the rest of your stay at Hermes’ cabin. But it’s unlikely that the situation will
take such a turn. Your life was already at risk, meaning that even though you had no idea of the
fact you’re a demigod, the monsters were still attracted to your scent. It would be foolish at this
point to not claim you.”

It's a lot of information at once, and Harry doesn’t exactly know what to make of them, but he
hums and plays with a loose thread in the velvet-coloured chair, avoiding looking at the centaur
before him. He has the bone-deep need to get out of the office and breathe in the fresh air of
outside.

“I won’t keep you long, I promise. I just would like for us to discuss some details of your two
recent attacks," Chiron narrows his eyes in thoughts, and strokes the hair on his cheeks with long,
clever fingers. "It came to my attention that you were assaulted on the streets, and as for the
Minotaur, you as well as your friends were also attacked in plain daylight. Do you mind telling me
how strong the mist was? Didn’t a single person inquire of your plight?”

Harry frowns. “No, no one did, because there was no one. I have the impression you believe that
the mist had affected, well, the hm, humans, but both times, our surrounding was just devoid of
anybody else but us. When I was attacked by the... harpy, or whatever it was, I was alone in the
streets of New York, which of course is bizarre. As for the Minotaur, the road also became
deserted the moment the woman transformed into the bull-man,” he answers honestly, but also
hesitantly, feeling weird that he is referring to other people as humans, as if he weren’t one
anymore. He figures he isn't.

Chiron frowns and strokes his cheeks even harder, obviously thinking. Harry doesn’t dare open his
mouth and trouble the centaur’s train of thoughts, so he lets his eyes wander to the various
paintings hanging on the walls, most of them depicting nature and the different stages of the
weather. The paintings are stunning, and a lot of them show deers grazing the grass, or the
unforgiving waves of the ocean under the reflecting orangish sky. He pictures himself dipping his
toes into the fluffy foam of the sea, letting the salty water take away the fine sand that has stuck to
the soles of his feet. He can see himself stripping until the cold breeze is caressing every inch of
his skin, and then he would advance into the endless pool until the water reached his shoulders.
Maybe there would be someone next to him, and then he’d get to kiss their lips.

Chiron’s audible sigh breaks his trance, and he snaps his eyes back to the centaur, who is looking
at him with a careful look.

“You can go now, and have some fun. Maybe try to cover as much ground as possible. You might
find a fancy for the training grounds, and I strongly advise you to pick up a skill in fighting, for it
will undoubtedly come into handy one way or another. Once you’ve found your favourite fighting
skill, you’ll be able to get a personal weapon from the armoury. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are
served in the mess hall, and should you wish for a snack in the afternoon, you may also pay the
mess hall a visit. I truly hope you’ll settle alright here, Harry Styles.”

“Thank you,” he answers, shaking Chiron’s hand, then he stands up and walks out of the office.
The moment the door closes, he speeds down the long hallway, bypassing several rooms, and he
only sends a half-arsed nod of the head towards Alfred before he’s stepping outside. He closes his
eyes and enjoys the soft breeze against his face. He can hear Julien and Hamlet talking somewhere
on the deck, but he doesn’t hurry to join them, instead preferring to bask in the afternoon sun, on
his own.

He stares across the meadow. There are groves of trees in front of the valley, which is surrounded
by rolling hills, and the acres of strawberries are calling out to him, inviting him to take a much
needed scroll through their rows of vibrant red fruits. One of the hills standing directly in front of
him has a huge pine tree on its top, and he shivers knowing that it’s the hill, the one where he
almost lost his life. He stares at the pine tree, and frowns once again as he remembers the way
Chiron’s face has grown dark while looking at him. Why? Why does it feel like the centaur is
hiding something from him?

He takes one step closer to the balustrade, still focused on the landscape unrolled before his eyes,
but his attention diverts when a bright, airy, beautiful laugh filters through the air, cocooning him
and bringing a smile to his face. He glances further right, and in the distance, on the bridge, he
spots a young man running after a chubby toddler, who almost topples over. However, the man
catches the child, bringing it closer to his chest and kissing its round cheek. It’s a sweet sight, and it
makes Harry want to walk across the space between them to join them, to play among the grass.
From there, he can’t tell who the man exactly is, but he's dressed in black, tight trousers, showing
off his stunning, curvy legs. He also has on a white tunic that’s half tucked inside the trousers, and
it shows off his prominent collarbones. His hair is cut into a fringe and it falls into his eyes as he
tilts his head back to laugh, allowing the wind to have access to the sensible, and yet delicious
flushed apples of his cheeks.

Harry can't exactly make out the details of the man’s face, but for some reasons that he can’t
explain nor understand, his heart aches.

He’s been at the camp for a week, and nothing extraordinary has happened. He was shown more of
it, from the volleyball courts to the fireworks beach. He hasn’t been claimed, unsurprisingly, and as
much as Hamlet keeps telling him it’s normal and it will take a bit of time, he’s worried that it will
never happen. For the beginning of the week, he had slept in Julien’s hut, not wanting to be among
strangers. But then he had to move to Hermes’ cabin, which is actually the biggest cabin of the lot
because of its former use as a home to every single demigod who was not claimed, and to his
surprise it wasn’t half as bad as he had expected. The cabin is divided in several small bedrooms,
and in each of them there are two twin beds, separated by a wooden nightstand, with a Grecian urn
on top of it. At the end of each bed there is a trunk for their belongings, and somehow there are
winged shoes on a hook hung on the wall. The curtains are yellow and thick, providing them with
a bit of privacy. There’s a desk and a chair, completely bare, save for a single unlit candle, and the
first thing Harry does after throwing his duffel bag on the perfectly-made bed is to sit at the desk
with his opened laptop, a blank document pulled up in front of him.

And he writes. For the first time in forever, he writes and writes without ever having to stop, and
when he stills his fingers on the keyboard the sun has already disappeared behind the horizon line,
warm hues penetrating the window and caressing his arm. He wrote about strawberry fields and
midnight blue seas and he wrote about creatures that even in his nightmares he could never have
conjured up and it feels so good to be able to spill his heart’s contents and to not have to keep
everything bottled up inside of him, that when he closes the device, all he wants to do is jump
outside and spends some time with the other demigods.

He hasn’t felt like befriending people during this week, is the thing. Sure, Julien and Hamlet have
been by his side at all times, getting him acquainted with his surroundings, and Maïa has been
incredible in trying to make him comfortable, but he hasn’t been to the most-crowded areas, such as
the training grounds. He hasn’t even gone out to bonfire nights, preferring to sit into a corner of the
mess hall. He had told himself he would begin this whole socialising-thing the following week
because he can't go on that way if he's going to stay a while there. And finally, there’s this energy
coursing through him right now that makes him want to take a leap.

He stows his laptop away and changes into more comfortable clothes, consisting in black joggers
for the bottom and a simple white shirt. He ties a bandana around his head, which holds back his
rogue curls, then slips on the combat boots he was given when he arrived since they happen to be
actually extremely soft. He takes one last look around the room, smiling at his roommate’s side.
He hasn’t met said roommate yet, but from what he’s figured, they have been living there for a
while now, for their side of the room is filled with movie posters and pictures of animals. They
have even taken upon themselves to hang a giant Camp Half-Blood map, or so he thinks (he has a
hard time figuring out whether it was his roommate who put it there or if it came with the room),
but he's grateful for it. It's tremendously useful, especially since the camp is rather big and diverse
in activities.

He navigates through the cabin until he’s at the main doors, then he takes a deep breath, and
pushes them open. Instantly the sight of demigods wandering about greets him, and most of them
are disappearing into the forest and coming back to drop thick pieces of wood to be used for the
hearth. Others are putting up tables, filled them with food, and Harry spots a huge barrel waiting to
be consumed, the word ‘ale’ painted in white on the side. He sees Julien laughing with other satyrs,
and Hamlet is smoking on a log not far from the hearth, watching his surroundings with a bored
expression. A few demigods peer at him curiously, but they don’t linger, and the only one who
acknowledges him is Maïa. She runs up the steps to reach him, beaming.

“Are you going to join us?” she asks, hope colouring her tone, and when he nods she cheers and
drags him to the hearth by his hand. Hamlet perks up when he sees him, sliding down the log to
make some space, inviting him. He goes willingly while Maïa joins other demigods he's never met
before, and he takes a seat next to Hamlet, who passes him the burning cigarette wordlessly. He
takes it, and although he isn't a big smoker, the taste, the smell and the rush of smoke down his
throat and into his system, relaxing his body, is a relief. All the fears he had about being stared
down by the other demigods fly out of him, leaving space for the tobacco-infused smoke, which
longingly flows down his body. No one minds him, and he's so fucking glad for it that his tense
shoulders relax. He even gets a few joyful handshakes from strangers that come by to greet
Hamlet, and he doesn't feel like a total outcast, so it's progress.

“Finally stopped holing yourself up in that goddamned cabin?" Hamlet teases, winking. "People
were beginning to believe that Julien was the new demigod at this point," he snorts and takes the
fag back, taking a long drag from the burning stick.

“Well, I figured, since I’m going to stay there for a while, might as well make myself comfortable,
and make some friends,” he answers, shrugging. “I want to start training, too.”

“Hell yeah,” Hamlet says. “I bet you’re a sword-man. Chiron has been coming out less and less
lately, his dock perpetually glued to his desk at this point. He’s put some demigods to training
duties.”

“Yeah? Who?” Harry wonders, trying to picture the centaur giving demigods lessons on how to
effectively kill their opponents with a single swing of their sword.

“Okay, so, we have William,” Hamlet gestures towards a short, muscular redhead, with freckles all
over his face, “and Louis, and they’re the sword trainers. They’re hella good, and for William it’s
quite unsurprising seeing as he’s Ares’ son. He’s a nice fella, but don’t provoke him, his temper is
awful. I can’t find Louis, dammit, he’s probably somewhere on a blanket, surrounded by swans,
watching people do the dirty work. Proper diva.”

Harry shoots him an amused look, pretending to be surprised. “You mean he's even more of a diva
than you?”

“Hey now, don’t be rude, I’m the demigod wiktionary here, have some respects,” Hamlet waves a
dismissive hand in the air, but there’s a smirk on his face. “Anyway, Louis is Aphrodite’s son, and
he’s naturally skilled in almost every field. Scrap that, he’s talented everywhere, and I don’t just
mean singing and painting, you know, the usual things that come with being the child of the
goddess of beauty, love, desire, passion, sexuality, blah-blah, he’s a monster when it comes to
fighting. Which is a great contrast to Henri, or Elizabeth, or Marie, or any other of his half-siblings,
who are all basically useless in fighting, though they do manage alright with the sword. When
Louis first arrived at camp, he defeated William, without even having proper training. William was
so angry but couldn’t lash out against Louis, because he’s just too pretty, so he lashed out on other
demigods and made training a living hell for two weeks. Now they’re basically best friends.”

Harry hums, leaning his head on his hand, elbow resting on his thigh. Hamlet continues and this
time, he points at an olive-skinned boy with dark hair.

“That’s Ulrich, and he trains bow. He’s the demigod version of Robin Hood, and though Louis is
almost as amazing as him, he truly is above anybody else. Can you guess who’s his father? Gave
you a hint already.”

Harry thinks. Which god is good at archery? He has no idea. He grimaces and looks at Hamlet
helplessly, who snorts.

“I’ll try to get somebody to give you Greek mythology lessons, because that won’t do. Anyway,
he’s Apollo’s son, of course, also known as the Archer. Now, there's at last Jony, but I can’t find
him either. Anyway, he teaches hand fighting. When you’ll see him you’re gonna be shocked,
because he’s a skinny boy, but don't judge a book by its cover, he's strong as a bull. He’s so good
at fighting because of his strategy, that he teaches us. He can predict your next move seconds
before you do anything. He’s Athena’s son. He wasn’t on his own, he used to work alongside his
half-sister, Coralina, except she—,” Hamlet stops and his face contorts in a pained expression.
“Yeah, anyway, they're the demigods who will teach you how to survive, you know, in case
creatures such as the m-word is sent on our asses again.”

Before Harry can say something, somebody shouts, then there’s brightness. The hearth is set on
fire, and the flames go up towards the sky in such a way that Harry is left speechless. It’s a
stunning sight, one he is sure to never forget, and he laughs joyfully. Julien runs to them and
thrusts a pint of ale into Harry’s hand, the liquid sloshing over the edge and down his fingers, but
he doesn’t care and gulps the sweet, fruity drink. Demigods all around him start to sing and dance
around the fire to some kind of song about the gods and Olympia, about Hercules and his
adventures. Harry watches, fascinated, as drums and guitars are brought out.

From the wood comes beautiful women, their hair cascading down their backs, moving with the
wind. They're all wearing thin white chiton, and they start singing the moment they step in the
middle of the crowd of demigods, some of them taking the instruments and beginning to play.
Others, those who have nothing to do with their hands, join the toddlers with big smiles on their
face.

“They are wood nymphs,” Julien tells him. “Stunning creatures, right?”
And indeed they are. Whatever piece of grass they step on, tiny flowers bloom after them, and they
foster happy feelings in almost everybody. Harry isn’t immune to their charms, and watches fondly
as one of the nymphs gives a rose to a little girl, or as another one fills empty goblets with water
that gushes from the tip of her fingers. A nymph approaches Julien carefully, and crouches down,
seemingly in awe as she gazes at Julien’ tiny horns, and he lets out a bleat and allows her to touch
them, his cheeks flushed. Hamlet spits his drink out and laughs, and Harry would have joined had
he not caught sight of a shadow emerging from between two thick tree trunks.

Harry doesn’t know what happens, but one moment, he is laughing, pleasantly tipsy, and the next
he feels every ounce of alcohol evaporate from his blood system to make room for burning hot
desire.

He's sure the person that has just arrived is not a nymph, but some kind of god. It must be it, for
Harry has never in his life beheld such perfection in one single face. It is hard to truly make out the
details of the boy in the gloom of the night and the warm hues of the fire, but the boy is all golden
skin, rose petal lips, long, dark eyelashes framing teal blue eyes with specks of purple, and his
short hair has got a fluffy fringe that curves prettily against his forehead, the tip following the
shape of his ear. And it’s not just the face that gets Harry’s blood pumping faster through his veins,
it’s the fact that the boy is wearing a short burgundy chiton, his hairless, perfect legs on display.
His petite feet caress the grass, and there’s a thin golden chain around one of his ankles, and it’s
such a delicate sight that Harry wants to bend down and kiss the skin there. The boy moves closer
to him to grab a bit of ale, then he sits, putting both of his legs to one side, like a princess would.

Harry’s close enough to see the other jewels on the boy's body glimmer as they catch the glow of
the fire. There must be an earring in one of the boy’s helixes, and there are rings on some of the
boy’s toes. His nose is slightly upturned, small, and kissable. Actually, absolutely every inch of the
boy is kissable, and Harry wants to be the one to do the kissing. There’s another fire burning, and
it's inside of him. He doesn’t even know if it’s possible for one to feel that way for a complete
stranger, but the boy is the prettiest, most attractive person he has had the pleasure of seeing, so he
can’t be blamed for the unspeakable things he wants to do.

His fingers are shaking around his goblet. He clears his throat and leans towards Hamlet, never
allowing his eyes to stray away from the boy, not even for a second.

“Who’s that?” he asks with a desperate undertone to his voice, and Hamlet, blesses him, doesn’t
ask him to elaborate, for he makes an understanding noise from the back of his throat.

“That’s Louis, remember him? Aphrodite’s son, and also your future sword trainer, maybe, unless
William gets his hands on you first.”

Louis. The name fits the boy, somehow. He spends a few more minutes straight up staring at
Louis, not even noticing when Julien fills his goblet again, and it’s only the added weight on his
hand from the full goblet that makes him bring it to his lips, sipping the sweet liquid, and he thinks,
I wouldn’t mind licking into that boy’s mouth, just to taste the ale on his tongue.

It’s filthy, and he panics slightly realising that he’s thirsting after his potential future sword trainer,
and he’s pretty sure he will end up stabbing himself if he has to manipulate a sword while Louis’ in
his vision. He keeps telling himself, I’m going to look away, but then he doesn’t, and allows
himself another minute of eye pleasure. But of course, the inevitable happens and Louis, as if
finally sensing the incessant staring, turns his head, blue orbs meeting greens. For a moment, the
music fades into the back of Harry’s mind until he can’t hear it over the beating of his heart, and
his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. Louis blinks and goddammit, his long, thick eyelashes
practically touch his cheeks. Hell, he’s too pretty for it to be legal. Louis tilts his head to the side,
his eyes never leaving Harry, and he must know exactly what’s going on with the curly-haired
demigod because he smirks and shakes his head imperceptibly. Louis doesn’t even look at his
friend as he leans closer to her and whispers something, making said friend look at Harry, and
yeah, they are definitely talking about him.

They laugh, and he knows they’re mocking his dumbstruck expression. He can't even find it in
himself to be offended.

He finally looks away, his eyes landing on Hamlet, and his cheeks are flaming with
embarrassment, but at least he knows the orange glow coming from the fire is disguising it. After
that, he drinks, and drinks, and drinks... he drinks so much in fact that at one point, he can’t even
tell his left from his right. He sometimes risks glances towards Louis, but every time, without fail,
Louis’ eyes meet him halfway, and there’s mischief in them, because he knows exactly the effect
he has on Harry. And it’s fucking unfair, so unfair indeed that Harry stands up and stumbles
towards Hermes’ cabin, his goblet pressed harshly against his crotch.

His erected fucking crotch.

It’s entirely Louis’ fault. The blue-eyed beauty kept fluttering his eyelashes, and kept shifting
whenever he knew Harry’s eyes were on him so that his chiton rode up his thighs, exposing the
smooth, unmarked skin there. There was even a moment where Louis had dipped his finger into
whipped cream and had sucked the fucking digit clean, all the while maintaining eye-contact with
Harry, and Harry is a weak man and he won't pretend otherwise. He throws the goblet behind him
when he’s in the doorway, and he tries his hardest not to glance over his shoulder, he really does,
but of course he fails and, unsurprisingly, Louis is already watching him, and of course he is biting
his bottom lip. Harry wants to bite it, too.

In the gloom of the bedroom, alone in his bed, and with the curtain drawn shut, he jerks off,
thinking of golden thighs clamped around his hips.

It’s like a spell has been broken, or something, or maybe it’s just that he's taken to going out a lot
more than before. The problem is that he keeps catching glances of Louis, be it at the mess hall, or
in the strawberry fields, or near Aphrodite’s cabin. Sometimes it’s somewhere close to the woods,
and other times, it’s by the beach, and each time Harry sees him, each time his heart skips a beat.
It’s ridiculous, he has never felt that way for anyone, and surely not for somebody that he has never
talked to. Hamlet keeps snickering at him, and Harry always makes sure to smack him upside the
head. It doesn’t help that Harry has been postponing going to training lessons just to avoid meeting
Louis, but then Chiron actually gives him the stare, a mix or you’re stupid and stop being a useless
demigod and in the following hours he's dressed into stretchy pants, a black tee-shirt and a leather
jacket, his combat boots on his feet, and he's walking alongside Hamlet to the arena.

The arena up close is as magnificent and intimidating as it is from afar. It’s a prominent round
enclosed platform, made of marble with large radius top windows. The huge gate can’t be opened
by hands, so Hamlet knocks loudly and asks to be let in, and the sound of steel meeting steel
echoes, and the gate is pushed open. There are two satyrs sitting on high ladened-chairs at each
side of the gate, and both of them has got a lever that once pulled, activates a processus that either
closes or opens the gate. Harry is impressed when Hamlet tells him it’s how they used to do it in
the old days.

The inside is all tall marble columns, and the further they walk into the arena, the closer they get to
a giant open-space surrounded by tiered seating. There’s no one up there, though, and everything is
happening in the open-space, which is divided in several parts. There’s a corner for sword battles,
another for training, another for archery where several demigods are shooting targets at an archery
range. There’s also people practicing throwing axes, and he can see Jony teaching teenagers how to
dodge blows. The otherwise dull arena is alive with shouts, laugher, and the sound of fists colliding
with noses, which makes Harry grimace, though there’s an excited smile on his face.

"Wicked, hm?” Hamlet says, and Harry couldn't have worded it better.

They’re spotted by William, who comes to greet them with a warm smile. He shakes Harry’s hand.

“Harry, right?” he asks, and Harry nods.

“Harry Styles, yes, and you’re William?”

When he says his name, William's eyes widen, then he winces, and Harry frowns, about to ask him
what’s the matter, but William quickly composes himself and drags him to a table with various
swords. Harry shrugs and lets himself be guided, but they bypass the table altogether and Harry
can’t help but pout when he’s given a wooden stick instead of a real sword.

William rolls his eyes and smiles, though his eyes are cautious. “You’re fine, mate, you’ve never
handled a sword before, I’m not risking you wounding yourself because of your inexperience.
Depending on your progress we’ll see when we’ll train using the real heavy stuff.”

Harry sighs but doesn’t complain, choosing to follow William in silence. He figures William
knows better than him. Hamlet is throwing axes and knives, and he’s actually quite amazing, but
Harry focuses his attention entirely on William when he spins around to face Harry, his stick held
at his side.

“Alright, Harry, I’m going to give you some crucial advice when it comes to sword fighting. And I
mean, sword fighting to survive," William's eyes flash dangerously, and his facial expression
darkens. "For there to be a fight, you must keep in mind you’re fighting to stay alive, you’re
fighting to put your opponent out before they put you out. Out there, if you ever have to fight, it
will be to protect yourself from creatures that are usually bigger and stronger than you. But that
means you can be faster than them, and with some strategy, you can definitely overcome any kind
of attack. My first advice is, strike for the head, honestly. If you behead a monster it’s unlikely it
will stay alive, besides for the Hydra, do not behead it, you’ll make everything worse.”

Harry is about to ask what’s a Hydra, but then William gets into position and tells him to copy him.

“That’s how you should stand to make your opponent understand that you intend to fight them.
Good, Harry. Lower your elbow a bit. Perfect! You have to spot your opponent's weak points to
finish a fight as fast as possible, because if it drags out, not only you will tire yourself out, but you
will also augment the risks of your attention lowering in its intensity, resulting in you probably
tripping over a stone, or a tree root, or anything else, and that little mishap can lead to your death.
You don’t want to be hit first, you want to hit your opponent before anything else.

Now, understand that there is no such thing as a sword fight. Yes, you will be fighting using a
sword, but you can always punch, push, bite, kick your opponent. Usually with creatures you’ll
have to think before striking. Will you have to jump on their neck to stab them through their
jugular? Will you have to jump underneath them and slash open their belly to spill their guts? Are
your opponent’s eyes so great that they seem to predict your moves? Then you’ll have to predict
the fact that they predict your moves. Sounds hard, right? We’ll teach you, don’t worry. Now, to
have a good control of your sword, you have to learn to move your feet. Keep your knees bent, stay
on the balls of your feet. When you are on defence mode, keep far enough from your opponent so
they can’t hit you without stepping forwards, but close enough so that you can step forwards and
hit them. You must learn to move back and forwards quickly, and how to sidestep while facing
your opponent."

William raises an eyebrow, silently asking Harry if he's alright. Harry nods, tightening his fingers
around the wooden stick.

William continues. "You don’t want to attack your opponent too much. Limiting your attack can
actually be a great way to defend yourself, and like that you’ll be able to learn the angles of attack
and how to close said angles with an attack. That way, your attack also becomes a defense.”

Harry’s head is swimming with all that information, but he keeps his ears open as William
continues to rain blows after blows on him, and surprisingly, he dodges them all, as if it were
instinctual to him. William seems pleased each time he manages to counter-attack, and his eyes
sparkle when Harry ducks and delivers a sharp jab to William’s upper thigh.

“Well,” William says, looking down at where Harry had struck. “Looks like we have a natural
here.”

Then he’s back to fighting Harry, but this time he’s not trying to coach Harry through everything.
And Harry does well, moving his feet fast, dodging the blows and barely groaning when William
does touch him from time to time, usually where his ribs are. Undoubtedly, they’re going to bruise,
but he doesn’t care, because he’s having the most fun he’s had since he can remember. He’s
advancing on William, his stick meeting the demigod's in loud smacks, but then from the corner of
his eyes he catches sight of soft caramel hair, a round arse cladded into skin-tight jeans, and just
like that his focus goes out of the window. One moment, he's about to put William out, and the
other his vision swims and he’s lying on his back, pain blossoming into the small of his back, and
William’s gazing at him from above with amusement.

“Now, maybe I forgot to mention it, but when fighting deadly creatures, definitely do not get
distracted by pretty boys.”

Harry closes his eyes and groans.

There’s the sun barely peeking out from the horizon line when Harry jerks awake. He looks
around, disoriented, but slacks back against the soft pillow underneath his head when he sees that
he’s in his bed at Hermes’ cabin. Somebody’s snoring in the bedroom next to his, the sound
travelling easily through the paper-thin walls, and his roommate’s bed is empty, as custom. He
tries to go back to sleep, but he can’t somehow, and with a sigh he sits up. There’s sunlight filtering
through the closed window, and birds are chirping. There’s the promise of a good day in the air.
He goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower, then he changes into leather black
trousers, a white tee-shirt, his leather jacket, and slips on the combat boots he has grown so fond of.
He’s about to step out when there’s a commotion outside, and Julien bursts through the double
doors, Hamlet walking casually behind him.

“Harry! Just the man I was looking for! We have loads of things to do today, move it big boy!”
Julien practically shouts, grabbing Harry’s hand to drag him outside. Hamlet snorts, but doesn’t say
anything else. Julien bleats. “Please gods, have mercy on me.”

Harry casts a curious look at Hamlet. He shrugs, but smirks nonetheless. “It’s English pudding
day.”

The grass has turned orangish-yellow under the warm colour of dawn, and there are horses
galloping around. When Harry squints his eyes, he manages to see more of the beautiful animals,
and his jaw drops open when he realises these are winged horses. A group of them runs through
the moving grass, then stretches their giant wings to their full length, then take off into the sky. If it
weren’t for Julien dragging him towards the mess hall, Harry would have stopped right there to
enjoy the sight. The horses soar through the clouds, flying with the birds, and he yearns to be up
there, picturing perfectly the sensation of rising up into the sky along with the rising sun. There are
quite a lot of demigods already awake, some of them working in the strawberry fields, picking up
fruits and dropping them into bushels, and others fighting, the sound of bronze swords meeting
each other echoing through the valley, harsh breathing joining the silent beating heart of the earth.
He can see the mess hall in the distance when he spots a soft-looking white chiton flying with the
breeze.

His heart stops beating when he realises the piece of fabric belongs to Louis. He’s sitting on a
blanket, and there’s a little canvas stand in front him. He’s painting, the fine tendrils of a long
brush moving gently across the canvas. He’s painting the valley as it is tainted into the thousands
of hues of the dusk, and he knows the painting is absolutely breathtaking, even if he can't see its
details from where he is. He can’t keep his eyes off Louis. He looks peaceful. His pink, wet lips
glisten and his long eyelashes cast shadows over the apples of his cheeks. Harry wants to join him,
sit next to him, bath in the silence surrounding Louis, into the aura that radiates off the demigod.
But he’s dragged further away from Louis, and he can’t find it in himself to do anything other than
stop breathing when Louis looks up, having probably sensed Harry's stare, and his stunning blue
eyes meet his.

Louis blinks and doesn't return his attention to his canvas, instead freezing his eyes on Harry. Harry
doesn’t lower his eyes, mesmerised by him. There’s just… there’s something about this particular
demigod that he can’t quite decipher, but it feels a lot like thrill, and also like danger. It scares him,
how strongly attracted he is to Louis, and it’s becoming more and more embarrassing as the days
go by and he grows more and more enamoured. He looks away as they near the mess hall, Louis’
shape fading into the distance, becoming a spot of colour that blends with the landscape, and Harry
lets out a breath when the bustle of the mess hall brings him back to earth. He's aware of Hamlet’s
eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare turn around to face the black-haired demigod, afraid of what he’ll
find there. He doesn’t want to be questioned, or to be told how irrational he’s being. He doesn’t
need it. He’ll get over Louis, sooner or later. Hopefully. He has too much on his plate already, he
doesn't need his feelings to add to his plight.

Julien jumps on a plate the moment they enter the mess hall. He’s already filled it by the time
Harry’s managed to get a steaming hot omelette, and once he’s added baked beans, a bit of fresh
fruits and vegetables, he makes his way to their usual table, the one they've claimed weeks ago.
Hamlet’s hot on his heels, and they sit down, Julien opposite them. There’s a basket of warm white
bread before them and Harry takes one, adding homemade strawberry jam on it. He forces himself
to shake the thought of Louis out of his brain, and he takes a bite of the creamy, cheesy omelet, and
almost moans when it hits his taste buds. Despite the early hour, the mess hall is filled with enough
people so that there’s a constant buzzing of voices. There is laughter, mostly, and Harry engages
into his own conversation with Julien and Hamlet. He tells them about training, about having
never met his roommate seeing as they never seem to come into the cabin, be it to sleep or to fetch
something. They’re laughing about two nights ago when a demigod had accidentally peed on
Hermes’ statue, and had thus been turned, for a day, into a guinea pig by the god as punishment,
and as they keep discussing, Harry holds himself back from glancing outside the opened double
doors.

He almost chokes on his orange juice when the sweet smell of rose reaches his nostrils. Unable to
help himself, he snaps his attention to the table behind him, and Louis’ sitting there, his eyes
already on him. He’s munching on a grape, looking all pretty, and Harry breathes harshly through
his nose and focuses back on his half-eaten plate.

For fuck’s sake, he thinks bitterly. He can tell that Louis’ enjoying his inner turmoil. Can the
offsprings of Aphrodite sense lust? He pales at his own question, and his fingers tighten around his
fork. He forces himself to participate in the conversation and ignore the perpetual, delicious scent
that seems to be hanging right above his head. Louis’ teasing him, he knows it, and it’s driving him
nuts.

“Anyway,” Hamlet says, and Harry has no idea of what topic they’ve been discussing for the past
two minutes, but he's practically burning a hole into Hamlet’s forehead from how hard he’s
focusing on that spot, trying to not shift his attention to Louis sitting a few meters away behind
him. “Guess what day it is? Harry?”

“Hm?” he clears his throat. “Friday?”

“Yes! And what are Fridays for here?” Hamlet singsongs, an excited smile on his face.

“Hm… English puddings?” Harry says, and Hamlet’s smile disappears, living in its wake an
expression of utter betrayal. What the fuck, honestly. He has more important things to care about,
like not dropping on all fours and crawling to a certain blue-eyed demigod. He tries again. “Your
birthday?” he hopes it’s not, he hasn’t gotten anything for his friend.

“What? No! It’s Capture the Flag day, you dimwit,” Hamlet groans, rubbing his temples. “That’s
like the coolest thing about this camp, I can’t believe you didn’t remember. I spent hours
explaining it to you! You didn’t participate last week because, well, you weren’t ready, but I think
you should definitely participate today. It’s a great way to train yourself, and to see how you do
when faced with dangers.”

Harry nods with a frown. “What are the rules again? I forgot.”

Hamlet groans and gives him the middle finger.

“Well,” it’s Julien who speaks, and Hamlet glares at the satyr. “The game takes place in the forest.
Now, what you have to keep in mind is that the forest is cut in half by a river coming from the
Zephyros creek. In order to play the game, we need two teams. On each side of the forest, both
teams hide their flag somewhere visible and easily defensible. To win for your team you must
capture the flag of your opponent and carry it across the river to your side of the forest. The teams
are made through alliances between the cabins. There must be six guards to defend your flag,
while some of the others have to be in the forest to slow the progression of the opponents. Those
who remain, well, they go to the opposite side of the forest. Now, the rules are; if you’re injured,
you don’t play. The entire forest is fair game. All magic items are allowed, and obviously your
own powers can be used.

There’s also a Capture the Flag jail, the captured opponents can be freed by another person from
their team. The prisoners can be disarmed but not bounded or gagged. Oh, by the way, the guards
aren’t allowed to stand within ten yards of the flag, so they’ll be there to be a real pain in your arse
and prevent you from getting close to their flag.”

“That sounds like an amazing game,” Harry says, unsure. “We fight with swords, right?”

“Swords, bows, spears, shields, magical weapons, anything!” Hamlet answers.

“But what if you end up killing someone?” Harry shoves another fork into his mouth, and attempts
to hide his apprehension. They’re asking him to participate in a game where demigods willingly
fight each other and the occasional monsters, and honestly? It’s likely he’ll get an arrow in the head
before he can even take his first step into the forest. He puts more food into his mouth, finding that
it works well as a distraction.

Julien laughs nervously. “Yeah, well, of course killing or maiming is strictly forbidden, so you
must strike your opponent in places that won’t lead to their death and to them losing a limb
forever.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “And what if you end up killing someone?” he repeats, narrowing his eyes at
Julien, wanting an honest answer. He's not sure he wants to participate in a game where he might
die. He's survived the Minotaur and the Fury, so it would be idiotic to end up paying a visit to
Hades because of a stupid game.

Hamlet sighs. “You’re forbidden from participating in the game ever again.”

“That’s it?” Harry blinks, taken aback. “You literally kill another demigod and the only
punishment is to not participate in the game?”

“Listen, sunshine,” Julien drawls with an hint of exasperation in his voice. “Out there, when you’re
a demigod, it’s dangerous. It’s likely you’ll be killed before you can even blink. The game is not
about grabbing a damn flag, or gods help us, we’d train useless demigods. The game is there to
trigger your fighting spirit, your survival reflexes. There hasn’t been a death since the camp was
created, and with Ley— with the pine tree and the barrier, it’s even more secure seeing as no
external creatures will attack us, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

Harry catches Julien’s mistake regarding the pine tree, but doesn’t comment on that. Everybody
seems to be reluctant to tell him about it, so he figures it must be for a reason. He’ll find out
anyway, sooner or later.

“Also,” Hamlet jumps in with a cheery voice. “We’re going to train all morning so we’re ready for
tonight. The game begins right after dinner, and can take a while, several hours usually. Finish up,
and let’s go, it’s going to be so much fun. ”

Harry seriously doubts that, but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t mean to but he still chances a
glance over his shoulder, and doesn’t know whether to be delighted or bothered that Louis is
already gone.

-
The arena’s full, and shouts levitate into the sky as demigods train. William sends Harry a smile
and tells him to wait, and in the meantime he practices some punches. He does push-ups, jumping
ropes and pull-ups, until his muscles are aching pleasantly and a thin layer of sweat has broken out
from his skin. He can feel a pair of eyes on his back, and when he turns around, Louis is watching
him, and it takes everything in him not to trip over air and make a fool of himself. Louis’ dressed
differently from the others; he is wearing tight, black leather pants, and a long bottle green coat tied
loosely around the middle, emphasising the beautiful curve of his hips. When he spins and fights,
the coat flies with the movements, and it’s a stunning sight to behold. Louis is indeed better than
William, it’s as if he were one with his sword, as if the weapon were his arm and not an addition.
He is flexible, too. He jumps and skips and is so fast that one second, he is facing his opponent and
the other, he is behind said opponent, with his sword at their throat.

Louis quickly is challenged by yet another fool, and he watches as Louis smirks and gets into
position. Then they start fighting, and Harry sees the exact moment the other demigod realises the
mistake he made by challenging the best swordsman of the camp. He keeps getting hit by Louis,
and Harry winces with the poor lad when Louis creates a long slash down the man’s thigh, making
him kneel. Louis’ about to deliver the final blow when another demigod jumps into the fight, and
Harry would have shouted to warn Louis, but he doesn’t need to. When the newcomer grabs Louis
by his middle and attempts to lift him, Louis throws one of his legs in front of him, his thigh
touching his chest without leaving a single space between them, and the front of his foot hits the
demigod straight in the face, sending him staggering several meters back. Harry watches, blown-
away, as Louis delivers a sharp kick to the demigod still kneeling, knocking him out. The other
demigod backs away with his hands raised, surrendering, but Louis still punches him, hard, in the
face.

Louis’ barely panting once he’s done, and with dainty fingers, he plays with his sword. His eyes
snap to Harry again, except there’s a fire, a promise in them, and Harry knows he’s fucked. He
dreads the game even more now.

He looks away and searches for Hamlet, and when he finds him, the demigod is watching Harry
with barely concealed amusement. Hamlet makes the sign of a slit throat, going as far as crossing
his eyes and letting his tongue hang out, and Harry gives him the middle finger. He’s about to
stand up and join William at the sword table, but he gets distracted by the scent of rose, and when
he looks back to where Louis has been training, there’s another demigod, and no sign of the blue-
eyed beauty.

Something sharp goes through his fingers, and he hisses. He looks down and blinks in surprise
when he sees that a lone rose has grown out of the wood, sliding in between his fingers, its thorns
being the reason for the stinging little cuts. Biting his lips, he plucks the flower and twirls it,
smiling despite himself.

Fucking Louis.

He has no idea what it means, but it feels a lot like a game. He will be playing two games tonight,
he knows it, but he isn’t sure he’s ready for that yet. Louis doesn’t seem to care, of course. Harry
touches one of the thorns, cutting himself even more, and when he lets his nose caress the soft
petals, the overwhelming perfume of Louis, not of rose, but of sunshine and blooming flowers and
lavender, fills his nostrils, threatening to choke him. He must look like a maniac, sniffing at a
flower as if his life depended on it, but he can’t help the way he shakes, the way he relaxes, as he
thinks of Louis, Louis and Louis. He’s scared he’s feeling like this only because Louis is the son of
the goddess of lust, love, passion, and beauty, and he knows he needs to put a stop to… whatever
this is, but there’s a part of him that enjoys tasting the fruit of Louis’ game.

He only hopes he won’t spoil along the way.

He watches as the rose turns to powder and disappears with the wind, and when William comes to
fetch him, he goes with the demigod willingly though his mind goes elsewhere. His moves are
automatic as he trains, the real sword in his hand meeting William’s unforgivingly, and he takes
out his energy on the demigod. The sword between his digits doesn’t feel quite right, as if it were
not the right weapon for him, but he still fights like a champion, channeling his frustration towards
one single goal: be good enough to defeat Louis tonight. Hamlet’s watching him with a conflicted
expression, though he still cheers when Harry manages to disarm William, but Harry doesn’t take
pride in his victory. He smiles, and lets himself be patted on the back and allows his hair be ruffled,
but he’s only thinking of tonight, and how important it’s going to be.

The mess hall is a busy affair during dinner, especially when it’s a dinner before a Capture the Flag
game. People speak over one another, satyrs bleat, centaurs strike the ground with their hooves.
Harry’s sandwiched between Hamlet and Maïa, while Julien catches up with his satyr buddies.
Harry asks Dionysus for water, and his goblet instantly fills with the clear liquid, and he raises the
goblet when Chiron says, ‘to the gods!’. He sips at it while he watches as wood nymphs come
forward with platters of food, the platters magically going from fruits to roasted meat. He fills his
plate with smoked brisket, roasted chicken, creamy potatoes and vegetables, wanting to get his fill
before the game. Since he’s been at camp for nearly two weeks now, he’s grown used to the
customs around there. Before digging into his dinner, he stands up along with everybody else, and
makes his way to the fire in the centre of the pavilion. He then takes a chunk of his meal and drops
it among the burning wood. Everyone is saying the name of their godly parent, but Harry is among
the few that hasn’t been claimed yet, so mentally, he says, to dad. He lets his eyes gaze into the
heart of the flames, and allows himself to enjoy the scent coming off the fire.

The smoke doesn’t smell like burning food. Instead, it smells like fresh-baked cookies and
hamburgers and golden french fries and greasy potatoes, and despite the weird combinations, it’s
such a pleasing fragrance that he understands why the gods take pleasure in the smell radiating off
the crackling fire. He’s about to go back to his seat, when the perfume of rose cocoons him, and a
warm body slides next to his. He stills, then tenses.

“Aphrodite,” Louis says while tossing grapes, chicken and rose petals into the fire. They stand
there for a few minutes, neither of them speaking, and Harry’s marvelling at how melodious and
beautiful Louis’ voice is when there’s a hot, damp breath against his ear. They’ve never been this
close before, and he nearly drops his entire fucking plate into the fire. He tightens his fingers
around the porcelaine, and doesn’t let himself be too affected by the feeling of Louis’ small, curvy,
irresistible body stuck to his side.

“Admet ton désir,” Louis whispers, and it causes Harry to gasp, his eyes widening. The warmth
merging with his own disappears, and when he spins around Louis is already making his way
through the crowd, joining his friends. Harry's french is basically non-existent, but somehow, he
understood. Confess your lust, is what Louis said, and he's having a hard time pulling himself back
together. Louis knows how Harry feels about him, and worse, Louis takes pleasure in it, which fills
Harry with anger. He hates how he feels like a toy. With his hands shaking, he sits next to Hamlet,
and ignores the confused looks thrown his way. He keeps his eyes on Louis while he eats, and he
knows he’s brooding, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Styx, Harry, what’s wrong?” Hamlet hisses, and sighs when Harry doesn’t provide him with an
answer. “Well, don’t hesitate to take your anger off on the field, fuck's sake. I can’t believe you’re
getting so worked up over Louis, like yes he’s stunning, but it’s like he’s getting to your head or
something.”

“It’s… complicated,” Harry finally says, gritting his teeth, but doesn’t elaborate any further. He
chews around a mouthful of bread and chicken, and ignores Louis for the rest of dinner. He doesn’t
participate in any conversation, too busy thinking. Even though he hasn’t found any weapon that
feels right to him, something about balance as William had explained to him, he’s great at sword
fighting. His reflexes are better than expected, and he has gained strength. If he ends up fighting
Louis, he might not defeat him, but he might be able to protect himself long enough to come up
with a trick to overthrow Louis. He is convinced the demigod will come for him, and when that
happens, he’ll be ready.

The plates are cleared away, then a conch horn sounds, signalling that it is time for the game.

“Fuck yeah!” Hamlet cheers as several demigods run to the pavilion, brandishing two banners.
Both are about ten feet long, and while one is glistening gray, with a painting of a barn owl above
an olive tree, the other is gaudy red, painted with a spear dripping blood and a boar's head. Hamlet
leans closer to Harry to be heard over the cheers. “Athena and Ares are the leading cabins for this
game. You are with Ares, Harry, because the Hermes cabin made an alliance with Ares. Your team
will have to get the flag from Athena.”

Harry hums to show that he understands, and Chiron calls for their attention.

“Heroes! The teams are made,” he says. “Athena has made an alliance with Aphrodite, Dionysus,
Demeter, Hephaestus, Hades, Nemesis, Hecate and Nike. Ares has allied themselves with Hermes,
Apollo, Tyche, Iris, Hypnos and Hebe. You all know the rules, but I’ll tell them again; the entire
forest is fair game. The creek serves as the boundary line. All magic items are allowed. The banner
must be prominently displayed, and have no more than six guards defending it. Prisoners may be
disarmed, but may not be bound or gagged. No killing or maiming is allowed. I will serve as
referee and battlefield medic. Arm yourselves! May the best team win!”

Harry swallows a wince; he now has the confirmation that Louis is his opponent. He takes a
moment to look at the children of Ares; they’re tall and broad, and he knows for a fact that they’re
strong and have got an unprecedented fighting spirit for their father is the god of war. He’s glad the
Hermes cabin, therefore he as well, is with them, and while Hermes’ children are not the most
competent fighters, the cabin remains the largest. He spots the children of Aphrodite. Louis has his
back to him, but one look at them and it becomes obvious that Louis is the only fighter of the
bunch; while Louis is caressing the shiny blade of his sword, the others are still making flower
crowns. Demeter’s offspring aren’t aggressive, but they know their way with nature skills and
outdoor activities. Harry grimaces when he catches the eye of one of Hephaestus’ daughters, who
glares and sneers at him. Hephaestus’ children aren’t pretty, but they’re bulky and have developed
an impressive amount of muscles since they work in the metal shop all day long. They will
definitely be a big problem.

Chiron spreads his fingers and instantly, the tables are filled with bronze swords, bows, helmets,
spears, oxhide shields coated in metal. Harry’s given a helmet with red horsehair plumes on the
top, and he puts it on, trying not to inhale the smell of metal too much. The head of Hermes’ cabin,
Jules, gives him a heavy bronze shield with a big caduceus carved in the middle. It’s a reassuring
weight, and once he’s got a sword in his hand, he feels like he is ready to play his first Capture the
Flag game. Hamlet’s giving him a thumbs-up from across the room, and Julien’s cheering for him
in the distance, making a blush appear on his cheeks.

“Good luck, hero,” a beautiful voice sing-songs behind him, and when he looks over his shoulder,
Louis’ walking outside the mell hall, his siblings following him. The odd feeling twisting his lower
belly is back, feasting on his guts, but he ignores it in order to focus on Victoria, the head of Ares’
cabin, as she jumps on a table.

“Red team, forward!” she yells, and Harry responds with a loud shout of his own, the mess hall
almost trembling under the strength of their fury. Spears are hitting the ground, swords are
drumming against shields, and the need to win spreads in the air. They all march to the forest, the
blue team going south while the red team goes north.

The night is young and warm, with a soft, warm breeze spiralling through the woods. There are
fireflies popping in and out of view, illuminating the faces of the concentrated demigods every
once in a while. It’s the first time Harry has stepped into the forest, but his senses have no trouble
picking up the hidden squirrels as they move and ruffle the leaves, or as drops of water fall from
the canopy. Under his combat boots, he can’t feel the mud, but its scent slips into the air as he
inhales. He’s asked to keep close to the flag with five other demigods, while the others disappear
through the trees. Harry’s left with his own rapid heartbeat, and he almost startles when the conch
horn is blown, signalling that the game has begun. There are whoops and yells echoing through the
canopy along with the clanking of metal as demigods start fighting. The other demigods that are
supposed to protect the flag creep farther away from the banner, making Harry frown, but he
doesn’t have time to dwell on that because there, among the bushes, he hears a low, faint canine
growl.

Harry’s whole body freezes, and taking a deep breath, he raises his shield, convincing himself he is
ready in case a monster jumps on him. Except nothing actually appears besides two demigods from
the opposite team. Under the moonlight, their blue helmets glimmer, and Harry turns to fully face
them. One of the demigods yells and charges at him, but he’s quick and dodges the blow, using the
pommel of his sword to hit the back of the demigod’s head, knocking him unconscious. Harry does
the same with the other demigod, except it takes a bit more time. His blade meets the other sword
in a loud noise, and Harry doesn’t hesitate before spinning in the air, landing behind the enemy. He
uses the tip of the sword to take off the helmet, then delivers a sharp blow, watching as a thin trail
of blood slides down the teenager’s cheek. Harry doesn’t have time to feel bad for one of
Hephaestus’ kids jumps from the shadow, sneering at him.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry mumbles as a fist collides with his jaw, making him stumble several steps back.
He hits a tree and can already feel his jaw starting to swell. The demigod is about to deliver another
blow on him except Harry kicks him in the face using the sole of his boots, taking great pleasure
when a crack resonates and blood gushes out of the demigod’s newly broken nose. His ugly, tiny
eyes shoot daggers at Harry, but instead of attacking Harry again he grabs the flag and starts to run
away. Leaves move as one of the demigods that are supposed to guard the flag with Harry jumps
and collides with Hephaestus’ child, giving Harry enough time to use his sword to cut the back of
the demigod’s knees and knock him out with a sharp blow to the temple. Harry snatches the flag
away and returns it to its position, while he nods his thanks to the demigod that has helped him.

The night progresses like that, with demigods either screaming in pain or shouting out of anger.
Harry’s thirsty after hours spent fighting off opponents, and he’s about to lean against a rock to
give himself a tiny break when the scent of rose reaches his nostrils, making them flare. He
straightens up and looks around, jaw clenching when Louis appears, a smirk on his beautiful face.
Louis quickly glances down at the various unconscious bodies around Harry, and whistles.

“Not bad for a rookie,” Louis tells him, spinning his bronze sword as if it were as light as a feather.
He isn’t wearing any helmet, his soft fringe stopping just above his eyes, the breeze making thin
strands fly. His cheeks are flushed a stunning pink, and his tan skin harmonises well with the
moonlight. He’s wearing his bottle green coat, and light brown boots. With bitterness Harry
realises he wants to pin Louis against the nearby tree and rain love bites on the unblemished skin of
Louis’ throat. Harry’s digits tighten around the grip of the sword and he gets into position, making
Louis chuckle.

“I can smell the lust coming out of every pore of your body,” Louis murmurs in the gloom, his
sharp eyes never leaving Harry. “It’s quite addicting.”

Harry tenses. “You’re tricking yourself, sweetheart.”

Louis’ eyes flash upon hearing the pet name. The blue-eyed demigod licks his lips, head tilted to
the side as he scrutinises Harry. Harry should shut up, but he can’t help himself from wanting to
trigger a reaction out of Louis, anything. The son of Aphrodite has done nothing but tease him, has
tried to render him a dumb mess (and has succeed), and he desperately wants to have Louis at his
mercy the way he has been at Louis’ all this time. He wants to make Louis flustered, make the
flawless demigod lose his composure.

“You’ve been teasing me constantly,” Harry breathes out. “You’re so sure of yourself, princess,
you just love to show off, hm? You love it when people have eyes only for you, don’t you?”

He deliberately adopts a condescending tone, making Louis’ expression change from teasing to
angry. With a shout, Louis strikes, and Harry meets him halfway. Their swords collide, their faces
so close to one another that they can feel each other’s warm breath, and swiftly Louis jumps around
Harry’s body and kicks him, hard, in the back. Harry falls forward, and the moment he meets the
ground, he rolls on his back and gets back on his feet, narrowly blocking Louis’ sword with his
own. They dance around one another, and Harry’s more than thrilled that he’s still standing. Louis
manages to cut open his thigh, but in retaliation he tears a great chunk of fabric from Louis’ coat,
making the demigod groan.

“That’s my favourite coat, you fucking prick,” Louis spits, throwing a punch at his face, but he
stops it with his own hand, grinning. Before letting go, he turns his head to kiss the back of Louis’
fist, and Louis stumbles back, his cheeks even more red than before. Louis delivers a sharp blow to
his side, and it hurts like hell, but he doesn’t let it get to him too much. He ducks, feeling the sharp
blade of Louis’ sword graze the top of his head, but instead of coming back up, he grabs Louis’
wrist and twists it so that the demigod is forced to open his fingers and drop the sword. With the tip
of his boots, Harry kicks the sword, sending it sliding through the leaves on the ground and into
the nearest bush. He stands back up and is about to trap Louis between his chest and his sword
when Louis kicks him, hard, in the crotch. He doubles over with a pained cry, and his jaw, which
is already sore from the blow he got from the Hephaestus’ kid, becomes worse when Louis slaps
him there, sending him to the ground, his helmet rolling several meters away.

“Of all the fucking places,” He groans, cupping his aching dick. Louis bends over him, a pretty
smile on his face.

“I go for the juiciest ones,” Louis blinks coyly, making his delightful eyelashes touch his cheeks,
and he’s so beautiful that it makes Harry forget, for a second, in how much pain he is. He scowls at
Louis, grunting a quiet not surprising, and it makes Louis even more amused. Just as he begins
standing up, Louis walks to the flag, swaying his hips. Harry’s sword has bounced away from him,
and he could crawl to it, but somehow, he gets up, shaking his legs in a futile attempt to make the
pain between them go away, and crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes carving holes in Louis’
back.

“What? Not going to fight?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s got the flag in his hand now, and
Harry shrugs. He’s not stupid; he knows he won’t get past Louis no matter how much he tries.
He’s fairly certain his team will have made it back there with the opponent’s flag before Louis has
even reached the river, so he just smirks. Louis narrows his eyes at him, and takes a step to the left,
and Harry copies the movement. Louis takes a step to the right, and Harry follows him. Louis rolls
his eyes.

“Really?” he says, exasperated, and Harry doesn’t answer him. He won’t fight Louis; but he’ll do
anything in his power to hold the demigod back, at least until his team has made it back. It’s a
fairly simple plan, except he doesn’t expect for Louis to magically throw rose thorns at him.
They’re not even tiny ones, but rather thick and long and they go through his arms and legs
painfully. The leather covering his chest serves as a welcoming protection against the attack, but
even then the thorns stay lodged in the hard fabric.

“If you don’t get out of my way, I will keep throwing those at you, and I’ll make sure they are
bigger and deadlier each time.”

Harry gulps, but doesn’t budge. “I’m not moving, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” Louis practically groan, but his voice gets drowned out by another, louder and
more powerful, real groan. It’s the kind of groan that comes from enraged dogs, the kind of sound
that makes the hair all over your body stand up in fright. Harry's eyes widen just as Louis’ blue
orbs snap to a spot somewhere above Harry's shoulder, and Harry knows for a fact that Louis is
looking at the top of a pile of huge rocks that’s stuck between two trees. Louis drops the flag.

There’s only silence for a moment, and he frowns as he meets Louis' wide eyes. Then, he feels
something transparent, wet, and stinking like decaying corpses fall down on his shoulder. He
grimaces and glances at it, using two fingers to scoop it up, and he almost throws up when he
realises it’s saliva. A warm breath falls over the back of his neck, and with his heart beating in his
throat, he turns around, only to be met with two lava-red eyes, and fangs the size of his fingers.

“Harry,” Louis says gently, his voice shaking. “Take a few steps back, slowly.”

He does as he’s told, his hands twitching by his sides. He glances towards his sword, and regrets
with every fibre of his existence not having grabbed it when he still had the opportunity. He tries to
picture himself diving towards it, but he knows the creature will be faster and has its teeth deep into
his throat before he can even touch the ground. Harry snaps his attention back to the… dog? No, it
looks more like a hound, except it is the size of a bear, and it is looking straight at him. Its fur is
matted down, dirty, and saliva is dripping down the monster’s fangs. There’s hatred and pure anger
dancing within its eyes, and Harry can’t, for the life of him, figure out why there would be such
monsters in the forest. It’s death assured. He's scared, that much is sure, but he can tell Louis is too,
and neither of them can reach for their swords or else they will be attacked on the spot. He must
buy some time, just enough for them to get out of here. So he does the only thing he can think of.
He falls on his knees, his hands in the dirt.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Louis hisses, but Harry doesn’t say anything. Because when he
looks back up, he makes sure to glare at the hound, then gets up as fast as possible while throwing
a handful of dried mud into the creature’s eyes. It bays and stumbles back, using its deadly paws to
rub its eyes, and while it is blinded, he starts to run to the left, his body hitting the leaves painfully,
branches scratching his skin. He makes sure to shout to draw the hound’s attention to him and
away from Louis, the need to keep the blue-eyed demigod safe overtaking his train of thought. He
hears a cry, which obviously comes from the hound, and Harry is pretty sure Louis has managed to
wound the creature. He has no idea of where he is going, but he does stumble across a few
demigods who look at him in confusion. He tries to tell them to get away except the hound runs
straight past them and towards Harry. It wants me, Harry bitterly realises, and he picks up his pace.

In the distance, there are shouts of victory. The game is over, but for Harry, it is far from. He can
feel his heart as it beats against his ribcage, and his ears are drumming painfully. His temples hurt,
and he wants to stop, he wants to give up, but he knows he can’t. He doesn’t want to die.

Overhead, there’s a storm brewing. Thick, large clouds gather and seem to follow him. There’s no
rain, but there’s a flash of light, then a boom. It echoes all around the camp, and it feels oddly
comforting to him. His strength becomes greater despite the fact that he has been fighting
demigods for hours on end and that he’s been running at an inhuman speed for what feels to be
even longer. He knows the creature is hot on his heels, but he leads it deeper into the woods until
he can see the edge of it. He does a sharp turn. He can’t let that beast outside the woods; there are
toddlers sleeping in the cabins, and he’d rather die than let anything happen to them. Fortunately,
the hound can smell him perfectly, and it’s still hot on his heels. He has no idea how long he’s
going to last, but just as his legs are becoming almost numb, an arrow flies past him, practically
grazing his ear, and straight into one of the hound’s front legs. It’s not enough to kill it, but it slows
it down. Another arrow is shot, but the hound manages to dodge it. When he looks up, Louis is
crouched in a tree with a bow.

It happens before any of them can do anything about it. Louis is running out of arrows, and there’s
a tree root Harry doesn’t see. He stumbles on it and falls to the ground painfully, hitting his head
on a rock, bits of skin disappearing, blood pouring from several places, warm and sticky. He can’t
hear for a moment, and he has a hard time seeing through the salty water swimming in his eyes.
One second, he’s running away from the hound, and the other the creature is harshly biting through
the leather on his chest, digging its claws into his skin, opening up his chest. He screams, that
much is sure, but the pain quickly fades into the background. He can’t even hear the horrified
shouts, and when Louis appears at the hound’s side and drives his sword through the creature’s
head, finally killing him, it’s all a blur.

It’s like a mist.

Somebody’s kneeling next to him, and soft fingers are going through his wet, sweaty hair. The
perfume of rose appeases him, and he thinks, if that’s how he's going to die, at least he’s able to
close his eyes and relax under the tender touches that Louis willingly provides him. His hearing
comes back and although it’s muted, he can still make out Hamlet’s panicked voice next to him as
the demigod cups his cheeks. Harry thinks he’s looking up into Hamlet’s face, but he can’t make
out anything properly, his vision still misty.

Above their heads, the sky is unforgiving. It thunders and cries, it screams in fury. He hears
someone shout, and he thinks it’s Chiron. Louis disappears, dragged back by the centaur, and
Hamlet steps back too. He’s left alone, his blood penetrating the soil like water drops. He can’t feel
his limbs anymore, and black spots dance in his vision. He has one last chance to enjoy the sight of
Louis’ beautiful face, which is wet with tears, or maybe it's just rain water, he can't tell, but he still
would have smirked if the muscles in his face hadn't grown unresponsive. There’s a flash of light
that grows closer, brighter, then there’s another shock wave, and everything around him becomes
bright white with a hint of purple, and his body convulses, his back arching off the detritus. He
takes a huge gulp of fresh air, and he can feel his skin mends back together. He looks up, but he
can’t see the sky anymore. All he sees is white, white and white, but he grows stronger, better, an
unknown energy coursing through him, making his blood pumps faster in his veins. He's panting,
but he also feels alive, and it’s such an amazing feeling that he screams, not in agony, but in
complete ecstasy. He’s sure he can climb the tallest mountain in the world, or swim from the
United States to France.

Around him, the wind picks up. He gets on his knees, and then everything stills. The white energy
disappears, the thunder keeps booming, and there’s a crowd of demigods looking at him,
speechless. Even Chiron is sporting a dumbstruck expression. His eyes aren't exactly on Harry, but
on something above his head. Actually, most people are looking up, and he follows their lead and
looks up, his lips parting in surprise as he catches sight of a sign, which is already starting to fade
away. He frowns.

He manages to make out a hologram, glowing pristine white. It thunders, casting its glow over him
and the surrounding trees. It has the shape of a lightning bolt.

“It is determined,” Chiron declares, stepping closer to him. He watches, taken aback, as all around
him campers start kneeling. “Let us hail Harry Styles, son of the Lord of the Sky, the Ruler of the
gods, the Thunderer, the Stormbringer, Zeus.”
 Chapter 2

When Harry wakes up, no one’s snoring, the smell of polished wood is non-existent, and he’s
painfully alone. He’s on a bed in the middle of a cold, large room. He sighs and glares at the
intricate ceiling. All around him, the walls are marble, there are alcoves with golden eagle statues
and the only thing worth admiring is the dome-shaped ceiling which is decorated with moving
mosaics of a cloudy sky and thunderbolts. Zeus’ cabin is such a contrast to Hermes’ that he feels as
if he were back at the beginning, when he still had the impression of being a stranger to this new
world. He has moved to Zeus’ — his father’s, he reminds himself — cabin a few days ago, and
already he wants to crawl out of it. He sighs and directs his eyes to the window, watching the
sunlight as it filters through tree branches. As soon as he had stepped through the prominent door,
he had taken upon himself to move the single bed behind the tall statue of Zeus standing in the
middle of the room, not liking how he felt as if its eyes were following his every move.

He stands up and changes into a white tee-shirt and a pair of tight black trousers. Despite himself,
his fingers linger on his abdomen, his mind remembering the hound as it had dug its way deeper
through his guts, and he shivers. He shakes his head. I’m fine, he tries to convince himself. I’m
alive and well. But no matter how many time that inner voice attempt to cheer him up, it fails,
because he still can't quite believe that somebody, somewhere, wants him dead, and has sent three
monsters after him, and he still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that the third creature had
almost succeed in ending his life, and that he had to be struck by a lightning bolt in order to heal
himself. He has been waiting to be claimed for a while, blinded by his need to know who his real
father is, but now that he has his answer it doesn’t feel half as rewarding as he had expected.
Instead, it feels like a curse.

When he steps out of the cabin, there are demigods milling around, some of them greeting him in
passing, but none of them actually look him in the eye. It pisses him off, but he doesn’t show it,
and instead ducks his head, puts his sunglasses on, and starts to walk towards the mess hall. Ever
since the most powerful god of all the greek gods has claimed him, people have been treating him
differently. They’re not ignoring him per se, but they’re not as friendly as they used to, as if they
considered Harry as a superior of some kind. And he absolutely loathes it. Everything he has
managed to build in two weeks has vanished into thin air in a matter of seconds, with a single blow
of the hand. He passes his hand through his hair and steps into the mess hall, pulling his sunglasses
up and into his hair, and he’s so caught up into his own head as he fills his plate with beaten eggs,
beans and potatoes that he doesn’t notice the cackles behind him. It’s not until he’s turning around
and he spots Hamlet staring at him with wide eyes, and Julien choking on his own saliva in
laughter, that he frowns in confusion. Almost everybody is looking at him with an amused
expression, and even if they’re trying to hide their laughs in their hands, it’s pointless anyway for
he is very well aware that he’s being laughed at. For what, he has no idea.

He stalks to where his friends are sitting, and manages to go a full minute without saying anything
until he can’t take it anymore.

“What?” he snaps, resulting in Julien spitting out the orange juice he has been drinking. He bleats
and pushes the back of his hand against his lips to keep the laughter in. Harry grimaces and leans
back, raising an eyebrow at the orange liquid that’s now on the table, sipping into the wood. He
turns to Hamlet, but the black-haired demigod has also a hard time keeping a straight face. Harry’s
about to give up and storm out of the room to eat outside, but then he’s given an answer by a girl
with short hair who's sitting on his right. She looks bored, and incredibly sleepy.

“You’ve got a massive dick-shaped hole in the back of your shirt, mate,” she informs him, rather
monotonously, before going back to eating her ham and cheese sandwich.

“A ma- a what?” He almost shrieks, catching himself before the embarrassing sound leaves his
lips. He practically breaks his neck when he abruptly twists it to try and get a glimpse of his back.
He can’t, of course, but he reaches behind him and turns pale when his fingers meet his own skin
instead of the thin fabric of his tee-shirt. He has been so deep within his train of thought that he
hasn’t even realised that he can feel the breeze on his back, which is abnormal. He quickly darts
his eyes towards Hamlet’s hoodie, and stares, hard, until the demigod glances down, stops
chewing, and lets out a huff.

“Really?’ Hamlet deadpans, but he takes off the hoodie anyway and hands it over to Harry, who
swiftly puts it on, zipping the thing up to his throat. He instantly feels better now that he knows he
won’t be walking around with a fucking dick-shaped hole on his back, but he still wants to know
who did this. He’s glancing around when it clicks.

“Louis,” he mutters, and Julien starts laughing again.

He cranes his neck to see over the sea of demigods, and freezes when his eyes land on Louis, who
is sitting with his siblings and a few of his friends, closer to the hearth. Louis looks stunning, as
always, and Harry’s breath stops when he sees him, as is his wont, except there’s a different feeling
swimming in his lower belly. He can’t describe it, but when Louis catches his eyes and covers his
mouth to keep his giggle from escaping his rosy lips, all Harry can do is smile. He's undoubtedly
upset, because Louis made him look like a total idiot and ruined a perfectly good tee-shirt, but
there’s a warmness spreading from his toes to his heart as Louis raises one eyebrow, and blinks
innocently. Louis’ not wearing his green coat, which is probably still being stitched up after he had
put his sword through it. It’s payback, he quickly realises, but he can’t find it in himself to be too
angry.

Mostly because Louis is the first one to treat him normally ever since he’s been claimed.

It doesn’t stop him from brewing his revenge, though. In his defence, he was fighting Louis when
he had accidentally put a hole into Louis’ favourite piece of clothing, so Louis’ little retaliation is
definitely unjustified. He smirks as he chews around a mouthful of potatoes, his eyes never leaving
the other demigod, but it falls off when Louis puts his lips around a sauce-dripping asparagus, and
sucks. He looks away, his dick twitching in his pants. Fucking hell. He gulps down his apple juice
then stands up, glad that his tee-shirt is long enough to cover his crotch since Hamlet’s hoodie is so
small on him that it almost looks like a crop-top. He hastily steps outside the mess hall and decides
to go by his cabin to change, then he goes to the arena to release some of the pent-up frustration.

A week and a half has gone by since Harry has been claimed, and things have gone more-or-less
back to how they were before. Demigods are still not willing to hang out with him all that much,
but he understands them. Even he wouldn’t have frequented somebody who keeps attracting
monsters. At this point it feels a lot like a death warrant. He still has no idea who’s behind all those
attacks, and it sometimes causes nightmares to disturb his sleep, but other than that he’s been faring
well. He feels safe in the camp, or at least, safer than if he were outside in the wicked world, and
besides blood-thirsty monsters, he finds himself worrying a great deal about, first, his mother, who
he hasn’t been able to contact at all ever since he made it to Long Island, and second, Louis, who
has made it his life mission to fuck with his brain.

If Harry thought Louis was teasing him, he was completely mistaken. Louis has got something
against him, and the reasons remain unknown to him. For a whole week, Louis has kept glaring at
him whenever their paths crossed, and didn't hesitate to pull various pranks on him, from filling up
his shoes with sticky melted honeycomb to getting wood nymphs to disturb his daily morning runs
at the edge of the woods to the point it became impossible for him to continue. He hasn’t even
gotten around to planning his own revenge to get back at Louis for the dick-prank, and he actually
has dropped the idea seeing as he’s too busy training and dealing with being the offspring of
fucking Zeus of all gods, and yet Louis keeps pushing his buttons. It’s as if he were waiting for a
reaction from him, except he can’t seem to find it in himself to do anything. He’s not used to
having so much attention from one single person, is the thing, be it negative or not, so he does the
only thing he can think of; he stays quiet, and endures everything Louis throws his way with his
lips tightly sealed.

It doesn’t help that his body is so obviously attracted to Louis that it intimidates him. He goes
through a storm of emotions, and all of them are alien to him. There’s a part of him, a shy and
upsetting one, that tells him the only reason he even feels so much for Louis is because Louis has
been working his magic on him. When he has made his research on Aphrodite and her children
(he's slightly ashamed that he did it, but he needed answers), it was like being dosed into ice cold
water when he had found out offspring of Aphrodite are amokinesists, as in, they can control
others’ emotions, from love to lust. He even went as far as asking Hamlet about it, and the
demigod had looked at him in sheer confusion.

“Well, yes, Louis can control people’s emotions, but I don’t think it’s all that strong, or at least,
definitely not as strong as Aphrodite’s or his oldest sibling, Eros’.”

This has done nothing to quell his worry, and as a consequence, he has been avoiding Louis.
During training, when the enticing smell of rose waltzes into the air around him, he makes up
some unconvincing and random excuse to go, even when he is in the middle of a fight. When he's
in the mess hall, he goes to great lengths to not be anywhere near Louis, and he usually always
makes sure to be seated with his back to Louis so the temptation to look at the blue-eyed beauty
won’t become unbearable. At bonfire nights, he always gathers as many people as possible around
him just so he will look too busy. It’s become a game of you’re-less-than-a-few-meters-away-from-
me-but-still-I-can’t-see-you. It’s stupid and childish, but he knows he needs to preserve himself lest
he’d end up with a crushed heart. He doesn’t know Louis’ real motives, but it oddly feels like he’s
just a distraction to the other boy, and it won’t do.

The heavy bronze door clicks shut behind him, and he leans against it and slides down until he’s
seated on the ground. He draws his knees to his chest and hugs them with his arms. When he looks
up, Zeus’ statue greets him. Is that even your real face? he wonders, frowning. Why did you claim
me? Why are people trying to kill me? What have I done to deserve this?, unsurprisingly, he
doesn’t get any answer, and he has no idea of what he expected, but there’s still disappointment
stinging his eyes, the feeling taking the shape of tears. He hates crying. He hates how utterly alone
he feels, and god he's so fucking tired. Bone-crushing, gut-twisting tired. He resents a lot of things,
and most of all, he resents who his father truly is.

There’s thunder above his head, but he ignores it as he drags his body to the single bed. The room
smells like the smoke of the fire still burning outside, but there’s nothing else that could be
considered as comforting. He fists his quilt, angry, and turns to face yet another blank wall.
Loneliness has never felt so awful, and maybe it’s because he has had a taste of the opposite and
going back to being a lone wolf seems like the most difficult thing in the world. He still has Julien
and Hamlet, sure, and Maïa has been nothing but kind to him, but there’s just a weight on his
shoulder that doesn’t want to go away. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been feeling as if people had
been keeping things from him. He can see it in their eyes, can decipher it whenever they look at
him with sorrow, as if he reminded them of a dark past.

That night, he doesn’t fall asleep, and the thunder echoing above his head sounds a lot like sadness.

The day’s a beautiful one, with the sun shining in all its glory. There isn't a single cloud in the blue
sky, and the grass of the meadows is turning golden. Nymphs are taking care of the woods,
children are playing here and there, the strawberry fields have allowed their fragrance to waltz in
the air, and Harry manages to accomplish eight flawless inside-out shots with his bow. William
pats him on the back, congratulating him, and Hamlet tosses him an apple that he grabs willingly,
biting into the fruit and moaning slightly when the sweet juice of the apple explodes against his
taste buds.

“Not bad,” a voice says behind him, and Harry turns around to face Louis. “For a rookie.”

Harry swallows and gives Louis a look. “I’ve been here for a month, I reckon I’ve made it past the
status of rookie.”

Louis’ cold eyes never leave him. “No, not quite.”

“Woah, guys,” Hamlet steps in, laughing nervously. “The climbing wall is waiting for us, right?”

“I’m coming with you,” Louis says, before walking out of the arena. Harry gapes after the
demigod, but doesn’t say anything otherwise. He still can’t quite shake the feeling of Louis’ angry
eyes as they undress him, and he harshly puts the bow down on the table. What exactly is Louis’
problem, Harry has no idea, but he’s going to figure it out, sooner or later. He takes off the leather
gloves he’s put on before training, and flexes his hands to bring blood back to his fingers. He
gestures for Hamlet to lead the way, which the demigod does, shaking his head in exasperation.

“What have you done to anger Louis so much?” is what Hamlet asks as they walk to the bridge that
crosses the river, and Harry shrugs. On the deck of the Big House, Chiron’s playing a game of
chess with someone he has never seen before, and the centaur greets them with a bow of the head.
They walk past the volleyball courts, the arts and crafts station, the amphitheatre, and finally he
sees the climbing wall. He stops short when he beholds it, and almost chuckles. Of course it’s no
ordinary climbing wall.

It is shaped into a circle. At the bottom, there’s a spinning platform and the only way to climb up is
to jump on one of the loose wooden ladders while they’re rotating at a speed that makes his head
ache. Then there are moving giant steps that seem to appear and disappear randomly, and he juts
down in a corner of his brain that he needs to jump on three different ones to reach the climbing
part, which seems to be the easiest one. There are two climbing walls, separated from one another,
except he watches, jaw-dropped, as the walls clash together and steaming hot lava bubbles from the
top, dripping down the bronze surfaces. He takes it back. That’s not the easiest part at all. It
doesn’t help that black beams of wood appear when he least expect it, threatening to send anyone
flying to the ground.

“What if,” he gulps. “What if you get seriously burnt?”

“Ambrosia,” Hamlet informs him. “C’mon.”

Louis’ waiting next to the climbing wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed in tight
leather pants and a thin white tank top. He has got his brown boots on, and there are fingerless
leather gloves on his hands. He’s sporting a smug smile, as if knowing already that he’s going to
beat Harry into the mud.

He’s simultaneously the scariest and most beautiful person Harry has ever encountered.

“Okay, lad, you’ll be playing against Louis and a few other demigods. Do you see the red glowing
glass at the very top of the climbing wall? That’s what you must get in order to win. I believe in
you,” Hamlet tells him while giving him a one-armed hug. Over Hamlet’s shoulder, he sees Louis
glaring daggers at him.

Harry sighs and does a few exercises to help his muscles going, and tries not to grimace when more
and more demigods arrive to watch the competition, a competition that he hasn’t signed up for. His
stress-level reaches its peak when Chiron walks in, peering curiously at him. He’s sure the centaur
wants to see whether he is a worthy demigod, or not, which makes him regret ever getting out of his
bed this morning. He turns to face the climbing wall, and mentally draws the path he will have to
take so as to make it to the top.

“Scared?” Louis asks from next to him, condescending, and it takes everything in Harry not to
snap.

“No,” he says through gritted teeth. He knows Louis’ looking at him, but he refuses to look back.
He’s much too focused on figuring out how he will have to play his cards to beat Louis to this
competition, even though he knows it’s an unrealistic wish seeing as Louis has probably climbed
this wall a thousand times before. But hell, he still wants to defeat Louis. This whole ordeal is not
just about a game, but it's actually about asserting himself in the eyes of the other demigods, and
maybe getting to figure out what’s going on with Louis.

His fingers clench in anticipation. He can do it, he can. He knows it. It will be difficult, but it's not
impossible.

Then why is he so anxious?

Somebody blows a whistle. There are shouts echoing around them and, before he can even blink,
Louis takes off towards the climbing wall. Harry follows him, trying to not get distracted as Louis
does a cartwheel and lands on a ladder. He disappears out of view and Harry stops, waiting for the
next one. He jumps and manages to grab the bottom rung and he heaves his body up, ducking his
head at the right moment to avoid being hit in the face by a wooden beam, then, taking a deep
breath, he uses his legs to propel himself forward. He lands on a platform, and rolls over. A stair is
propelled out of the wall and appears where he had been a few seconds ago, and with his heart
beating in his throat, he stands up and waits for the next giant step. When it arrives, he jumps, his
fingers gripping the sharp edge, and he groans trying to heave his body up. He’s tempted to stay
laying there, but when he feels the step he’s on start going back inside the wall, he quickly jumps
to the next one.

In front of him, Louis is waiting.

“You’re slow, son of Zeus,” Louis teases, and just as he opens his mouth to answer, Louis shows an
impressive amount of strength by gripping a wooden beam and propelling his body in the air. He
lands on the climbing wall, and he seems to stay just there. Show off, Harry mentally scoff.

Louis' waiting for him, which makes his blood boil. He lets himself be rotated to the other side of
the wall, and climbs it. He’s face to face with Louis now, and he can see him through the several
square-shaped holes. There’s a stunning flush high on Louis’ cheeks, probably from the
unforgiving sun, and even if those gorgeous blue eyes are glaring at him, he's still able to
appreciate their beauty.

“Took you long enough,” Louis says, rather scornfully, and Harry narrows his eyes at him.

“Well, princess, not everybody has climbed these very walls a hundred times before.”

Louis blinks. “Owww, but a couple of beams and lava spits won’t affect the great son of Zeus,
right?” and the bitterness that has been lacing Louis’ tone of voice for the past few days is back,
heavy around them. Harry dodges a wooden beam by putting his feet on another grips. He avoids
glancing down, afraid he’ll lose his footing when seeing just how high in the air they are.

“What,” he huffs. “Exactly is your problem? Seriously? I thought we had a good thing going on,
but clearly I was mistaken.”

Louis lets out a dry laugh as he climbs higher. Harry watches as Louis kicks the demigod next to
him in the thigh, making the blonde-haired man scream as he falls. Louis looks straight at him in
the eye as he pronounces the next few words.

“There was nothing going on between us, Harry.”

Then, Louis grabs a handhold that’s parallel to the grip Harry is holding with his right hand, and
pulls, causing the grip under Harry’s hand to retrieve back into the wall. He almost falls, but he
quickly stabilises himself by grabbing another handhold. When he looks up once more, Louis is
already gone, but he doesn’t think about it too much since the walls move, crash against one
another, and lava starts to pour from the top.

“Fuck no,” he mumbles, huffing and sending a silent prayer to whoever's listening, then he starts to
climb, too, making sure to be as fast as possible. The lava is creating deadly rivers against the
surface, leaving only a few available grips for him to work with. He manages to make it past the
first half of the wall, but he’s too slow to grab another handhold and he screams when molten lava
touches his hand, burning the skin there. He waves his injured limb, hoping the cool air will bring
down the unbearable pain, but it doesn’t work as well as he has hoped. Biting his bottom lip, he
can see Louis’ pelvis in one of the squares right in front of his face, and he realises that he can do
something to make Louis slow down. He pushes one of the handholds, hard, until it disappears
from his side and appears at Louis’, straight into the demigod's stomach. The sudden pain makes
Louis let go, and he falls a few meters down before managing to catch himself.

“You’re fucking dead, Styles, do you hear me?” Louis shouts in anger, but it quickly changes into
a pained cry when lava latches on Louis’ thigh. There’s a part within Harry urging him to go help
Louis, and to maybe apologise, but then he remembers that he’s here to prove himself, and that
Louis is currently his opponent, so he looks up and makes sure to never glance back. He reaches
the top of the wall with a few more burns, and he does his best not to look at his forearm's roasted
skin, and definitely does not allow himself to dwell on the warm liquid sliding down his limb that
he knows is his blood.

He's starting to think that the camp actually wants its campers dead.
He's so far up that he can’t make out the shouts below him coming from the crowd of demigods,
and he doesn’t even try to understand them. He focuses his whole attention on not stepping on any
single trail of lava, and rolls his eyes when he comes face to face with a thick tree trunk, with
several ropes dangling from its top. He knows he has to climb up one of the ropes, but the problem
is, he doesn’t know how. The time he spends rooted to the spot, trying to figure out how he’ll pull
this off is enough for Louis to make it back to the top, and he grimaces when Louis stands up,
facing him. The lava has managed to eat the better half of Louis’ tank top, leaving a good chunk of
his stomach completely burnt.

“You don’t know how to climb a rope,” is what Louis says, matter-of-fact, and Harry clears his
throat.

“That obvious?” he answers weakly, and for a moment, they stand there, staring at each other, then
they both dart forward, taking a good grip on the rope, and start to climb. Well, Louis begins
climbing, while Harry struggles getting his body up, his limbs flailing around. He watches
helplessly as Louis gets closer and closer to the totem. Then he gets an idea, but he isn’t sure
whether it is a good one or not.

“Please, don’t hate me for this,” he mutters as he bend down and grabs the little knife he keeps in
one of his combat boots at all times. He inhales, focuses, looks at his target, then throws the
weapon. He exhales. The knife grazes Louis’ hand and, in the process, cuts the rope, sending the
demigod falling back on the platform. He doesn’t look at Louis and instead, grabs his own rope,
puts his feet on the trunk, and tries once again to climb, putting all his weight on his legs. He feels
someone fist the back of his shirt and pulls, so before he can make it a few centimeters above the
ground, he lets go of the rope, its rough material scratching the thin skin of his palms. His back hits
the platform painfully, but before he can get up, there’s someone straddling his hips, and a fist
colliding with his jaw.

“I hate your arrogant, stupid, annoying, cursed arse,” Louis groans, emphasising each of his words
with a good punch to Harry’s nose. At this point, there’s blood sliding down and into his mouth,
and once he manages to grab Louis’ wrist, he spits it out to the side. He tightens his hold on Louis,
and manages to flip them over, except Louis doesn’t give up. Instead, the blue-eyed demigod bites
Harry’s forearm hard enough to draw blood, causing Harry to let go of him and rolls away.

“Arrogant?” Harry questions while he dodges Louis’ fist. "Cursed?" he adds, leaning swiftly to the
side and blocking Louis' leg with his forearm, hissing when it collides with his wound.

“Yes,” Louis grits out. “Ever since you’ve been claimed you’ve been strolling around like you’re
some kind of god. Well, Styles, let me tell you, you should be fucking gutted that your father is
Zeus, because trust me it's not a fucking blessing.”

He gives Louis a disbelief look, his jaw clenching. “You’re shitting me, right? People have been
avoiding me, and I’ve been feeling less and less welcomed here. I fucking know that it's a pain in
the ass to be the son of Zeus, but I didn't ask for this!" he shouts, throwing his fist forward. Louis
ducks and his knuckles meet the hard wood of the tree trunk, splitting open. He glances back at the
blue-eyed demigod, trying to not show just how hurt he is. "I can’t believe... ,” but he doesn’t get to
finish as Louis knees him in the stomach, making him bend forward.

“You also have a knack for leading people on,” Louis continues, letting out a squeal of surprise
when he traps Louis between the tree trunk and his stomach. Louis hisses in pain when his own
burned belly comes into contact with the rough surface of the trunk, but he doesn’t let go.

“What the fuck do you mean I have been leading people on?” he practically groans in Louis’ ear,
getting momentarily distracted by the soft fragrance of rose rolling off the smaller body in front of
him, stronger behind Louis’ ear. How come he smells so good, even when he’s sweating? He's
pretty sure his own body scent is far from pleasant right now, though Louis seems to not mind. The
blue-eyed demigod lets himself be trapped, turning his head to the side so Harry’s lips caress the
apple of his cheek. His eyes are almost fully closed, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his
face. It’s the closest to each other they’ve ever been, and it’s making Harry’s heartbeat speed up.

It scares him, how he’s feeling right now, because he has no idea of whether it’s natural or an
illusion conjured up by Louis’ power.

He stumbles back from Louis, as if he had been burned, but the pain he’s feeling right now is
nothing compared to the pain he felt when he was burned by the lava. Louis slowly turns around,
his face blank, though there’s something within his eyes as he scans him up and down. Harry longs
to reach out, to be back to touching Louis’ delicate skin, but he can’t. He can’t when Louis has
been getting the wrong impression of him all this time, and he can’t when he’s not even sure
whether he should trust his body language or not. It’s all too complicated, and adds to the long list
of confusing riddles he can’t find the answer for.

“You want me,” Louis finally says, breaking the silence. Somewhere, someone shouts, and he
knows yet another demigod has been touched by the lava, the deadly liquid still pouring from the
cracks of the walls. He recoils at Louis’ words.

“Is it real though?” he says lowly, so low in fact that Louis doesn’t understand it. Louis frowns and
opens his mouth, probably to ask him to repeat, except somebody touches Harry's shoulder, and
when he turns around there’s a demigod, aged sixteen at most, standing before him. He doesn’t see
the fist coming, but he definitely feels it, and he cups his jaw, his body tensing. Louis is already on
the teenager, fighting him, then he shoves the lad off the platform. But amidst the commotion,
another demigod has been climbing the rope, and it’s not until the crowd below them cheers so
loudly that even them can hear it that he looks back up only to be met with the sight of a redhead
girl brandishing the red glass totem. He deflates. He’s fucking tired.

Louis walks past him, making sure to shoulder him, hard.

“That’s your fucking fault,” he says, though there’s no real venom behind the words. There's
sadness, though, and Louis' voice is small and tired. Harry watches as Louis jumps, and he quickly
goes to the edge to make sure Louis hasn’t broken any bones, but Louis lands on his feet, like a cat,
and storms away before anyone can talk to him. His eyes follow Louis until the demigod’s body is
only a tiny, black dot standing out among the earthy landscape.

He goes over their conversation, over and over again, except the more he repeats it all to himself,
the least it makes sense. He looks up at the sky, unable to resist sending a silent prayer to
whoever’s listening, then climbs back down. He’s relieved when he sees the lava has completely
disappeared since the game’s over, and the platform isn’t spinning anymore, which means he
makes it to the ground safely despite his injuries killing him. Hamlet’s there to greet him, of
course, and in the distance Julien’s pouting and eating literal grass, pulling the green strands out of
the soil and chewing on them.

Harry jerks his head towards the satyr. “What’s gotten into him?”

Hamlet smirks. “He lost a bet to me, and I just became fifty dollars richer.”

“Bet?” he asks absently while he tries not to cower under Chiron’s intense stare.

“Yeah, poor lad thought you were going to win, and I thought the opposite, and of course I was
right.”
He frowns. “Wait, hold on, what happened to the I believe in you bullshit?”

“Pep-talk, and all that,” Hamlet waves his hand. “But hey, if it makes you feel any better, you
reached the top and for your first time that’s a literal fit. Most first-timers usually end up passed out
on the ground.”

“Pep-talk,” Harry mocks, rubbing his throbbing temples tiredly. “Please get me to the infirmary,
these burns are killing me.”

The crowd of demigods steadily begins dispersing, everyone going back to doing whatever they
were doing before the competition, and as much as he looks, he can’t spot Louis anywhere. He
sighs and glares at the grass, ignoring Julien muttering behind him about him being incompetent
and what kind of fucking son of Zeus can’t win a game like that? and it doesn’t irritate Harry at all,
on the contrary he cracks a smile as Julien keeps spewing insults towards him. They cross the
bridge and walk to the infirmary, the sight of it oddly comforting, and Hamlet helps him lay on a
cot. There’s a kind-looking man with curly blonde hair tending to the wounded. Hamlet informs
him of who he is.

“That’s Jace, son of Apollo, and an incredible healer.”

Harry offers a weak smile at Jace as the demigod sits down next to him with a plate, and on said
plate there is a square of something yellow. It smells amazing, a mixture of flowers and sunshine
and something prominent, which Harry comes to realise is rose. He wants to roll his eyes. He can't
fucking escape Louis now can he?

“Hello, I’m Jace, and you must be Harry, right?” Jace says in a soft voice, his eyes gentle and
puppy-like, and Harry raises an eyebrow when the man addresses him by his name without him
even telling it. Jace must see the surprise on his face seeing as he explains with a chuckle. “You’re
the only offspring of Zeus at the camp, and gossips fly fast.”

“Oh,” he lets out, his voice weak, and he completely relaxes his muscles, his head falling back on
the pillow. Right. Somehow, he's a big deal now. Cursed, is what Louis used to describe him. He
licks his dry lips and decides to block his mind from running anymore. He's tired, his strength is
leaving him quickly, and he’s kind-of panicking. It doesn’t help that his whole body is in pain, and
his nose is warm and probably swollen. The only thing that’s comforting is the scent coming from
the stuff that Jace is holding, which looks a lot like a piece of cake. “What’s that?” he wonders,
drawling out the words, moving a finger towards the little thing.

“That’s ambrosia. It’s the food eaten by the gods, and it’s got incredible healing properties. Here.”
Jace gives him the ambrosia, and he eats it all at once, since his mouth is big enough to stuff the
whole thing inside. He chews and doesn’t hold back from moaning out loud. It tastes sweet and like
rose and toasted almonds. Instantly, he feels his energy comes back to him.

“Damn, this is good. Do you happen to have any more?” he asks, hopeful, but he almost pouts
when Jace shakes his head.

“Too much ambrosia will make you feverish. It’s a very powerful thing, and it is deadly to
mortals.”

He nods, relieved, and slightly surprised, that he can hold his head up when seconds ago he was
unable to move. He’s feeling better already, and he gazes at Jace as the demigod applies a soothing
cream to his burns.

“Am I going to scar?” he wonders, sighing in relief when Jace shakes his head.
“This cream is magically boosted by the offspring of Hecate. You won’t have any scars. Now, you
should rest, the ambrosia will probably take a few hours to heal you completely.”

He thanks Jace and lays back down, turning his head towards Julien and Hamlet. Hamlet’s looking
a bit too intensely at Jace, while Julien is gazing at Harry with a look of longing.

“What did it taste like to you? The ambrosia, I mean? It tastes differently depending on the eater,
and it usually smells and tastes like the eater's favourite food. How I wish I could taste one!”

“It tasted…,” Harry licks his lips, trying to find the proper words. “It tasted like toasted nuts and
rose. It was as if I were eating a delicious, soft rose-smelling and almond-tasting cake. I’d kill to
eat that ambrosia again.”

Hamlet puts his head into his hands and laughs.

“Even the fucking ambrosia tastes like your precious Louis. Talk about a huge ass crush,” Hamlet
giggles, eyeing him with pity.

He mutters a fuck off, but he doesn’t say anything else, because the damn ambrosia did taste like
Louis. At least, it smelled like him, and he has no idea of how to feel about the fact that even while
eating the food of the gods, Louis is there to annoy him and remind him that he thinks of only one
person; Louis, Louis and Louis. He avoids looking at his friends as his mind flashes back to when
Louis had his back pressed against his chest, and his plump arse cuddling his bulge. He can’t help
but wonder how it would feel to be inside said arse, going in and out, in and out, in and out. It
would be heaven, he's sure, and he hastily turns on his side so his back is facing his friends, trying
and most likely failing at hiding his growing erection. For fuck’s sake. He wants so much with
Louis, but he still isn’t sure it’s reciprocated, and being in the unknown is stressing him out.

At one point, Julien and Hamlet leave, but not before the latter makes a cruel sexual joke. Clearly,
his attempt at hiding himself has been futile, but he doesn’t let the embarrassment show on his face
and instead sticks to giving the good old middle finger. Jace is taking care of another demigod, but
Harry still sees his amused little smile. He raises one eyebrow when Jace comes to him to give him
a bit of water, and the blonde demigod shrugs.

“You’re not the only one who has fallen into Louis’ spell,” he tells him, and he… feels numb.

It’s yet another confirmation of Louis’ ability to make people feel desire, maybe even love, for
him, and not for the first time since he first saw Louis at the bonfire all those days ago when he had
decided to jump out of his shell, he asks himself; is all of this real?

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to overthink what Jace has just told him, for sleep overtakes his
consciousness, and soon there’s only darkness.

When he wakes up, the sun has disappeared to make room for the moon. She’s prominent and in
the shape of a crescent, and she casts her glow over the meadows and far away above the valley.
The pine tree that protects the camp is standing tall and proud, and he spends a long time looking
at it, wondering, what’s the story behind it?. He hasn’t found the time to ask about it, but he also
figures it’s odd no one has thought of telling him about it when it’s such an important part of the
camp. He sits up and leans against the pillow propped up on the wall, just so he can look at the tree
a bit more. It looks lonely standing on its own like that, and he, for some unknown reasons, wants
to go up there and puts his hands against the tree trunk just to feel the vibrations underneath it. It’s
just… it’s like there’s a connection between them. He can’t explain it.

He doesn’t have time to think too much about it, because the door of the infirmary opens, and in
walks Chiron. His hair is pulled into his usual tight bun, and he’s got little black square glasses on.
There’s a light white shirt on him, sleeves rolled up on his forearms. His hooves make loud noises
as they meet the wooden ground, and Harry sits up, perfectly aware that Chiron doesn’t visit
demigods unless it’s important.

“Harry,” is how Chiron greets him, walking to one side of the cot. He doesn’t sit, of course, but he
can tell the centaur is trying to make himself as small as possible so as to not loom over him.

“Χαῖρε,” Harry blurts out, not even realizing at first that he just said good evening in Ancient
Greek. Chiron smiles, and he's about to apologise or something, when Chiron pours a tall glass of
water and passes it over to him.

“You should practice your Ancient Greek, it will come in handy in a lot of situations.”

He hums while sipping the water. “What kind of situations?”

“The kind of situations you better hope to never experience,” Chiron answers. “Now, I came here
because I have something for you.”

“For me?” he frowns and practically burns a hole in Chiron’s face when the centaur turns to reach
into a bag that’s strapped to his back, a bag that he didn’t see when Chiron came in. He takes out of
it a ring which is, for the most part, shaped in a lightning bolt.

“This,” Chiron says, holding the jewel between his thumb and forefinger. “Is an extremely
powerful weapon, crafted by the cyclopes for your father, Zeus, upon his request. I was given this
decades ago, though I had no idea of whom it could be for. Your father, you see, hadn’t given a lot
of details, as you can imagine. But I think Zeus built this for you, even before you were born. At
first I thought it would be for—,” Chiron whispers the last part, pain written all over his face. It’s
gone before Harry can properly look into it, though. Chiron clears his throat. “I never had the
opportunity to see it in action, as I suspect it can only be activated upon the touch of an offspring of
Zeus.”

He takes the beautiful jewel, caressing the cool silver with his digits. It feels luxurious and heavy,
and looks exactly like something he would wear. It’s perfectly made, not a single flaw in sight, and
it’s discreet but also catches the eye. In the moonlight, it almost glimmers, and when he moves it in
a particular way, something strikes across the ring.

It looks a lot like thunder, though it is muted and only the illusion of it. Tears spring to his eyes,
because he might think his father is an asshole and, quite honestly, the shittiest parental figure on
earth, it still feels unreal and relevant that he’s holding something that comes from the father he
never met. Shakily, he slips the ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

He meets Chiron’s eyes, and there’s something expectant in them, but it slowly fades away as
nothing happens other than a nymph running across the meadow, laughter dying the farther away
she runs.

“Well, hm,” Chiron says sounding eager to get out. Harry can’t blame him; if he expected
something to happen upon him touching the ring, he’s probably extremely disappointed. He looks
down curiously at the ring, and plays with it some more. The wedding of colour striking across the
jewel makes it seem as if a storm were ongoing within the silver, and it’s a fascinating sight.

“Try to sleep a bit tonight, alright? You’ll need your strength for what’s to come,” Chiron tells
him, patting him on the shoulder. The centaur suddenly looks tired, and Harry has to bite his lips to
prevent himself from saying anything. At this point he doesn't even wonder about what it is that
Chiron means by ‘what’s to come’, and simply watches as the centaur walks out.

He lays back on his pillow, his fingers spread in front of and above his face as he stares at the ring.
Not long afterwards, he falls asleep again. No different from the previous nights he spent ever
since finding out about his being a demigod, his slumber isn’t peaceful. He’s suddenly in the
middle of a sad-looking valley. When he turns around, the camp’s looking back at him, except
there’s not a single soul in sight. He stumbles back when the wind picks up, and the sky quickly
goes from blue to evil grey, with thick black clouds twirling among the endless nothingness like
paint among water.

He watches, horrified, as several lightning bolts come crashing against the ground, breaking it.
There are screams in the distance except no matter where he looks, there’s no one. The fear crawls
up his stomach and into his throat, threatening to make him heave. It’s terrifying, hearing those
agonised shouts and not knowing where they’re from and how to make it all stop. He’s running
away, his feet moving on their own, until he has to stop to prevent himself from being crushed by a
giant foot.

Two men, taller than the trees, taller than the mountains, their heads almost in the clouds, are
fighting. There’s the unforgiving loud noise of the sea waves as they crash together. The sky
cracks as thunder blooms, shock of lights appearing and going. He has never witnessed such
disaster. Whenever the giants step or fall, the ground breaks under their weight. Harry almost falls
over a crack into the grass, ending on his hands and knees, and through the hair falling into his
eyes he can see that below, he can’t see only mud, but the spitting green fire of the underworld. His
heart’s beating too fast, a constant reminder that he’s there, and horrified he realises the pained
cries he’s been hearing come from below there.

Hands are touching the rocks, trying to get out of the fire, but they can’t. He watches as their
unrecognisable faces break through the river of lava, the skin melted off only to leave behind the
flesh. Sorrow and pain is written all over their faces, and the amount of despair is such that he has
to looks away. The ground shakes, making him almost fall over and straight into the green fire,
except he hurries away from the edge and looks up. One of the faceless giants pushes the other one
into a mountain, breaking the block of rock, sending bits flying over his head. Harry screams. He
shouts and wants to be heard but he’s not, and when his voice turns coarse, a sword is driven
through the giant still leaning against the broken pieces of the mountain. He stays rooted to where
he’s kneeling among the grass, and he doesn’t move when the giant that’s still standing turns to
him, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t.

The giant steps on the pine tree, destroying it, and a loud, ear-piercing female scream echoes all
around him, bringing tears to his eyes. There’s sorrow and despair in that cry, chilling Harry’s
bones. The giant’s so close to him now.

All he can do is look up into the featureless face of the giant, and watch as the sword comes down
in such a way that it will split him in two. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the impact,
though it never comes.

He comes back to reality in a mess of sweat, goosebumps racking his body. He’s breathing as if he
had gone running from New York to Los Angeles, and after he manages to calm down enough to
focus on his surroundings, he takes notice of Louis sitting next to him, worry written all over his
lovely face. It’s a look that he hasn’t expected to ever see again on Louis’ face, at least when it
concerns him, and the sight oddly makes him relax. It was just a dream, he tells himself, a dream
that has felt way too real, admittedly, but still a dream regardless. Louis’ dressed in a beautiful
turquoise chiton with gold on the edge of it, and it’s short, revealing the top of his thighs. He’s like
an angel, with his soft hair falling over his forehead, curling towards the end, and his helix
piercing. There’s golden sandals on his petite feet, and a baby pink nail-polish on his toenails,
complimenting his tan skin.

Louis’ fucking beautiful, to put it shortly, and as always he's taken aback by the amount of beauty
coming from the demigod. Louis’ holding a damp cloth that, he realises, Louis' been using to clean
the sweat off his face, and licking his bottom lip, Harry lays back down, swallowing. His Adam
apple bobs up and down as he does so, and he notices the way Louis tracks the movement with his
eyes.

“You had a nightmare,” Louis says, voice soft, as he goes back to dabbing the cloth against his
face. He doesn’t say anything, instead preferring to watch Louis. The smell of rose is particularly
strong, especially when Louis lifts his arm and his hairless armpit is so close to his face, and it
should be fucking weird, but he wants to trail kisses up the thin skin of Louis’ arm until he's able to
trail his nose where Louis’ arm meets his shoulder. It drives him up the wall that Louis always
smells so good, and he wonders if the demigod smells heavenly everywhere, wonders what delight
his nose will find while drawing a path down, down, and down, until he’s reaching where Louis’
thigh meets his—

He jerks his head away from Louis, his heart beating fast, his blood rushing to his cock. He ignores
the hurt that flashes across Louis’ face, gone as quickly as it came, and Louis’ arm falls back on
his lap. There’s caution in Louis’ eyes, but also confusion, and Harry thinks it must be ironic,
because between the two of them, he should be the one confused right now. He has no idea if he’s
being played with, if Louis is purposely manipulating him into thinking that he feels love, yes, love
and desire for the blue-eyed demigod. He should probably run from the infirmary and away from
Louis, but he stays on the cot, his body language guarded. He wants to give in and submits to the
emotions and sensations he’s feeling, but not until he knows if his need to protect Louis and cherish
him for the rest of his life is real and not a creation of Louis’ own demigod abilities. He feels like
he’s walking on a fine line between joy and heartbreak, and he’s definitely not ready to face the
latter.

Wordlessly, Louis gets on the cot and straddles his lap. He's about to open his mouth to tell Louis
to get off him, as much as it will pain him to say it, but Louis’ putting a cool and gentle finger
against his opened mouth, and Harry can’t help but drop a butterfly kiss against the digit. It seems
to cheer Louis up as a blush wonderfully appears on the apples of Louis’ cheek, and Harry’s sure
they can both hear the loud beating of his heart. He’s imagined having Louis on his lap like this,
usually to cuddle him close to his chest and to satisfy that gut-wrenching urge to just protect Louis
from any harm. He restrains himself though, going as far as sliding his fingers under his thighs.
They don’t stay there for long, for Louis grabs his bandaged arm and starts to peel the white fabric
off, gentle, until it falls on the white sheets and his healing skin is facing them. There’s basically
nothing left except for shy little rosy bits of sore skin, which he's confident will be gone in a few
hours at most.

The cream that Louis applies against his skin is not cold, but rather warm, and treacherous
butterflies wreak havoc in his lower belly because he knows Louis had warmed up the cream
between his clever fingers. There’s not a single sound around them except for Harry’s laboured
breathing and the few snores coming from the occupied cots around them. It’s early in the day, the
sun has just broken out of the horizon line, and he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep to function
properly, but right now, with Louis literally on top of him he couldn't be more awake than if he
were waking up from eight hours of sleep. The blood pumping through his veins is going way too
fast, and he’s glad for the several layers of sheets over his crotch that somehow, to his delight,
cover his hardening dick. With the way Louis caresses his skin, he can’t help but want to
reciprocate the gesture, can't help but want to let his own fingers explore Louis’ perfect body.

He can’t, though. Or at least, he won’t allow himself a taste of what he wants the most until he’s
sure of where they stand.

Louis ends up grabbing his other hand, too, even though that one isn’t injured. He studies the ring,
his fingers caressing the jewel, and oddly Harry feels overprotective of it. He doesn’t want anyone
touching it, and despite the twitching need to snatch his hand away, he stays quiet and lets Louis
watch it closely.

“Chiron?” Louis asks, and he nods. “It’s a weapon, then, left by your father, most likely. My mom
left me a bracelet that can turn into a shield. It comes in handy in combat.”

There’s no bracelet on any of Louis’ arms, but he doesn’t comment on it, instead preferring to look
and touch the ring.

“Nothing happened when I first touched it. I can tell Chiron expected something. He was very
disappointed when all he got in return was me wearing a ring, nothing more.”

“But there’s something divine about it, doesn’t it?” Louis stresses out. “It’s magic, you can feel it,
don’t you?”

And… yes, he does feel the energy coursing through the ring and into him. It’s like they’re tied to
one another, and he looks at it curiously, wondering, what’s its secret? When he moves his hand he
can still catch the illusion of a storm within the jewel, but it looks angrier than before, as if
whatever’s trapped within the ring wants to come out, wants to break free. Louis’ hand comes up
above his, covering the back of his hand, and it’s a reassuring weight. He feels Louis’ breath
against his cheek, and they’re so close to one another now that it’s possible for him to count the
amount of eyelashes Louis possesses. Despite himself, his hands come up on Louis’ thighs, going
under the chiton. Louis is hot down there, and so smooth, and he flips them over, wanting to have
Louis under him, at his mercy.

Except he forgets for one moment that the cot’s a tiny fucking thing, and instead they both go
crumbling to the ground, Louis yelping in the process. Harry manages to spin mid-air so that he’s
the one against the hard wood, cushioning the fall for Louis who ends up on top of him. There’s
silence for a moment. Someone in a nearby cot snorts and goes back to snoring steadily, shifting in
their own little cot.

Against his chest, Harry feels soft vibrations. Louis’ giggling, trying to muffle the sound in his
shirt, and he can’t help but join in.

“That was,” Louis says between two giggles, trying but failing to talk normally as his body spasms.
“Very not sexy. So the Great son of Zeus is clumsy. Noted.”

"Don't call me that," he sighs, though a laugh still spills out of his lips, and tries to be quiet, he
really does, but honestly, he doesn’t exactly care. There’s a soft and warm Louis on his chest, and
it’s everything he’s ever wanted, though he has tried so hard to ignore that pull within him. He
tightens his arms around Louis, making the demigod look up. Louis creeps up higher on his chest
until his face is right above his face. He’s looking directly into Harry's eyes, and their faces are so
close to one another that their noses are touching and Louis’ eyelashes are caressing his. Harry’s
about to reach up and feel those rose petal lips against his own when there’s the clearing of a throat
somewhere next to them, and Louis sits up, a blush colouring his face.

Jace’s standing by the door, holding a silver tray with squares of ambrosia. He’s looking at them
with a little smile and a raised eyebrow, and without meaning to, Harry scrambles up on his feet
with Louis in his arms, though he must have been too quick for Louis falls back down on his cot.
He bites his lips as Louis glares up at him, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Hello, Harry, Louis,” Jace nods at them. “How are you feeling?” Jace asks him, and he can’t help
but think, was feeling better until you showed up. Instead he rubs the back of his neck. It’s only
then that he realises he feels good. The burns are not tinkling anymore and almost non-existent.
His body isn’t sore anymore, his muscles are back to their usual self, and he stretches his arms
before Jace to show him just how much better he's doing already. He can’t wait to get out of the
infirmary.

“I’m perfect, Jace, thank you for everything," he smiles, and he's about to gather his jacket and
take his leave, but Jace puts a hand up.

“Did you put your cream over your burns?” he wonders, his eyes travelling up and down Harry’s
body. Shyly, Louis bids them goodbye and slides through the door.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he's distracted, because he doesn’t want Louis to disappear again, not before
they’ve talked. He thinks Jace rolls his eyes, but he’s too busy burning a hole in the door to even
take notice of it. Jace steps aside, and Harry hurries to the door, opening it. He steps outside,
exhaling as a soft breeze ruffles his hair. The sun is now high in the sky, revealing the green of the
grass and the blue of the sky. It’s a stunning sight. He looks around, hoping more than anything
that Louis is there to make everything that much more perfect.

Except, once again, Louis is nowhere to be seen.

“That’s wicked!” Julien shouts, turning the ring between his fingers, his eyes scrutinising the jewel
in awe. Harry’s not paying him any mind, instead preferring to focus on his full English breakfast.
Hamlet’s reading the Olympus newspaper, which Harry found out is an actual thing, and the
newspaper relates everything going on among the gods, such as Hades going berserk and causing a
volcano to explode somewhere in the Indian ocean, which in turn made Poseidon mad because the
lava had gone into the ocean, killing a few fishes. It’s crazy to him that there’s so much drama
among the gods, but he has to admit it’s quite entertaining.

“I think there must be something to get it going,” Julien says, knocking the ring gently against the
table and putting his ear next to it. Instead, the ring thunders, startling Julien so much he bleats.
“It's a feisty one, that ring.”

Harry sighs. “I’ve tried everything already, it won’t work, so, honestly? Screw it.”

And he's not joking when he says he has tried everything. He has spent nights awake, hoping the
ring would change into a weapon, but nothing. He has dropped it, hoping the impact would trigger
it, but nothing. He has kicked it, stepped on it, threw it across the meadow (it took him three days
and several nymphs to find it back), and he has even tried to burn it (it was useless, though he
found out that the ring is fireproof). Hell, he has even tried talking to it, but all the ring did was
stare back. At one point, he has put said ring under the status of Zeus in his cabin, looking up into
his father’s face, waiting. Nothing. Only silence.

He has no idea of how to feel about the fact that his father gave him something useless, but it adds
to the long list of fucked-up things his father did. He grabs the ring from Julien and pockets it. He
hasn’t been wearing it, the sight of it pissing him off. He’s been irritated for a while now, and he
doesn’t know why, but there’s this chronic itch underneath his skin that he can’t get rid of.

“Guys,” Hamlet says, drawing their attention to him. He’s frowning down at the newspaper, “Hear
this; A few days ago, Hera, wife of Zeus, has disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The
gods are not yet sure whether it was intentional or not, but Hera’s disappearance has caused great
unease among the gods. Could it have been a kidnapping? Bloody fuck, it must be chaos up there,
which would explain the recurring storms. Zeus’s pissed.”

He grimaces. Ever since he has been claimed as Zeus’ son, Hera has annoyingly been in the back of
his mind. She is, despite how much he loathes the idea, Zeus’ wife, and he’s been trying his
hardest to ignore the fact that his father’s a cheating scumbag. He rolls his eyes and crosses his
arms over his chest, half-listening to Hamlet and Julien as they argue over the hot topic of the
moment. He can hear whispers growing louder all around him, and most of them are from those
who have the newspaper opened before them.

“I’m not feeling it,” Julien sighs. “If Hera has really been taken, then I can bet a quest will be given
to a few demigods to get her back. Typical.”

“A quest?” he wonders, straightening up, but before either of them can open their mouth, there’s a
shout from outside and several demigods appear, panic written all over their faces. Harry and
Hamlet exchange a look, before they’re both dashing out of the mess hall. The ground shakes,
threatening to send them face first into the grass, but they hold on.

In the distance, there’s a flash of blue. The barrier.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Julien asks from behind them, his face paling. “This is not good, not
good at all.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, sounding oddly calm even though panic is slowly, but surely, blooming
like flowers in spring inside of him. He’s been told before that the pine tree up the valley protects
the camp from monsters as it generates a powerful barrier. He’s never been quite told how that's
possible, or how the pine tree came to be, but one thing he knows for sure is that something is
trying to break through the barrier. No one answers him, but the silence is louder than words.
Julien’s muttering under his breath, it’s going to hold, but he can hear the tremor in Julien’s voice.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of Louis. The blue-eyed demigod is looking up at the
pine tree with apprehension written all over his face, and before he can think his actions through,
he's running towards Louis.

It’s exactly then that something shatters, and when Harry whips his head to the side, broken
fragments of the barrier are disappearing into the sky, and a black form is standing tall and proud
next to the pine tree, smoke curling up. It’s a monster, he can feel it deep within his bones, and he
stares in horror as the… the thing steps into the camp. The barrier has fallen. He looks back at
Louis, but he sees that the blue-eyed demigod and a few others are already running towards the
cabins.

The fucking children.

Fear is burning bright hot in his lower belly. He looks back and sees the black mess is running
down the valley and towards them. Hamlet raises his hand and makes a giant hole appear
underneath the creature, except it disappears into thin air and reappears before the hole. Hamlet
blanches, and Julien fists the back of Hamlet’s hoodie and pulls him towards the woods, where
wood nymphs are standing, shaking at the sight of the monster. Harry must do something, because
he knows, deep down, that this thing is most likely after him, and if it’s really the case then the
whole camp is in danger, because of him. He starts to run towards the creature, and in the process,
maybe to give himself some psychological strength, he slips on the ring. It doesn’t do anything
except glimmer under the sunlight, and he tries not to panic. He doesn’t have a single weapon on
him.

The creature’s close enough to him for him to see what it is. And, well, he can’t even describe what
the thing even looks like. It has the shape of a giant elephant, with deep red eyes, but the body is
made of pitch black smoke. It doesn’t look consistent, as if he could jump through it just fine. He
stops and looks around, hoping to find something, anything that's worth using to slow down the
creature. There are whines and the sound of hooves hitting the ground coming from behind him,
then several centaurs stop at either side of his body, each of them holding bows. They throw arrows
at the monster, except they go through the creature. Next to his head, Harry spots a sword on one
of the centaurs, and without asking if it’s alright, he unsheathes it and gets into position. Soon
enough, other demigods have joined him, ready to stop the thing from getting any nearer.

It’s all proven futile when the creature disappears once again, only to reappear behind them,
continuing its path towards the mess hall. It roars, then goes crashing against one of the mess hall’s
columns. It curls around the marble, and bright fire appears, burning the material, melting it.

One column is not enough to send the whole building crashing to the ground, but if it continues, it
will undoubtedly destroy everything. It doesn’t linger on the mess hall, though, and instead
progressed deeper into the camp, hitting a few demigods and sending them flying in the air. Harry
hasn’t noticed the horns over the creature’s head, a mess of black just like the rest of its body,
except he does see them when the monster drives one of his horns through a demigod, killing him
on the spot.

He wants to puke. He can feel anger coursing through his veins, spiking his blood. He feels almost
dizzy. He doesn’t think, and starts to run at full speed towards the monster, which is making its
way to the cabins. He spots Louis carrying two babies, no older than a year old, towards the
woods, where wood nymphs take over to hide them. The parents of the children are there, too, and
Harry only hopes the cabins are empty.

Hamlet’s suddenly running next to him.

“That thing’s made from black magic,” Hamlet pants, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat
off his forehead. “It’s going to be a pain in the ass to kill it.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, his eyes never leaving the creature. “Any ideas?”

Hamlet shakes his head. “Magic can only be defeated by magic.”

Harry groans, but doesn’t say anything. He stops at the cabins and tries not to cringe when the
monster collides with Hecate’s cabin, destroying a good chunk of it.
Magic can only be defeated by magic.

He tries to think, and looks around desperately. Hamlet has spotted a five year old crying near a
bush, and is scooping up the little girl and already taking off towards the woods. Other demigods
are throwing arrows and spears at the creature, but it doesn’t work as the weapons go straight
through it. It’s not even distracted by them, instead going on about its one single goal; destroying
the camp. He has no idea if he should be relieved that the monster is not after him, or worried that
since it’s not looking for him, it’s been summoned, or created, by someone that wants the camp
gone, not him. It’s worse, actually. The camp is a safe place for so many people and he can't figure
out the reasons as to why anybody would want it gone.

Magic can only be defeated by magic.

He turns his head towards Hades’ cabin, and an idea sparks in his brain, and soon becomes as
bright as fire.

Magic can only be defeated by magic.

He thinks back to his nightmare, to the lost beings that remained alive although their souls were
long gone.

“Please, God of the Dead, don’t be mad at me,” he mutters, and without waiting for a sign or a
permission, he runs towards the cabin until he’s under the torches. The problem is that they're
made of solid obsidian just like the rest of the cabin. He stares hopelessly at the torches, having no
idea of how he’s going to break them free from the wall.

Kiss it, a voice echoes around his head, and he frowns. What? Kiss the torches? Kiss the ring, it
repeats, and his eyes widen. He looks down at his hand, and slowly brings it to his lips. The
moment they brush the jewel, he feels energy coursing through his arm straight to the ring, and it
feels a lot like electricity. In a matter of seconds, the ring has transformed into a long, perfectly
balanced, stunning sword. It feels right in his hand, and there’s the symbol of a thunderbolt and
eagle carved into the sword rain-guard. He blinks in disbelief and looks back up at the torches, and,
with a single, precise strike of the weapon, manages to cut through the base of one of them. He
grabs the torch before it hits the grass, and without thinking twice, makes his way to the creature
that’s now attacking Apollo’s cabin.

He doesn't stop to ponder whether what he's about to do is a great idea or not, he simply throws the
torch at it. It doesn’t go through the monster and instead, the green fire spreads over the whole
monster, burning it, causing a pained roar to rise in the air. It lets go of the cabin, and while it’s
distracted trying to put out the flames, Harry grabs breaks free another torch and throws it as well.
The green flames are consuming the monster completely, and it slowly disappears into thin
particles of dust, getting blown away by the wind. It’s gone. He falls to his knees, the sword still
tightly held in betwee his fingers, and he feels a few pats on his back, and shouts of glory around
him. He looks down at the sword and tentatively kisses the tip of it. It shrinks in size and glows,
until the weapon has gone back to being a ring, secure around his finger.

He lets out a crazed chuckle, and before he can get back to his feet, two arms are circling his neck,
and his face is pushed against a throat that smells way too familiar.

“Not bad,” a soft voice says in his ear, the tone coated with pride. “For a rookie.”

Harry chokes out a wet laugh, and puts his own arms around Louis’ hips. He lets himself relax
against the other demigod, and allows the warmth of Louis’ soft skin transfer to his own. He plants
a kiss against Louis’ throat, humming when Louis plays with the few strands of hair resting on the
back of his head. His hair’s getting rather long, and he’ll need a haircut. Louis loosens his hold on
him so that he can back up and get a good look at Harry. Louis’ skin is coated with a thin layer of
sweat, and there’s still a few drops of fear within his teal blue eyes. There are twigs in his hair,
which looks more like a bird nest than actual hair, and yet he remains the purest thing he has had
the pleasure of beholding. With gentle fingers, he rubs away the dirt that got stuck on Louis’
cheeks.

Julien appears next to Harry, looking devastated.

“You guys better come see this,” is all he says before he’s taking off towards the pine tree. Harry
frowns just as Louis stands up, his face mirroring Harry’s. They share a look, but don't say
anything else as they follow Julien. They climb up to the pine tree, and when they arrive there they
take notice of the thick crowd of demigods gathered around the tree. Louis frantically elbows his
way through the mass of bodies and Harry follows him. Chiron’s next to the tree, his hand
reverently laid against the trunk, but there’s an expression of worry and sorrow over his face.

Louis stumbles towards the tree, and looks up to Chiron, panicked.

“What is it?” Louis asks, his hands shaking as he lays them against the pine tree's trunk. Chiron
looks at Louis with saddened eyes.

“The tree has been poisoned,” Chiron announces, showing to the crowd his fingers that are coated
in a dark blue liquid, and several demigods gasp. “And it is dying. This is why the barrier didn’t
hold against that monster. Somebody must have poisoned the tree from inside the camp.”

“But,” an unfamiliar voice says. It’s a girl from the Ares’ cabin. “Why? Why would anybody do
that?”

Chiron remains silent. A broken sob escapes Louis’ mouth and Harry puts a reassuring hand on
Louis’ shoulder, except he is pushed away. He masks the hurt that flashes across his face, and
instead stands straight and hides his hands behind his back, entwining his fingers to keep himself
from doing something stupid such as scooping Louis up into his arms. He absently plays with his
ring.

“The camp,” Chiron says, with a sombre voice. “Is not safe anymore. We might need to get to
safety until a solution is found.”

“Safety where?” another demigod demands, and Louis clears his throat.

“Camp Jupiter owes us a favour,” Louis finally tells the crowd, turning to face them. There’s anger
written all over his face, enhanced by the crackling fire in his blue orbs, but when they land on
Harry, Louis’ eyes turn incredibly sad.

With a lump in his throat, and not for the first time, Harry can’t help but wonder whether Louis’
hiding something from him or not.

If Harry expected for Louis to go back to ignoring him, he was mistaken. The demigod hasn’t left
his side at all ever since the attack. Most demigods have been packing to go to somewhere near
San Francisco, at Caldecott Tunnel in the Oakland Hills, where the entrance of Camp Jupiter is
rumoured to be. While the most vulnerable demigods are already gone, escorted by centaurs and
satyrs, some have remained behind, looking for a way, or ways, to save the tree. Harry, Hamlet and
Julien are still at the camp, of course, and so is Louis. It’s been a few days already since the attack,
and all he has been doing is train in the arena, not with William, but with Louis.

Training with William was a piece of cake compared to training with Louis. Not only is Louis
incredible with a sword, but he’s also ruthless. Harry’s whole body is blue and purple with bruises,
and Louis is a whole different person when they’re fighting. He’s Harry’s greatest opponent, not
the boy Harry has a crush the size of the moon on. Louis keeps pushing him to be better, teaches
him sword tricks, and Louis doesn’t hesitate to insult him whenever he fails. It’s getting on his
nerves, not because he can’t keep up, but because it’s a huge fucking contrast to how Louis has
been acting towards him a few days earlier. It’s as if they took several steps back.

Louis is throwing a punch towards his face when he loses it. He kicks Louis in the knee, making
the demigod bend, then, using the side of his foot, he makes Louis loses his balance and fall to the
ground. He straddles Louis’ hips and pins Louis’ wrists above his head with a single hand, the
other one cupping Louis’ cheeks harshly, forcing the blue-eyed demigod to look up into his eyes.
He makes sure to look as angry as he feels.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he spits, his voice deeper than it usually is. Louis recoils
underneath him, but he doesn’t let go, refuses to until he gets a satisfactory answer.

“Get off me, you stupid fuck,” Louis grits out, his eyes glaring daggers at him, but he doesn’t do as
he's asked. Instead, he trails a finger down Louis' smooth cheek, and tightens just slightly his grip.

“Answer me first. What. Is. Your. Problem? One moment, we’re fine, and the next you’re using
my face as if it were your personal punching bag. You confuse me, Louis, and I fucking hate it. It’s
already hard enough that I don’t know if what I feel for you is even real, and it doesn't help that I
feel like you, and the entire fucking camp, is hiding something from me, and you’re making it all
worse with your mood swings.”

Louis stops trying to wrench himself free, and instead settles on looking up into Harry’s face with
an unreadable expression.

“You’re going to hate me, if I tell you,” Louis finally tells him, his voice small. Louis’ eyes
become glossy, as if tears were about to fall, but Harry refuses to let that distract him.

“Tell me what?” he snaps, taking a deep breath to calm himself down.

“You need to be prepared, Harry. You’re not an ordinary demigod. You are the most powerful
demigod on earth, and the last living offspring of Zeus. Do you have any idea of how vulnerable
you are? Of how dark your destiny is? You might never be able to live a normal life,” Louis tells
him with furrowed eyebrows.

He gulps. “I already know that. You’re not telling me anything new, Louis. I just don’t understand
why you care.”

While he speaks, his grip on Louis loosens, and Louis pulls his wrists free from his hold. His hands
come up to cradle Harry’s face.

“Everything you feel for me is real, Harry. I have never manipulated your emotions. I don’t need
to. The way you feel for me… it’s as strong as how I feel for you. My abilities are limited. I can
only make somebody fall in love with me, or feel lust for me, for a few hours at most. Only my
mother is strong enough to manipulate people’s feelings for an undefined amount of time. But me?
I can’t. What we have between each other is stronger than anything else.”

He stills, his brows furrowing. He searches Louis' face for any sign of doubt, for any signal that
will tell him that Louis is lying, but all he finds is sadness. Louis' face is open, his expression
ungarded, and at last he feels his shoulders sag in relief, and lets his own hands come up over
Louis’ hands, which are still cradling his cheeks.

“You’re going to hate me,” Louis chokes out, his voice breaking, and then there are tears falling
quickly over his cheeks. Harry hurries to brush them away, except Louis pulls away and uses his
hands to push him. Louis puts some space between them, and Harry already misses him.

“Why would I hate you?” he asks, his voice gentle, as if he were talking to a scared animal. Louis
shakes his head and curls on himself, his arms cuddling his knees that he has pulled up to his chest.
It breaks his heart to see Louis, bright, bubbly, courageous Louis, so broken and defeated.

“Have you noticed how no one has told you the story of the pine tree? The story of how it came to
be our protector?” Louis mumbles, his voice tiny. Harry nods and stays completely still.

“Well,” Louis licks his lips, and looks reluctant to say anything else. But Harry won’t back down.
“It involves you and me.”

Harry lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Me?”

“I mean, I didn't even know you existed,” Louis gazes back at him, voice soft, sorrow written all
over his face. When he opens his mouth again, his eyes glaze over, and Louis looks gone, lost in
his thoughts.

There’s ice cold water falling from the crying sky, and the thunder booms every once in a while.
Louis’ cold, but it’s probably because he’s not dressed accordingly. He only has a thin white tee-
shirt on, a pair of orange shorts, and his favourite small velvety blanket cuddled against his side.
He’s trembling, and he can’t even feel the tip of his fingers. He’s crying, he thinks, but he can’t
exactly tell, his tears camouflaged by the drops of water falling on his face. He’s somewhere
without light, and the thick petrichor scent is prominent all around him. When he backs up against
a tree, he realises there’s grass under his feet, and the canopy above his head is not thick enough
to prevent the rain from passing through. He’s all alone. Daddy was there a few seconds ago, but
Louis thinks he’s lost him. He can’t see the car lights anymore. Daddy told him to wait here, and
that’s what he did, except he is very cold and he wants to go back inside the car where it’s warm
and he feels safe.

Except daddy never comes back.

Leaves ruffle in front of him, and he’s afraid a beast is going to come out, except a girl, older than
him and taller, runs out of the bushes, her breath laboured. She stops when she sees him, and he
knows daddy has told him before to never talk to strangers, but he can’t help himself from darting
forward, ending straight into her arms. She hesitates, but then puts her arms around him, sharing
a bit of much welcomed body heat. She crouches down and cups his cheeks, her golden brown eyes
staring into his. She must be ten years old, which is five years older than him, and he feels safe as
he stares into her warm eyes.

“We have to get out of here, okay? Or else we’ll die from the cold.”

Louis only nods. Daddy hasn’t come back, and he’s freezing. He hopes father won’t be mad at him
for following a stranger. The girl takes his much smaller hand into hers, then drags him through
the forest. He has no idea of where they’re going, but she seems confident in her steps, though
when he looks into her face he can tell she’s looking around with apprehension.

“Shelter,” she mutters, and it’s hard to hear her over the pitter-patter of the rain. “We need
shelter.”

They’ve been running for a while, he thinks. His thighs and calves are burning, and he wants to sit
down and have a glass of water. His throat is dry and he can’t help himself from sticking out his
tongue, hoping to catch a few drops of water and quench his thirst. The girl suddenly makes a
sharp turn, then she’s walking down a sloppy slope and straight into an enormous pool of water.
It’s a river, he thinks, but he can’t be very sure. He’s only ever seen pictures. It might as well be a
giant puddle of muddy water. To their right, there’s a tiny cave, and the girl has to brush aside
long strands of leaves for them to get into. It’s dirtied with empty plastic bottles and cigarette
stubs. It’s all made of mud, and Louis’ hands dig into it as he sits down.

The girl sighs, then takes from underneath her jacket, a few dry wood sticks. She gathers in a pile a
few leaves, then puts the sticks over them, and, closing her eyes, she raises her hands over the
sticks and… does something magical, because white things shoot out of the tip of her fingers and
into the sticks, lighting them on fire. She grins at him, and gently blows underneath the sticks to get
the fire going and, soon enough, there’s a little fire to warm them. Louis puts his chubby hands
close to the cracking flames, sighing happily when the warmth spreads throughout his body.

“What’s your name?" the girl asks, peering curiously at him. "I'm Leyla. Leyla Styles."

“My name’s Louis Tomlinson! Not Lewis, but Lou-ee!” he says enthusiastically, excited at the
prospect of making a new friend. She giggles.

“Nice to meet you, Lou-ee,” she extends her hand, and he clasps it with his own.

“How did you do that?” he wonders, and she must understand he’s referring to the magic that
came from her fingers, because she shrugs.

“My dad’s the Greek god of the sky, Zeus,” she sits up straighter, evidently proud of her daddy. He
has no idea what a ‘Greek god of the sky’ is, but he figures it must be a cool job. At least, it sounds
fancy.

“My daddy’s a plumber,” he tells her, and tries not to pout. He wishes his dad did something dope,
such as being the president of the United States or, like Leyla, being the god of the ocean. Leyla
hums, and her eyes stay on him for a while. They don’t talk all that much, maybe because there’s
nothing interesting to talk about. He hopes his dad is not too worried. He doesn’t want to be
forbidden from desserts for a whole week.

The sky above them is still going mad, thick angry clouds thundering. Leyla looks completely
relaxed, while Louis jumps whenever there’s the loud noise echoing all around them.
“You go to sleep,” Leyla tells him. “I’ll keep watch.”

She frowns, then unzips her jacket. She stands up and puts it behind him, bunching it up so it looks
like a little pillow. He smiles up at her and gives her a hug, muttering several thank yous, then he
lays down. The jacket is much more comfortable than the wet mud, and after putting his little
blanket over himself, he manages to fall asleep without thinking of asking himself why Leyla must
keep watch, and unaware that outside, the storm’s going on because Zeus is mad.

When he startles awake, he sneezes, and knows that he’s fallen ill overnight. He sits up and starts
to panic, because Leyla’s gone. The fire is still going, and it’s pleasantly warm around him, and
although he doesn’t want to step outside, he still does. The sky’s clear now, and in the distance
there is a few clouds but they’re far away. Louis looks around, hoping to see Leyla, but there’s
nothing besides wet leaves and chirping birds. His daddy used to tell him to not move whenever he
gets lost, so that it’s easier for daddy to find him, so he walks back into the cave. He sits down,
scrunching up his nose at his wet clothes and wet hair, and drags the jacket over himself and on
top of it, his blanket. Then he waits. He waits until the water outside makes noises, as if somebody
were stepping in the puddle, then Leyla enters the cave. He visibly relaxes when he sees her, but
his eyes widen when he spots the two dead squirrels in her hands.

“Breakfast,” she says by way of explanations, and Louis lets out a loud ‘ew’!

“I’m not eating that, it’s raw,” he tells her, crossing his arms over his chest. She rolls her eyes.

“We’re going to cook it, silly. There’s a fire right there.”

Before he can say anything though, she has pulled the squirrels over her thigh and is now opening
them. Louis gags. There’s blood on her hands and dripping down her legs, barely visible against
the black fabric of her trousers. She throws the guts and fur out, then cleanses the meat with a
bottle of water she must have taken in the cave and filled with water outside, though Louis is
relieved to see the water’s clean and not muddy. Maybe she found a clean pond not far from there.

She impales each squirrel on a stick, then holds them over the fire. Soon enough the smell of
cooked meat fills the cave, and as much as Louis can’t get the sight of blood out of his mind, his
stomach growls. He’s starving. When she deems them ready, she passes one over to him, warning
him that it’s hot and to be careful, and after blowing over the smoke, he bits in the brown flesh. It’s
not as good as chicken or beef, and it tastes a bit like almond, which is odd, but it’s alright.
Without any seasoning, the meat is bland, and he cringes when a bloody vein that Leyla probably
didn’t see and wasn’t able to clean comes into view. He sighs, and using the tip of his thumb and
forefinger, takes the vein out and throws it away, resisting the urge to gag.

He finishes the squirrel quickly, and although it’s not enough to properly appease his hunger, it
does the trick. He throws the stick aside, and waits for Leyla to be done.

“Louis,” Leyla tells him, growing serious. “I’ve seen your dad drop you off here, muttering about
a camp. I think he means Camp Half-Blood. I don’t know why he didn’t take you there himself, but
he left you like that, on your own, and it’s dangerous. But I know you’re a demigod, Louis, just like
me. And it’s dangerous for you to be out there.”

“A demi- a demigod?” he tries, frowning because he doesn’t understand what that is.

“A child born from a human and a god,” Leyla answers. “I want to get to Camp Half-Blood, too,
so we can go to it together, okay? I know where it is.”

Louis has no idea of what she’s talking about, but he nods regardless. They step out of the cave and
he follows Leyla as she begins walking further in the woods. She’s put her jacket back on, and her
hands are deep within its pockets. She looks lost in thoughts. He stays quiet besides her, letting his
fingers graze a few wet flowers. They seem to respond well to his touch, he realises with surprise,
and a flower even blooms when he caresses its velvety petals. He laughs. He doesn’t know that
Leyla’s watching him, fond, and already suspicious of who his godly parent might be. He keeps
playing with the flowers, making them yearn for his touch as he goes, until they stumble across two
other kids. One has hair that reaches his shoulder, and the other has chocolate skin and bright,
golden eyes.

They all freeze for a moment, until Louis glances down and sees that the boy with the golden eyes
is half-goat, with hooves instead of feet. He can’t help himself; he hides behind Leyla, who moves
in front of him.

“Wait,” the goat-boy says. “Are you going to Camp Half-Blood?”

Leyla nods, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. It’s not until the boy with the long-hair steps forward
and tells them that he’s the son of Ares, and that the goat-boy is a satyr, that Leyla relaxes and
smiles easily.

“I’m Leyla, daughter of Zeus, and this is Louis. He’s just found out he’s a demigod.”

The satyr looks at him, his warm eyes glancing over him, assessing.

“I bet he's Aphrodite’s son. There’s this aura around him that’s particular to the offspring of
Aphrodite,” the satyr mutters with a curious tilt to his lips.

Louis has no idea of who’s Aphrodite, and he’s about to tell the satyr exactly that, when there’s a
loud noise behind them, and the ground shakes. He whimpers. He hates earthquakes.

Except, it’s not an earthquake, he quickly comes to know. Several trees fall in the distance, then a
giant foot appears, followed by an equally big body. A round, bald head comes out afterwards, and
he takes a few shaky steps back. His dad has read him Jack and the Beanstalk, and he knows about
giants alright, and he’s pretty sure that the monster in front of them fits the description of what a
giant should look like. He stands, frozen, as the giant roars, saliva flying from its mouth and
around them. Someone scoops him up, he thinks, and when he looks down he’s met with a
shoulder. The satyr is carrying him, and while they’re all running away from the giant, he is able
to look up into its ugly, cold eyes.

He will never forget that face. It’s distorted in a sneer, and there’s pure hatred on it. He tightens
his arms around the satyr’s neck, and resists the urge to hide his own face in the satyr’s shoulder.
He’s scared, and he wants his dad, but he’s nowhere in sight. He hears shouts behind him, and the
satyr tells them to go right. The giant is fast, but it has trouble following them because the tree
branches keep getting in its face. They’re getting closer to the edge of the woods, Louis can tell
because there are less trees the further away they run, and he dreads when they’ll be out of the
woods and in clear sight of the giant.

It comes sooner than he expects, and he has to swallow back his tears when he sees the giant
unroots a tree and throws it at them. Louis screams. He can’t help it. The satyr ducks, probably
seeing the shadow of the tree, and puts a protective hand over his head. There’s a pained cry
somewhere behind them, and he doesn’t want to look, but he still glances over his shoulder and
sees that the shoulder-length haired boy’s legs are trapped underneath the tree. His face bears an
expression of pain, and Leyla is frantically trying to move the trunk, without success. Louis
watches as the boy mutters something, and his bracelet turns into a sword, which he uses to cut the
trunk. The giant’s approaching, and the satyr starts running again, pulling Leyla along with them.
She struggles and screams and tries to go back to helping the boy, but the satyr is strong.

Louis lets a tear roll down his cheek. He doesn’t want that boy to die.

The giant scoops the boy, who shouts and kicks, trying to wrench himself free from the big hairy
hand. It’s pointless, and the giant salivates as it opens its mouth, ready to toss the boy in it. Louis
can’t breath. He’s crying, broken sobs spilling out of his lips.

He closes his eyes as the giant’s fingers loosen around the boy. He fully expects the crunchy sound
of bones being munched on, except instead there's a roar of pain so great it shakes the earth, and
when Louis opens his eyes, the boy has driven his sword into one of the giant’s eyes and was now
hanging from the weapon. Using his feet, the demigod pushes himself off and falls on the grass,
and Louis knows the boy’s just broken his arm for it sits at an odd angle. The boy’s mouth is
opened in a scream, except he shakily stands up and runs, following them, while the giant’s still
trying to stop the blood flow.

It doesn't take long before it's back to chasing them, even with one less eye. It looks scarier with
blood coating the better half of its face and its body. It’s more angry, too, and somehow faster.
Louis is shaking.

“Get to camp!” Leyla screams, before she whirls around, intending to protect them from the
monster. They’re almost at the top of the hill before them, and Louis shouts at her, asking her to
come back, but she won’t do it. There’s a spear in her hands now, and thin strands of white appear
in and out of view. Electricity.

She’s about to throw it, except the creature roars and the wind picks up, making her stumble a few
steps back. She throws her spear, the weapon taking the shape of a lightning bolt, just as the
creature grabs her and throws her several meters in the air. She flies above them and lands on a
piece of rock hidden among the grass. Louis sees as the spear strikes the giant, and electrifies it,
turning it into dust.

It’s gone.

The giant’s gone. They’re safe. They’ve stopped running and Louis moves, wanting to be put down,
which the satyr obliges although with a big of reluctance. He runs as fast as his five-year-old legs
allow him to, until he’s kneeling next to Leyla. She’s as white as a sheet, and there’s a red liquid
oozing out of the back of her head, but he doesn’t see it. He laughs and tells her how cool she was
out there, and how courageous she was, and he sees the ghost of a smile on her face. One of her
hands comes up to brush his fringe away from his face, but it falls limp on his lap. He takes her
hand and shakes it, trying to make her move, except her eyes have lost their sparks of life, and her
chest has stopped moving.

The long-haired boy kneels on her other side, and sobs. He uses his fingers to close her eyes and
Louis frowns.

“Why is she not moving?” he asks, huffing when he doesn’t get an answer. “Leyla?”

Her hands are cold, her skin has lost its colour. Louis feels a lump forming in his throat. No. This
can’t be. He doesn’t want his friend to die. His friend can’t be dead, not because of him, not
because he was too busy running away from the monster while she faced it. More tears stream
down his face, and he passes a tiny hand through her dark hair. She looks peaceful, the smile still
present on her face.

When Louis looks up, a tall man with the bottom-half of a horse is looking back at him, his eyes
sad. He nods his head at a satyr, who takes Louis by the arm and drags him away from Leyla. He
kicks and screams and cries, but it’s in vain, the satyr won’t let go. There’s a storm above their
heads, and deadlier, angrier, scarier than any other storm he has ever seen. The thunder is so loud
he has to cover his ears lest his eardrums would explode. He watches, shocked, as a lightning bolt
is thrown from the sky at Leyla, and before he can shout, no!, it has touched her. They all watch as
the energy causes her to transform, her body sinking into the grass. Her human fingers become
tree roots, her fair complexion becomes wood, and from her body grows a tall tree with vibrant
green leaves. There’s static in the air as something blue is created from her, circling the camp. A
barrier. A protection barrier.

Louis is completely unaware that the storm is going on because Zeus is broken, and in losing his
daughter, the god has decided to turn her sacrifice into something more, by creating this barrier
that will protect lost demigods from ever suffering the same fate as her.

“I'll never be able to thank her for saving my life,” Louis whispers in the silence. He has long since
stopped crying, but Harry hasn’t. Tears are making his vision blurry, and he can’t stop shaking. He
looks to his right at the pine tree that he can see through the arena’s huge windows.

He looks at his sister. His sister that, until then, he hadn’t known had existed.

He can’t look at Louis. He can’t even think, actually. He’s torn between shouting and curling on
himself. A part of him wants to accuse Louis of lying, because what the fuck. He has no idea of
how he’s even holding himself up, how he hasn’t gone crumbling to the floor, sobbing his heart
out. He can feel the shattered pieces of his heart threatening to slash open his body. He’s sad,
incredibly so, but more than that he’s angry. He’s angry at his mother, he’s angry at his fucking
father, the ‘Lord of the sky’, who wasn’t able to protect her. He’s angry at Louis for keeping such a
big thing from him all this time, and he’s angry at the entire camp for even looking at him in the
eye while keeping such a big secret from him.

He feels numb.

Louis is looking at him. His eyes are still troubled after recalling the story, and there’s a sadness to
them that Harry can’t bear to look at. After listening to Louis talk for so long, the silence around
them tastes like acid. Harry looks down at his ring, caressing the jewel. He’s never felt so alone,
and even when he looks down at Louis, he can’t seem to be able to bear the sight.

He stands up, wiping the dirt that has stuck to his hands, and walks past Louis. He can’t help but
linger next to the blue-eyed demigod who is still sitting on the ground. He hears Louis trying to
keep a sob in, and maybe Harry should tell him, it’s alright, don’t cry, I’m sorry, but instead, using
his thumb, he gathers the lone tear that has slid down his cheek, and walks away from Louis. He
steps through the huge entrance of the arena.

And never looks back.

-

He hasn’t spoken to anyone. To avoid eating with Hamlet and Julien, he acts as if he were looking
for answers to save his sister — he’s stopped calling the tree, well, a tree. It feels wrong — when
in reality he’s either expressing his anger on the several punching bags in the arena or ranting off to
the statue of Zeus in his cabin, not caring whether the god is listening or not. Life at camp has
become dull. Without the children and toddlers, there is no laughter across the meadows, no joy
spicing up the air. The wood nymphs are long gone, not there anymore to fill the camp with music.
The hearth in the middle of the cabins hasn’t been lit up ever since his sister has been poisoned.
Many times, though Chiron has advised against, he has walked up the hill to his sister, swallowing
down a sob. He has touched the tree trunk with newfound love. He has tried talking to her, to
Leyla, but all he was answered with was yet another leaf falling from one of the branches, a painful
reminder that Leyla is dying, and he's over there doing nothing.

He hasn’t talked to Louis. It’s been four days already since he has been told about his sister, and he
hadn’t had the strength to even look at the other demigod. Or, if he did, he made sure Louis was
looking elsewhere so their eyes wouldn’t cross path. He’s not sure he’ll be able to bear it, if he had
to see the sorrow and the regret swimming within Louis’ blue orbs. And it’s made harder seeing as
there’s this stubborn part within him that urges him to forgive Louis, to tell him that everything’s
fine, that he’s not mad at him, but at his parents. He doesn’t have the strength, though, and as
selfish as it sounds, it’s easier to blame someone that’s right under his nose than blame a father
that’s living skies above him, or a mother who’s in Boston and who he hasn’t talked to in almost
two months.

It's unfair to Louis, and he's aware of it.

He doesn’t understand how his life has changed so much in such a short period of time.

He’s leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the woods when Hamlet finds him. Wordlessly, the
black-haired demigod crouches down next to him to sit, mirroring his position. Harry doesn’t
exactly want to see him, or explain himself, but he doesn’t tell Hamlet to fuck off. Instead, he stays
quiet, and accepts the cigarette Hamlet gives him, as well as the lighter. He lights the stick up, and
takes a long drag from it, until the smoke that curls in his throat is bordering on painful. It’s a good
kind of pain, though, which momentarily distracts him from Louis, who he knows is across the
meadow, in the Big House, reading every single book Chiron possesses, desperate to find a
solution for Leyla.

Harry should be in there as well. He should be kneeling with Louis on the ground, should be
making his way through thousand of books, should be out there trying to save his fucking sister,
and the fate of the camp. But instead he’s wallowing in sorrow and anger, which won’t make
anything better. He feels bad, he really does, but he can’t find the will to do anything about it.

It’s fucking pathetic.

Hamlet’s already beginning his second cigarette. There are enormous dark circles underneath his
eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for a whole week, and he stinks like death. Every once in a while, his
eyes dart towards the hill, towards Leyla, but then he’s back to looking down at his booted feet.

“There’s something I’ve read a while ago. It’s from Stephen King. It’s random, really, but it just
stuck, you know? It’s from Storm of the Century, a screenplay. It’s about this lad, Job, right? Well,
he loses his farm, his family is killed, basically his life is ruined. So he asks to the heavens above,
why god? Why me? Guess what God answered?”

Harry expects something deep, so he shrugs. He just can’t bring himself to think, honestly. His
brain has turned into a mushy mess.

Hamlet snorts. “God answered, all almighty that he is, there’s just something about you that pisses
me off.”

It takes Harry a moment to process Hamlet’s words, but when he does, he can’t help himself from
laughing, his shoulders shaking. It turns into a full on hysteric laugh, and they’re both laughing-
crying by the time they manage to calm down.

“It’s fucking nuts, how much I relate to Job. Styx, I hope father’s listening to me right now, but
he’s a real piece of shit. I haven’t talked to him for two years at least, until recently, and you know
why he even tried to reach out to me? To yell at me for the torches of his cabin that your lame ass
broke. A cabin that, mind you, he didn’t even design. Don’t do the puppy eyes, Harry, it’s fine, the
cabin’s like before now. But I just want you to understand, there’s an entire dimension between
demigods and their godly parents. It’s a fucking roller coaster, is what it is. I don’t think there’s a
single demigod out there that has a good relationship with their godly parent, mostly because the
gods have other, more important things to care about than their offspring. The notions of love and
family are foreign to them, or at least, they don’t hold the same signification and importance that
we, who were born among humans, are used to. They care for us, sure, because we represent them,
but they mostly only see us as reincarnations of everything they represent. We are, in a way, there
to make them feel relevant.

It’s paradoxical. I bet there have been many times before where you felt… useless. Like horse shit
useless. But you feel that way without knowing how important you are to the gods, even though
they’re too prideful to admit it. Hell, I bet my father is glaring up at me from underneath my ass.
My whole point is that, you’re losing yourself, Harry. You’re swimming in a pool of self-hatred, in
a pool of mantras that go from, I’m useless to what am I doing here? and I’ve gone though that,
mate, and it fucking sucks. But you can come back from this… whatever you wanna call it. You
shouldn’t blame Louis, or your mother, or any of us for what happened to Leyla. You should blame
the gods. Life has been a constant struggle for us demigods, when we never asked to be born. It’s
hypocrisy at its finest. We’re the scapegoats, we are constantly caught between the gods and their
problems.”

Hamlet stops talking, and takes a deep breath. He continues, his eyes fixed on the pine tree at the
top of the hill.

“Leyla is gone because of the gods, Harry. And the choice to not tell you has been decided so you
won’t suffer the same fate as her. A while ago, let’s say, eighty years? It was after World War II.
Well, the Big Three, as in, Zeus, Poseidon and Hades, agreed they wouldn’t father anymore heroes,
and that’s because their offspring were just too powerful. They were affecting the course of human
events too much, causing too much carnage. The children of Zeus and Poseidon fought together
against the children of Hades, and Hades lost. He was forced to swear with his brothers to never
have affairs with mortal women. They call it the Pact of the Big Three. The pact was held until a
few years ago.”

Hamlet doesn’t need to say anything. Harry knows.

“Leyla,” Harry whispers, nostalgia overtaking him. She didn’t deserve that.

“And guess who’s responsible,” Hamlet says bitterly. “My dad. He got furious when he found out
about her. Couldn’t bear it that Zeus, of all the gods, had broken the oath. He sent an army of
monsters after her. Zeus loved her, and he loved you, too. The worst thing is that Hades came after
Leyla without knowing he had impregnated my mother, and I was born a few weeks before Leyla
died. They say Zeus had been so furious, the earth shook for weeks, the sky thundered for even
longer. Hades promised to never touch a single hair on your head, and that calmed Zeus. Poseidon
was the only one left without a child, the only one who has honoured the pact to this day, and he
decided to not hold accountable Zeus or Hades. He has yet to have children with any mortal
women, though he did father pegasus and cyclopes, and other creatures.”

Hamlet sighs, and fishes another cigarette from his half-empty pack. He’s stressed, Harry notices,
probably because he expects Harry to lash out against him. Harry should, maybe, because it still is
Hamlet’s father who killed his sister. He thinks back to Hamlet’s words. You should blame the
gods.

Harry looks at Leyla, standing tall and proud at the top of the hill. She has lost a few leaves
because of the poison, but she still looks majestic. He reaches out and plucks the burning cigarette
right out of Hamlet’s mouth, and puts it out in the mud, pocketing the butt.

“I’m not blaming you for what happened to Leyla,” he tells Hamlets. “I blame Hades. I blame that
stupid, fucking oath. I blame Zeus, Poseidon and Hades for making an oath that sounds so
unreasonable. I’m not all that educated about Greek mythology, but I know they’re all cheating
fuckers, that oath was doomed from the beginning.”

Hamlet nods and smiles at him, his eyes sparkling.

“Want to kick some godly arses?” Hamlet asks, a smirk on his face.

“Fuck yeah,” Harry breathes out, and he takes the hand that Hamlet offers to him after he’s stood
up.

“Then,” Hamlet announces with certainty, a fire in his eyes. “Let’s save your sister.”

Harry doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight it, and lets himself be guided towards the Big House. He
glances at Leyla, and sends a silent promise. I will be there for you, like you’ve been there for me
all those years ago. He knows he owes her a lot. Even though there’s someone out there that still
wants him dead, he knows it’s not one of the Big Threes, and it reassures him. He sees everything
under a new light, now, or at least he’s ready to sort himself and fight for what he cares about. He
wants to keep his head above water, and be able to breath in the fresh air, without being perpetually
threatened by his fear of drowning. He knows he must focus on what he still has, that is to say his
mother, Julien, Hamlet, the camp, Louis. Those people who have put meaning to his life. His hands
shake under the exhilaration he suddenly feels. He lets one of his arms fall down over Hamlet’s
shoulder, dragging the demigod against his body, and Hamlet rolls his eyes but there’s a pleased
smile on his face.

Harry can’t say he’s not still falling, and struggling. But from where he’s submerged under a
bottomless pool of water, he can still see the deformed shape of the sun, and he’s so close to
reaching it. He just needs something to get him over the edge.

Through one of the Big House’s windows, Harry can see Louis talking to Chiron.

And maybe what he needs is right under his nose, waiting for him to embrace it.
-

The door creaks open, making an eerie sound. There are dust particles floating in the air, rendered
visible because of the sunlight that filters through the closed windows. The first thing he notices is
the unlit chandelier hung from the ceiling. It’s a stunning contrast to the walls, bookshelves and
desk, all of them made of wood. There are soft and comfortable looking settees in the middle of the
library, circling a gingerbread wool carpet that looks so enticing he wants to dip his toes among the
textured surface. He doesn’t mutter a single word as he closes the door behind him. Louis is on the
floor with dozens of books opened around him. He looks engrossed in his reading, and almost
frantic as he flips through other books. From where Harry is, he can see the dark circles underneath
Louis’ eyes, and his back hurts for Louis as he pictures the demigod staying hunched over several
days and nights in a row.

Harry wants to cry, suddenly, and a surge of affection overwhelms him. He gulps and makes his
presence known by kneeling outside the nest of books Louis created, and the only
acknowledgement he gets is a side glance, but other than that Louis doesn’t say anything. Harry
licks his lips and takes a book. He can read all of them, thankfully, seeing as they’re all in Ancient
Greek. It’s a thick book about mythical creatures, and it’s opened on a creature called Arion. The
picture is one of a winged horse. It reads:

‘Arion is an ancient Greek creature that takes the form of a giant, extremely swift horse. Arion is
endowed with both eternal life and the ability to speak. It is said Arion was born from the union
between the god of the West Wind Zephyrus and a harpy. Arion was owned by heroes such as
Heracles, and it is mostly known for its services to the king of Argos, Adrastus. The horse is said to
possess incredible speed, so fast it is that, as mentioned in the Iliad by Homer, “...there is no man
that shall catch thee by a burst of speed, neither pass thee by, nay, not through in pursuit he were
driving goodly Arion, the swift horse of Adrastus, that was of heavenly stock…”. The horse is also
immortal, and whispers say that drops of its blood can cure any disease, but others speculate, on
the contrary, that its blood can hasten death.’

Harry puts the book back to where it has been, and takes another one.

‘Gods and goddesses of healing.

Akeso, the goddess responsible for healing wounds and curing illnesses. Aegle, goddess of radiant
good health. Hygeia, goddess of cleanliness and good health and companion of Aphrodite. She was
summoned with Asclepius to Athens c.430 BC to deal with the epidemic plague. Iaso, goddess of
recuperation from illness, and healing remedies that complimented her sister Hygeia’s preventive
practices. Panakeia, goddess of universal remedies or healing, often by using potions. Paeon, a
deity and physician of the Olympian gods, healed the wounds of wars inflicted by other gods.

It is not easy to summon them, seeing as they are always busy. Sometimes, they require sacrifices in
exchange for their help…’

“I’ve already tried to ask my mother for Hygeia’s help,” Louis suddenly tells Harry, stopping him
in his read. When he looks up, Louis has a troubled expression on his face. “It was for naught. I
didn’t get a single useful answer.”

Harry puts down the book and looks at Louis carefully, saying his next words as gently as possible.
He can tell Louis is worked up, fed up by the fact that he still hasn’t found a solution to save Leyla.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, voice soft. “We will find a solution, alright?”

Louis’ eyes clear when he says ‘we’, and the blue-eyed demigod nods. He looks tired, his
complexion paler than usual, and Harry wants to reach out and caress the cold skin, but he doesn’t
dare to and keeps his hands to himself. He stands up then, and notices a pitcher of water, a few
glasses, and a plate full of lemon slices. He pours a tall glass of water and adds a single slice of
lemon in it, then puts it next to Louis.

“I’m going to look through the shelves,” he announces, making Louis look up from his book.

“Thank you, for the water and hm… I’ve already done the south and west parts of the library.”

Harry gives him an awkward thumb-up and takes off towards the stairs that lead to another floor
whose every nook and cranny is stocked with books. The scent is strong there, a mixture of
yellowed pages and old wood. It’s reassuring, and he allows himself to relax as he kneels in front
of the nearest bookshelves, his hands going through the bottom shelf. The books aren’t ranked in
any particular order. Tall books hide smaller ones, thick books have collected more dust than the
thinner ones, and after thirty minutes of going through at least thirty books, his eyes tingle with the
dust he’s been greeted with whenever he opened a new book. It’s obvious no one bothers cleaning
the room, and he has to sneeze in the crook of his elbow to avoid making anymore dust fly. He
sighs and goes back to reading the titles. A Guide to Surviving Cyclopes if You Are a Satyrs. The
War Between the Titans and the Gods. Prometheus, the One Who Thinks Ahead. The Children of
the Titans Uranus and Gaea (From Titans to Telchines). Helen of Troy. The titles almost blur
together the more he reads them. None of them seem to be useful to cure his sister.

Chiron has been holed up in his office trying to find a cure, but the poison that was used is a
powerful one, and an unknown one at that. The ingredients that were used are difficult to find, and
there’s a drop of magic in the poison that Chiron can’t describe.

The worst thing is that they don’t know how much time they have until the poison reaches Leyla’s
heart and kills her once and for all.

Harry swallows the lump in his throat and goes back to searching through the books. He’s been
head deep within pages and dust when he comes across a book that reads, Elements. He takes it
and sits down, his back to a wall. It’s a thin book, with a hundred pages at most, and the cover is of
a deep purple with a burning torch. The first page is a drawing of a carving depicting fire-spitting
creatures, half-human half-fish monsters, and several objects that he can’t even describe. The pages
are yellow from age, and he shivers when he finds faded drops of a liquid, which seems to be
blood. It’s obviously an ancient book, a few centuries if he has to guess, and he carefully flips
through the pages, reading with a frown. There’s no name, no ways of knowing the author.

‘Elements is a collection of what I’ve learnt during my life as a sailor, regarding magical elements,
as in, mythical objects and substances with extraordinary properties. The most relevant ones,
which I will tell you everything about, are the Shirt of Nessus, the Nectar, the Ambrosia, the
Golden Fleece, the shield Aegis, the Ichor, the Necklace of Harmonia and the Shield of Achilles.
Most of these elements are toxic to mortals, but to heroes, they can be life-savers.’

He omits the rest of the introduction and starts to read about the elements.

‘The Shirt of Nessus was the poisoned shirt that led to the death of the Greek demigod Heracles. It
had been poisoned by Heracles himself when he killed the centaur Nessus, who was the owner of
the shirt, using the poisonous blood of the Lernean Hydra. {...}. The shirt is said to be guarded by
a cyclop, and can kill any hero and any creature. {...}.’
He skips the chapter, seeing as the first few elements won’t help him save Leyla. The Nectar and
the Ambrosia won’t be of great help since his sister is a pine tree and pine trees can’t eat, and the
Nectar doesn’t heal, only grants immortality and it’s practically impossible to find, anyway. It’s
when he starts reading about the Golden Fleece that he sits up straighter and feels himself getting
hopeful.

‘The golden fleece is the fleece of the golden ram that is held at the Garden of Ares, in Kolkhis
(Colchis). Athamas, king of the city of Orchomenos, married the goddess Nephele, with whom he
had two children, Phrixus and Helle. Later, he took Ino as his second wife, who hated her
stepchildren and plotted to kill them. She almost succeeded, but at the last second, Nephele sent a
flying golden ram to save her children from their stepmother. She then told her children not to look
down while the ram was flying. However, Helle looked down, felt dizzy and fell into the part of the
sea that took her name, Hellespont. The ram and Phrixus eventually reached Kolkhis, where the
boy was warmly welcomed by the king, Aeetes. Phrixus gave the golden fleece of the ram as a gift
to the king, grateful for his hospitality. Aeetes placed the golden fleece in a garden, and it has ever
since been guarded by a never sleeping dragon, the drakon kholkikos (Colchian Dragon). {...}.

Jason, the leader of the Argonautic Expedition, has gone on a quest to retrieve the golden fleece.
He was given three tasks to complete by Aeetes, but failed the last one, and died before he could
retrieve the magical element. It remains in Kolkhis, fiercely protected by Peleus, the dragon.

The golden fleece is less known for its most magnificent property; its capacity to heal any disease,
any poison, and even save a soul before it joins the underworld.’

With his heart beating fast, he scrambles to his feet, almost cuddling the book to his chest. He can’t
believe that there might be a solution. He almost falls down the stairs as his long legs make haste
to the floor below. Louis is sipping the water, his eyes dropped. He’s looking at the books
dejectedly, and not caring whether he’s going to tear them or not, Harry kneels right in front of
Louis and shows him the book. Louis blinks at him, then lets his gaze fall down on the opened
pages. He sees Louis’ expression shifts from despair to absolute joy, and his eyes snap to Harry.

“The golden fleece, Harry, that’s genius,” Louis gets to his feet, almost tripping over one of the
opened books, and Harry follows him to the door. He keeps it close to his chest, a goofy smile on
his face.

“We’ll have to find the location of Colchis, and it’s probably going to be tricky,” Louis is all
excited, and despite the situation, he finds it in himself to just... admire the way blood rushes to the
surface of Louis' skin. Louis turns around towards him. “You got the book, right? Yeah, good.”

Louis snaps his mouth shut, his chest going up and down with excitement, and Louis is looking at
him, really looking, his eyes sparkling with something he can’t quite describe.

He can definitely admit though, that he doesn’t see it coming when Louis fists the front of his tee-
shirt and brings him down into a searing kiss.

There’s only a single lick against his lips before Louis stumbles back, his eyes wide.

“Harry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

He doesn’t let Louis finish; he traps Louis against the door, cups Louis’ chin with his available
hand, and brings their lips together once again but this time, he pours every single drop of passion,
love and admiration available in his body straight into Louis’ mouth. Louis moans and opens his
lips, granting him access to the hottest, wettest part of his body, and it’s absolutely heavenly the
way their tongues dance around one another. Louis’ arms come up around his neck, his hands
playing with his curls, and Louis has to get on his tiptoes to make the kiss more comfortable. Harry
licks broadly inside Louis’ mouth, and doesn’t hesitate before sucking on Louis’ tongue, and it’s
the best fucking thing he has experienced in his life. He wants to put his arm around the curve of
Louis’ waist, but he can’t because of the book, so he settles with rubbing his thumb on Louis’ soft,
hairless cheek. When they detach, they’re so close that they share the same breath, and he can see
with precision the flush on Louis' cheeks and the specks of gold in his blue eyes.

Louis closes his eyes and leans his forehead on the middle of Harry’s chest.

“Let’s get this to Chiron, alright?”

Harry nods, and they step out of the library. He looks down at their intertwined hands, and has to
bite back a smile.

Chiron’s hair is down. That’s the first thing Harry notices. It cascades over his shoulders, and falls
in his eyes as he leans over the thick, worn-out book opened in front of him. He has never been to
this room of the house, but it’s filled with exotic plants and odd-coloured liquids. The scent is one
of patchouli and boiling tea, which is a weird combination, but not unpleasant. There are dead
toads on the shelves and, if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought that he had just stepped into a
witch den. Chiron doesn’t seem to notice them, too engrossed in his reading, and it’s the first time
he sees Chiron so discheveled.

“Chiron?” Louis calls out, voice soft, and he steps closer to the centaur. Chiron startles and his eyes
snap to Louis. The centaur clears his throat and closes the book, turning his body towards them.
Louis continues speaking, jerking his head towards Harry. “Harry found a solution that might
actually work.”

Chiron’s face clears, and he approaches Harry who gives him the book.

“The golden fleece,” he says, tapping the drawing of the golden ram. “It can cure Leyla. We just
have to retrieve it. It could work.”

Chiron purses his lips. “It could work, but the problem is that it’s incredibly risky. No one knows
the exact location of Kolkhis. Jason, all those times ago, managed to find it thanks to a unique
map; the ἀπόκρυφος map, or, the map of the Concealed. It’s a map that shows all the hidden
islands that are invisible and unknown to mankind. You’ll need to find it first.”

Louis speaks, his arms crossed over his chest. “The map must be with Jason’s corpse.”

“But Jason’s corpse is on the island, no?” Harry frowns. “And we don’t know where the island is,
therefore we don’t know where the map is.”

“No,” Chiron strokes his stubble. “The map is not with Jason. Or at least, that’s what the full myth
says. The map belongs to a sorceress, Medea, who lives in the Sea of Monsters, known by humans
as the Bermuda Triangle. She refuses to give it away, as it’s too valuable, but heroes can have a
look at it to know the exact position of what they seek. I do not know if the myth tells the truth, but
that’s the extent of my knowledge regarding the map.”
He sees Louis grimace when Chiron mentions the Sea of Monsters.

“We can do it,” Louis tells Chiron. “That’s our only option, anyway.”

Chiron's shoulders fall in exhaustion. "It is indeed."

They walk out of the Big House in silence, and Louis is lost in his thoughts. Harry doesn’t know
what to say. His lips are still tingling from the kiss they shared, and his fingers have grown cold
from not being laced with Louis’. He puts his hands in his pockets and watches the pine tree in the
distance. We found a solution, he tells Leyla, though he knows she can’t hear him. Still, it’s
comforting to bath in the illusion that she can. I don’t know if we’ll succeed, but we’ll try
everything to come back to you.

He’s scared. He’s not stupid, he knows they’re about to embark on a perilous journey. Hell, a
dragon that never sleeps protects the golden fleece, and from the worried expression on Louis’
face regarding the Sea of Monsters, he’s sure it’s not heaven on earth. There’s also the fear in his
guts that Leyla is dying faster than they think, and that by the time they’ll make it back, if they do
make it back, she’ll be gone. It’s the fate of the whole camp that falls into their hands, and the
more he thinks about it, the more stressed he gets.

“I, um,” Louis begins, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “I’m going to prepare for this quest. You
should, too.”

he nods, numb, wanting more than anything to grab Louis’ hand and pull him against his chest, but
he stays silent and watches as the blue-eyed demigod walks away. There’s Hamlet leaning against
a tree, his eyes on them, and swallowing the lump in his throat, he makes his way towards the
dark-haired demigod. He looks back from time to time, just to make sure nothing happens to Louis
between the Big House and the bridge. He’s become quite paranoiac ever since the barrier fell.

“Hey,” he greets Hamlet, sighing. He passes one hand through his hair. They really are getting
long.

“Hi,” Hamlet answers. “What happened in there?”

“We found a solution to cure Leyla,” he tells him, pinching the bridge of his nose. A headache is
forming and his temples are beginning to throb. Hamlet stands straighter, his head tilted to the side,
his eyes asking a thousand questions. “It’s an element, called the golden fleece. It is said to have
incredible healing properties.”

“The golden fleece? I think I’ve read about it before… wasn’t it with a certain hero called Jason?”

Harry hums, kicking at a pebble. It lands several meters away and disappears among the grass.

“I’m coming with you,” Hamlet says, fishing a cigarette from his packet and lighting it up. He’s as
stressed as Harry feels, then.

He shakes his head. “It’s too risky.”

Hamlet snorts. “Please.”

They leave it at that. He's secretly glad that Hamlet’s coming, anyway. He knows the demigod is
powerful, and will surely know how to get them out of difficult situations. He might not feel a
hundred percent sure about this whole quest, but he knows with Louis and Hamlet, they have a
good chance of finding the golden fleece and bringing it back to Leyla.
“I’m going to pack. We leave in a day.”

Hamlet does the peace sign, and Harry’s lips twitch. He takes off towards the cabins, bypassing the
strawberry fields, the armoury, the arena, and he thinks about how unfortunate it will be if they fail
and Leyla is gone, leaving the camp unsafe for demigods. In every building, in every flower
growing in the grass, there’s a story, as if each and every single demigod had left a trace of
themselves in between the nook and cranny. He doesn’t want all of this to go to waste and to
disappear, he doesn't want for years of memories to go down the drain. He has yet to properly
settle down, and he refuses that the first and only place in this world that felt safe to him a few days
ago, just fade away right in front of his eyes. He looks towards the woods, catching sight of a few
wood nymphs tending to trees, but there’s no smile on their face, no joy filtering through the
canopy. The camp’s only a ghost of what it used to be.

And he hates it.

He reaches the cabins, and blinks in surprise when he sees Louis sitting on the few steps leading to
the heaving bronze doors of Zeus' cabin. He doesn’t say anything, only takes a few steps towards
the demigod and sits down next to Louis, his long legs bent. Louis has somehow changed in a short
chiton, but this one’s black, and it’s fucking ironic how it fits the situation.

Louis brandishes a pair of scissors, and says, “I want to cut your hair.”

They found out not even fifteen minutes ago that they will have to go on a journey that will most
likely lead them to their death, and here Louis is, asking to cut his hair. It’s completely nuts, but
the banality of it makes him crack a tiny smile.

“Do you even know how to cut hair?” he asks, and Louis scoffs.

“My mom’s the goddess of beauty, what do you think? Also, it’s so white inside your cabin it hurts
my eyes, and I figured we might as well make a damn good mess to give it some personality.”

Louis rolls his eyes and stands up, pushing open the bronze doors and stepping inside Harry’s
cabin. He takes a deep breath and follows Louis, raising an eyebrow when he sees that a chair is
already positioned next to his bed, a thick white towel is thrown haphazardly on the sheet, and
Louis is waiting next to the marble sink.

“Come here,” he says, and he complies. With gentle hands, Louis coaxes him to bend until his head
is in the sink. The tap is high enough that it doesn’t touch him, and Harry puts his elbows on the
edge of the sink, closing his eyes as Louis turns the tap on, warm water gushing out of the hole and
straight onto the mess of curls. With delicate movements, Louis untangles his curls and gets them
nice and wet, then he pours a bit of rose-smelling shampoo directly over his head, the cold milky
substance contrasting with the hot water. All around them the only noises come from the steady
stream of water and their soft, harminized breathing. It’s peaceful, and the headache that has begun
is already going away as Louis massages his scalp. Drops of water slide down his forehead, and he
squeezes his eyes shut to prevent any soapy water from getting into them.

Louis rinses his head twice, the first time with a shampoo and the second one with a cream that
gives a shine to his hair. Then, Louis turns off the tap and grabs a little towel, instructing him to
stand up. Before his hair can send water everywhere, Louis traps it in the towel and starts rubbing,
trying to get it as dry as possible. Like this, Harry has to keep his knees bent so that Louis can have
easier access to the top of his head, and Louis looks extremely focused on the task, so much that he
jumps when Harry leans down and kisses his nose. Louis blushes prettily.

“Don’t distract me,” Louis says, though there’s no heat behind the words. Harry almost winks, but
Louis pushes him towards the chair, and after he is seated, Louis puts the big towel over his chest
so that it covers his whole upper body. He is for a moment scared that Louis is going to shave his
whole head, and it doesn’t help that there’s not a single mirror in front of him besides the one
above the Greek sink and in the bathroom. But before he can express how he feels, Louis is
combing his hair and separating it. Then, he feels Louis takes a few strands between his fingers,
and the scissor snaps. He doesn’t see it, but he knows chocolate brown hair is rapidly falling on the
ground around them, and he gulps.

The time is slow, or maybe it’s just an impression, but after what feels like hours, Louis rounds the
chair and comes to stand in front of him, admiring his work. There’s a self-satisfied smile on his
face.

“Your ears are so tiny,” Louis giggles, and Harry scrunches up his nose while covering one of them
with his hand. He tries not to panic when he realises that he can feel them entirely, when before his
hair had been long enough to cover half of them. He gives Louis an easy smile and stands up,
taking long strides to the mirror. His eyes widen when he sees himself.

Louis has cut a lot of his hair, but he has left it slightly longer on top of his head so that the strands
curl against his temples, mostly to his right. It is attractive, and suits him well, making his
cheekbones and defined jaw more prominent. There are still baby curls at the base of his neck,
something which he appreciates, and overall the haircut suits him much better than the overgrown
mess he had before.

“Do you like it?” Louis asks from behind him, almost shyly, and Harry grins at him in the mirror.

“I love it, thank you.”

Louis nods and goes to grab the broom that Harry hadn’t noticed until then, but he stops Louis by
circling his tiny wrist and pulling him in his chest. Like this, Louis’ back is to his front, and, with
two gentle fingers that he puts under Louis’ chin, he tilts Louis’ head to the side and up until he can
connect their lips. It’s a different kiss than the first one they shared in their giddiness in the library.
It’s not hot or urgent, but instead soft, nothing more than doux brushes of their lips against one
another. Louis sighs happily when he captures Louis' bottom lip and sucks, bringing blood to the
surface.

“Want you,” Louis slurs, turning around in Harry’s arms and raining butterfly kisses all over
Harry’s throat. He groans and backs them up until they’re at the bed and Louis goes down, Harry
on top of him. He makes sure to not put his whole weight on Louis by placing his arms on either
side of Louis’ face.

And god, he’s so fucking pretty. His hair is soft, random strands now askew after falling back on
the bed. His lips are as red as rose petals after the kisses they shared, and Harry wants to dip down
and make them even more velvet until he’s sure the colour won’t fade away for a while. He
brushes away a lone eyelash that’s fallen on Louis’ cheek with his thumb, then traces a path with
his digit, going over it with his lips. His thumb goes over Louis’ small button nose, and when it
hovers a few inches above Louis’ lips, the demigod opens his mouth and starts sucking on Harry’s
thumb, making Harry’s cock twitch in his trousers.

When Louis lets go, he trails a wet path with his thumb from Louis’ chin to where his chiton
begins, and with clever fingers, he unknots the fabric. He seeks permission in Louis’ eyes, and it’s
only when he sees lust and permission reflected among them, does he slowly unpeel the chiton
from Louis’ delightful body, his heart progressively stopping the more Louis' skin is revealed. It’s
just… Louis seems to have been carved by the gods themselves, seems to have been created to be
the most beautiful thing in the cosmos, and he can hardly believe that he gets to touch Louis’
unblemished skin let alone kiss and lick it. He wants to make bruises blossom all over said skin,
wants Louis to have a reminder of him whenever he’s outside, wants a blush to creep up Louis’
cheeks when he remembers that under his clothes, he bears marks left by Harry. Harry wants so
much, it almost scares him.

Louis tugs at his tee-shirt, whining. “Off, get this off right now.”

Harry complies, straightening up and getting rid of his top, throwing it somewhere over his
shoulder. It probably landed among the mess of damp hair on the floor, and he watches as Louis
stares at the wedding of tattoos he owns. He’s always loved tattoos, especially since he felt like he
had control over an aspect of his life, even if it was just his body. Gently, Louis caresses the moth
in the middle of his chest, then the pair of laurels on his hip bones. Louis sits up and, looking at
him, licks from his belly button up to the two swallows facing each other inked just below his
collarbones. Harry shivers, completely mesmerised by Louis. He knows it’s him, only him, that
feels that way, that Louis has gotten under his skin because Harry let him. And it’s such a heady,
addicting feeling to know that he’s able to share such a strong bond with someone else. He goes
back to kissing Louis, cradling Louis’ face.

He’s like some kind-of addict; addict to Louis and everything he represents.

He cups the back of Louis’ thighs and, when Louis has circled his neck with his arms, he lifts him
so that he can lay him over the fluffy pillows. Louis relaxes into the mattress, glazed eyes looking
up at him.

“Please,” Louis whispers, and Harry swallows.

“I don’t have condoms,” he answers, grimacing. Louis giggles and flips them over so that he’s on
top of him. He starts trailing kisses all over Harry’s chest, dipping his tongue in Harry’s belly
button until he’s able to nose at the beginning of Harry’s pubic hair. Harry watches, jaw dropped,
as Louis opens his trousers with his teeth, and the sight alone is almost enough to make him come.
Then, still using his mouth, Louis unzips the trousers and uses his hands to get them off, Harry
having to move his hips to make the process easier. He’s down to his underwear, and Louis doesn’t
waste time getting his painfully hard cock out.

It slaps against his chest, the head peeking out from the foreskin, red and aching for attention.
Louis blows on his slit and he has to bite down on his lips to hold himself back from moaning out
loud, but it gets to be too much when Louis’ tongue darts out to gather the precome that’s oozing
out of the top. Louis moans softly at the taste, and with dainty fingers he takes Harry’s shaft and
starts to take him down, inch by inch. Harry’s thick and long, but Louis manages to relax his throat
completely until his nose is among the coarse hair at the base of Harry’s cock, and Harry can’t help
himself from cupping the side of Louis’ neck, just to feel his length here, just to feel the vibrations
of Louis’ hums both on his cock and in Louis’ throat.

Louis stays like that for a few hot seconds, warming up Harry’s dick, and Harry’s toes curls when
Louis slowly starts bobbing his head, up and down up and down, saliva dripping down, making
Louis’ lips and his shaft glimmer. Sometimes Louis looks up from underneath his long eyelashes
that are wet with unshed tears, and something hot curls in Harry’s lower belly. Louis lets go of his
cock to lavish attention to his balls, but his hand never stops jerking him, and it’s indescribable the
way he feels. He’s never gotten such a good blowjob before, it’s as if Louis were everywhere,
stimulating every single nerve in his body.

He's not going to last long.

Louis must sense it, because he gives special attention to the head, dipping his tongue in his slit.
Louis licks up the bulging vein on the side of Harry’s cock and it’s when Louis looks up, their eyes
meeting, and kisses the head, trails of saliva connecting Louis’ lips to his cock, that Harry comes.
White ribbons end up on Louis’ tongue, on his cheeks, and Louis eagerly swallows him down one
last time, drinking every last drop of the semen.

He takes a moment to calm himself down, and when he does, he makes grabby hands for Louis,
then flips them over. He smashes their lips together in a hot, wet kiss.

“So fucking pretty, sweetheart,” Harry can’t stop saying, blossoming love bites all over Louis’
throat. “Love the way you smell, the way you feel.”

He lets his nose linger behind Louis’ ear, where the perfume of rose is the most prominent, and
then, using his hands, he spreads Louis’ legs. He straightens up and looks down, his breath
catching in his throat when he sees Louis’ pink, perfectly smooth hole. Saliva gushes in his mouth.

“Harry,” Louis moans, his toes digging into Harry’s thighs. Wordlessly, Harry pushes Louis’
thighs apart even more, smirking when Louis’ whole body flushes at being so open and vulnerable
for him. He trails kisses down each of Louis’ thighs, biting the meatiest part, and his dick fattens
again when he realises that Louis smells of roses down there, too. He kisses Louis’ rim and lets
saliva drip down his mouth straight on the pluckered hole, lubing it up. He bathes in Louis’ moans,
and hums, pleased, when Louis fists his now damp hair. He takes some more time to rain lovebites
all over Louis’ lower tummy and on his hip bones, and he knows Louis is close to crying, wanting
nothing more than for him to lavish attention all over his perinum.

Then he starts eating Louis out properly. He licks and kisses, reducing Louis to a shivering
beautiful mess, and he enjoys the way Louis’ back arches off the bed when he probes at the hole
and his tongue slips a few inches in. Louis is all heat down there, and he can feel drops of sweat
roll down his back and his forehead. Louis’ own body is glistening under the soft sunlight of the
sunset that filters through the narrow windows, and he'is like a starved man in front of a buffet. He
sees Louis trying to touch himself, but Harry slaps his left arse cheek, making it clear that he is to
come untouched, and Louis practically mewls. He delivers another loud slap to Louis’ arse, the
image of his handprint inked in the skin making him double his effort. His jaw aches, but he
doesn’t care, doesn’t think about it, only focuses on how smooth Louis feels against his tongue and
how erotic it is to have Louis’ trembling thighs clasped around his head.

When Louis finally comes, it feels like a reward. He continues liking the rim, milking Louis’
orgasm, then he kisses up Louis’ belly, gathering a few drops of cum on his tongue, and doesn’t
think twice before cupping Louis’ face and pushing said tongue in Louis’ mouth, semen mixing
with saliva. It’s hot and wet and absolutely perfect. Louis’ arms come up around his neck, pushing
their bodies together, and he doesn’t even wince when the mess on Louis’ belly gets stuck to his.
They make out until night settles in, until there’s nothing but darkness surrounding them.

He flops down next to Louis, and stares up at the ceiling. His body is still tingling after his own
orgasm, and his cock is hard from eating Louis out. Louis rolls over, burying his face in his neck,
and gets one hand around Harry’s length once more. He comes a second time, and they fall asleep
among the messy sheets and the whispers of the night, his arm thrown over Louis’ waist, his nose
in Louis’ rose smelling hair.

-
Louis is peacefully asleep when he wakes up. He is on his back, naked, and Louis’ arm is thrown
over his chest as well as his leg which is intertwined with his own, and his head is over Harry’s
pecs. He has to force himself not to smile like an idiot. Louis feels perfect against him, right, and
with the way the sunlight’s caressing them, it’s even better. They are both in dire need of a shower,
but even with the dried body fluids on their skin, Harry is reluctant to let go. He yawns and
stretches one arm over his head, humming when his muscles relax. His other hand is on Louis’
lower back, and he starts drawing random things on the soft skin there until Louis shifts. He looks
adorable as he rubs his cheek over the few strands of Harry’s chest hair, and he has to remind
himself how to breathe when Louis blinks his eyes open, bright stormy blue eyes looking up at
him.

How did he get so lucky?

“Morning,” Louis says, voice feather soft. “Time is it?”

He’s fucking adorable, that’s the only thing he can think of. But when Louis keeps looking at him
expectantly, he groans at the prospect of moving, making Louis giggle, but still he tries to reach
under his pillow for the watch he keeps there. It’s not that he wears it, but with the lack of ways to
know the time, it’s the only solution he has to not lose track of the hours as they tick by. It’s eight
twenty-eight, and he tells Louis so, who hums and kisses Harry’s right nipple, making goosebumps
ride through Harry’s body. They have to get up and prepare for their journey, and Harry watches as
Louis stands up, stark naked, and stretches his delicious body. He bites his lips, his cock twitching
in interest, but Louis raises an eyebrow at him, his eyes full of mirth.

“Get moving, Styles, I’m hungry.”

The use of his last name brings a smile to Harry’s face, and even though he wants to stay in bed all
day, he sighs but relents, standing up and smirking when Louis’ eyes stay a few seconds too long
on him. Louis slips on his chiton, and he frowns.

“Are you not going to join me in the shower?”

Louis shakes his head. “We both know we’ll end up distracting each other. We really must get
going.”

He tries his hardest not to pout, and Louis goes on his tip toes. With one hand on Harry’s chest, he
drops a kiss on Harry’s lips. He circles Louis’ waist and draws their bodies closer so that he can
properly snog Louis, who scrunches up his nose.

“I have morning breath,” Louis whines, giggling when Harry keeps trying to catch his lips. It’s only
when Louis tickles Harry’s hips, forcing him to let Louis go that Harry accepts that his morning
isn’t going to turn out the way he wants. He takes a few steps back, bottom lip jutting out as Louis
winks and slips on his sandals, before skipping to the bronze doors.

“See you in twenty minutes at the mess hall,” Louis sing-songs, then he’s gone, leaving a naked
Harry standing next to his bed.

“You taste like rose anyway,” he mumbles to himself. He looks down at the chaos of hair still on
the floor and shrugs, figuring he’ll clean it once he’s back from the quest… if he’s back. He shakes
his head, mentally berating himself for thinking that way, and grabs from his duffel bag some fresh
clothes. He has a beautiful closet made of marble, but he hasn’t felt like filling it. He doesn’t have
enough clothes to stock a full shelf anyway, and he’ll probably treat himself to a new wardrobe if
they find the golden fleece.

The shower’s made of marble, and is spacious enough for ten people. He feels alone under the
stream of hot water, wishing more than anything else that Louis was there with him, but he doesn’t
allow himself to think too much about the demigod lest he’d get hard again. He dries himself with
a towel and slips on his tight black trousers, a burgundy tee-shirt and a black leather jacket. He
pushes his feet in his combat boots and attempts to style his hair, though it’s impossible to tame it
considering that he slept with wet hair. As a last resort he ties a yellow bandana around his head,
not to keep the curls from falling in his eyes but to hide the shapeless bush of them. He caresses the
ring Chiron gave him (he doesn’t want to give any credits to his ‘father’) and puts it on, too, then
quickly gathers the essentials he’ll need for the quest; a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, money, a
zippo (just in case), and a spare tee-shirt and underwear. He’ll have to ask Louis or Hamlet for a
bag.

Ever since the barrier fell down and demigods had to move away, repeatedly stepping outside of
his cabin to an empty meadow has significantly dampens his mood. There are no children playing
and giggling, no reassuring and familiar noise of swords as they crash together… there’s only
silence. In the background there’s the occasional chirping of the birds, the crash of the waves
against the sand at the beach, and the whistle of the wind as it goes through the wood's canopy, but
these details have long since grown unimportant. They don’t define the camp. Or at least, they
don’t define the camp as much as its residents do, and since they’re not here, Harry’s slapped in
the face with realisations after realisations.

Leyla, his sister, has been the glue of the camp. It has kept it alive and thriving, and with her gone,
Harry’s afraid everything will go down the pipes, him included. He won’t ever be safe again, won't
ever be able to close his eyes at night for a peaceful sleep, too busy looking over his shoulder for
glowing red eyes and the smell of sulfur. The smell of monsters.

Harry’s hands are shaking, he quickly notices, and he balls them up, digging his nails in his palms,
trying to calm himself down. The amount of pressure on him, on Louis, on Hamlet, is colossal
because, in a way, the fate of the camp rests in their hands. He quickly makes his way to the mess
hall, smiling tightly to a few demigods, the young ones like him that don’t have a family or are in
good enough shape to protect themselves, that are tending to the camp and its needs. They’re
cutting the overgrown grass and building up the cabins that were destroyed by the last attack.

Usually, the mess hall is a busy affair; there is the chaos of hundreds of voices talking over each
other, the clings of cutlery against plates, shouts of outrage and hushed whispers about the
newspaper and the dramas of the gods. Today, though, there’s something Harry has grown to hate;
the silence. There’s the crackling of the fire in the back of the room, and there’s the occasional
noise of someone gulping their drink, but other than that, it’s calm. There are not enough demigods
to cause a brouhaha, the tables are almost empty now that three-fourth of the camp has gone to
Camp Jupiter.

He takes a plate for himself, fills it with cooked vegetables, roasted potatoes and beaten eggs, then
he stands in front of the tables, blinking. It’s not until there’s a hand in the air waving him over that
he moves, and his whole demeanour changes from tense to relaxed when he sees that it’s Louis.
He’s alone at the head of a table, eating a bowl of fruit salad. Harry makes a tiny gesture with his
head at the fire, and when Louis nods, he walks to the hearth. The flames are tall and warm, and he
spends a few seconds just looking at it. Then, licking his lips, he grabs a mouthful of each of the
aliments he put on his plate.

It’s not his favourite thing to do, to be honest, but it’s tradition and a way to show respect to the
gods. With his voice barely above a whisper, he says, ‘Zeus’, then tosses the food in the fire,
watching as it disappears and adds to the alluring scent coming from the hearth. He wonders if his
father appreciates the gesture, if he’s up there on Olympus, looking down at his only living son
with a fond smile. He has to hold himself back from chuckling. Of fucking course not, as if his
father could be doing anything else but lounge in his throne, and he has to hold himself back from
shouting insults at him. He turns around and walks to Louis, then sits to Louis’ right, once again
bathing in the potent scent of rose coming from the other demigod. It relaxes him, takes away all
the tension in his body that seems to always overwhelm him whenever he so much as thinks about
his father.

“Alright?” Louis asks, voice soft and eyes gentle, and he nods, stuffing his mouth with creamy
eggs. They eat in silence for a while, until Louis is done and he is halfway through his plate. Louis
pushes his plate away to cross his arms over the table. He’s changed from a chiton to tight leather
pants, a light brown tee-shirt and his signature bottle green coat. Wordlessly, Louis reaches to the
ground to grab a soft leather bag, which he puts on his lap. He starts to look through it, then he
takes a folded map that he spreads on the table. Harry frowns. Maybe he should have thought of
bringing a map, too.

“We have to go to the Sea of Monsters, known as the Bermuda Triangle. The particularity of this
area is that it’s perpetually surrounded by a thick mist, not one that aims at modifying the way
humans see us and our world, but a literal mist that doesn’t allow humans to know what’s really
inside the Sea of Monsters, be it by sight or through the use of a spacecraft. Whenever a human
was foolish enough to venture inside the Sea of Monsters, they never came back.”

Harry gulps. Does the disappearance thing apply to demigods?

Louis continues, pointing to three points; Miami, Bermuda and San Juan. “These are the vertices of
the Bermuda Triangle. We have to stay as far away from the middle, which is known as the Mouth,
as possible, or else we might never make it out. That’s where ships, planes, etcetera get lost. There
are islands all around the Bermuda Triangle, which are invisible to humans, and the middle of the
triangle is a giant stomach, its mouth facing the sky, ready to digest anything that comes too close
to it. Even Poseidon doesn't have any authority over the Sea of Monsters. Medea lives on one of
the islands, which is named after her, and after doing a bit of research I found out why she has got
the only map able to tell us where Kolkhis is; she is the daughter of king Aeëtes of Colchis, and she
is a powerful sorceress. She created the map.”

Harry nods. He’s not excellent when it comes to Greek mythology, his knowledge on the topic is
basically mediocre, but he’s heard of Medea, alright, and how evil she can be. Isn’t she the one
who killed and dismembered her brother, hiding his body parts all around Kolkhis to distract her
father? Suddenly, Harry is not sure he can finish his breakfast, or even keep it all inside.

“So, we find the map of the Concealed, go to Kolkhis, kill a dragon, retrieve the golden fleece,
then sail back to Long Island. We save Leyla, we save the camp, and we get our happily ever after.
Easy,” he says dryly. He honestly can’t believe this is his life now.

“It’s going to be alright,” Louis tries to reassure him, his hand coming over Harry’s. Harry turns his
hand over so he can enlace their fingers, and as he looks into Louis’ soothing eyes, he thinks, yeah,
it will be. He just hopes they will make it back before it’s too late.

They step together out of the mess hall, and he realizes it’s the first time they do it. Usually, Louis
is always gone before Harry could so much as blink. He tries not to smile at that, and instead
follows Louis wordlessly to the cabins. When they arrive, he goes into his cabin to grab the few
things he wants to bring along. He stops at the bronze door, one hand over the doorknob, and looks
up at the statue of Zeus. He’s never really sat down to look at it, but he takes in the thick beard
around Zeus’ face, his eyes that seem to look in the distance, empty and cold.

“Help us, dad,” he tells it, and it’s ridiculous, really. He doesn’t expect his father to actually hear
him, and surely not listen to him, but he still has hope. It’s only a thin strand of hair, that hope, but
it’s still there, and he holds on to it before it’s gone, swept up by the wind.

Louis is waiting outside his cabin, his messenger bag over his shoulder. In his other hand, he’s
holding a backpack made of fabric, which he hands to Harry with a wink. He smiles at him,
grateful, and throws his things in the backpack before swinging it on his shoulders. They start to
walk together towards the Big House. They walk past the arena, and Harry glances at it, bidding it
farewell silently. He’s going to miss this place. The strawberry fields are empty of workers now,
but their delicate fragrance still fills the air. Louis picks two red and meaty strawberries, giving one
to Harry, which he takes gladly. He pops the fruit in his mouth and moans softly around it,
enjoying the way the sweet juice explodes against his taste buds. He tries to ink the taste in his
brain, knowing that once he will be at sea, his throat will be clogged up with the salty air and the
odour of fish.

They’re at the bridge when he talks.

“The statues in our cabins,” he begins, and Louis turns his eyes to him, curious. Louis hums to
incite him to continue, which Harry does. “Is that how our godly parents really look?”

Louis frowns, thinking. “Yes, but it’s not definite. I mean, this is how they are best known as,
that’s the human form they were described as, but the gods can take the shape of whatever they
want, and they can change their physics for a limited amount of time. Usually, they do that to
attract the mortal they are courting. For instance, my mother, when she came to my father, she had
beautiful blue eyes and gorgeous, long curls of brown hair. But in the books, she is described as
having auburn hair and bright green eyes. My father always told me how much I looked like her.
So I assume they can appear to mortals however they want.”

He nods, trying to picture his father as a tall man with curly brown hair and green eyes, like him.
He can’t. He knows he must look more like his father (or, well, like the mortal shape his father
took) than his mother, and he’s not sure whether he’s delighted about it or not. His eyes instantly
find the pine tree at the top of the hill, Leyla, and before he can think about it his next question is
out of his mouth.

“How was she like?”

There’s a moment of silence, where he can only hear the steady beating of his heart. Louis knows
who he is talking about, and when he chances a glance at him, he’s relieved to see that Louis
doesn’t look mad, but instead he seems to be racking his brain to find the right words to make her
justice. He feels a surge of affection for Louis suddenly appear in him, making him want to reach
out and touch Louis’ soft skin. He probably can, after everything they experienced the night prior,
but he doesn’t dare to. He’s somehow touched by how respectful Louis is of the sister he never
met.

“She was amazing, no doubt,” Louis begins, licking his rosy lips. “Even when I was a stranger to
her, she showed me kindness, and took me along with her. I was basically a little kid in the woods,
abandoned by his father who couldn’t take care of his half-blood child, and I would surely have
died that night had it not been for Leyla. She knew the risks that came with being a demigod, and I
could have been a fury, or something else, but she took one look at me and just… decided to help. I
was little, so her face is kind of a blur in my head, but I know she had warm brown eyes. I think she
looked quite a lot like you, though I can’t exactly be sure.”
He wants to cuddle Louis, especially when Louis admits his father abandoned him. Louis looks
small like this, his eyes cast towards the ground, pain etched on his face. Screw it. He puts his arm
around Louis’ waist and urges the smaller man towards him. Their bodies are flush against each
other, and Louis doesn’t push him away. He’s even ducking his head, trying to hide the blush on
his cheeks and failing. Once he's sure Louis isn’t losing himself in his head, he lets himself think
about the description Louis provided of Leyla. Their mother has light brown eyes, so that’s where
Leyla inherited her brown orbs. I think she looked quite a lot like you. They’re getting closer and
closer to the Big House, but he cranes his neck to not lose eye contact with the pine tree.

I wish you were still here.

Chiron is waiting on the deck with Hamlet and a man Harry has never been introduced to before,
but he recognises him as the stranger that he often saw playing chess with Chiron on the deck.
Hamlet’s sitting on the balustrade, his back leaning against one of the posts, and he’s eating a
green apple. His bag is on his belly, and he’s patiently waiting for them, his eyes practically
burning a hole in Harry’s forehead. He's about to snap, but then he remembers he’s still keeping
Louis stuck to his side, and reluctantly let go, putting some space between them. Louis frowns, but
doesn’t say anything, only crosses his arms over his chest. Hamlet’s hiding his smile behind his
half-eaten apple. Whatever. Harry ignores him.

He focuses his attention back on the stranger, and his jaw basically drops open when he realises
the man’s skin is covered from head to toes with eyes. Actual, real, blinking and moving eyes.

“Harry,” Chiron says, voice bright. “I believe you haven’t met Argus. He’s the security guard of
the camp and is often tasked with riding heros to quests, when they’re given one. He will be your
chauffeur to Montauk, where there’s a boat waiting for you.”

Argus bows his head in greeting, which he reciprocates. He’s still speechless over the fact that
there are at least fifteen eyes all over Argus’ face.

Chiron clears his throat. He doesn’t look nervous, exactly, but he looks like a centuries old centaur
who is conscious that three people he considers as kids must embark on a perilous journey to save
the fate of the camp.

“I wish you all the best, Hamlet Smith, Louis Tomlinson, and Harry Styles. I do not doubt you will
make us proud, and succeed.”

Hamlet’s lips twitch, Louis ducks his head, and Harry gulps. Argus starts to walk towards the pine
tree, and they follow him. Argus is dressed in a midnight blue suit, with a sophisticated hat and
shiny sleek dress shoes. He’s twirling around his long index finger keys, most likely for the car.
Hamlet is walking next to him in silence, their shoulders bumping from time to time. He seems
deep in thoughts, but there’s also a lift to his steps. He knows, after frequenting Hamlet for so long,
that the demigod is excited for the quest, and he doesn’t exactly share his enthusiasm because he’s
been thinking about the dangers. But if he puts aside the fact that they might never come back, he
can admit that when it comes down to it, they’re going on an adventure, and that’s exciting
regardless of anything else. He’s always dreamed of seeing the world, of travelling it to find its
weak spots and secret wonders, and he’s kind-of about to do that, but with a bit more of fantasy
than he thought.

They’re standing at the pine tree. Argus is already going down the hill towards a yellow vintage
cab, and Hamlet casts a sad look towards Leyla before he’s following Argus. He stays there,
though, and allows himself for the first time to properly bath in the aura that comes from the tree.
It’s not as strong as how it was a few days ago, before it was poisoned. Several leaves have fallen,
having turned grey because of the poison. The trunk has lost its deep brown colour, too, and when
he puts his palm against it, he can almost feel it weep. His eyes widen when he realises that he can
not only feel emotions radiating off the tree, but he can sense a rhythmic drum right underneath the
wood.

It’s a heartbeat. He has to swallow down the lump in his throat. Hi, Leyla.

He steps back before he gets too emotional and tears start to gush out of his eyes. He chances a
glance to his left, towards the camp, and frowns when he sees that Louis is at the bottom of the hill
with a satyr. If Harry squints, he can make out flawless chocolate skin with golden tattoos and dark
hair. The satyr nods then with a fond smile, takes Louis in his arms. Harry watches as they hug for
a while, and when Louis finally lets go, the demigod is wiping his face clear from the salty drops
that fell on his cheeks. Harry knows the satyr is the one who saved Louis all those years ago, the
one who stumbled upon them and guided them to Camp Half-Blood. Louis kisses the satyr’s cheek
one last time then jogs up the hill until he’s right next to Harry. With dainty fingers, Louis brushes
his fringe to the side and nudges Harry with his elbow, a soft smile on his face.

“Alright?” he asks, gentle, and Louis clears his throat and nods.

“Yeah, that was Erik,” Louis tells him, and he hums. They look at each other for a few seconds too
long, until Louis steps closer to him to take his hand. With their fingers interlaced, he feels better
already, and then they’re hugging, his chin resting on top of Louis’ head. He rubs his thumb over
Louis’ soft skin, and he can’t help himself when he ducks his head to kiss Louis’ temple. It’s so
soothing, the way Louis feels against him, that he forgets where they are for a moment and what
they are supposed to do. Well, he forgets until Hamlet graciously reminds them.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Hamlet shouts, his hands on his hips in a I’m-about-to-scold-you stance. “We
have to get going, you know, to save the camp and all that, so how about you two hurry the fuck
up!”

Harry scowls and Louis giggles against his chest, pushing him away while rolling his eyes.

“You heard him, let’s go,” Louis says, and he nods, still glaring at Hamlet who is too busy
snickering, Argus next to him trying to hold back his laughter, too. He's already walking down the
hill when he stops and looks back at Louis, who is leaning down to kiss the tree.

“We will do everything in our power to save you,” Louis tells Leyla, before taking a deep breath
and walking away. Harry suspects Louis doesn’t once look back to avoid breaking down, and he
puts his hand on the small of Louis’ back in support, which Louis appreciates, giving him a small
smile. They reach the car and Argus opens the door for them. Louis slips in the car, and Harry’s
about to do the same, but he doesn’t forget to whisper asshole to Hamlet, making the demigod
cackle.

Hamlet sits next to Harry as Argus turns the engine on. In a deep voice, Argus says, “buckle your
seat belt”, glaring at Hamlet in the rearview mirror when Hamlet complains. “It’s for your safety,”
Argus adds, then before either of them can open their mouth, Argus takes off.

Harry understands now why Argus is adamant on them wearing seatbelts. The man’s driving is
awful, driving way over the speed limit. Because of his eyes, Argus can see everything perfectly, so
he works his way between cars without hesitation. At one point, Hamlet bangs his head against the
window, and Harry almost flies to the car roof. Louis looks a bit green. Argus is driving so fast
that it’s impossible to make out the landscape out of the windows. The colours merge together and
the details become blurry. All Harry knows is that they’re driving past acres of trees and at one
point, the air turns salty, a tell-tale sign that there’s a beach nearby. When Argus finally slows
down to a normal speed, they’re on a road, with rolling waves next to them. He feels Louis sits up
and opens the window, breathing in deep to trample the nausea that overtook him.

They drive past a quaint, wooden sign reading, Montauk Point Light, the sign having discoloured
with age and from the perpetually salty air. They seem to be the only living souls there, besides the
squirrels in the nearby trees and the fishes in the endless water, and Harry doesn’t know how to
feel about it, if he is relieved that everything will carry out in a silence only disturbed by a lullaby
of Mother nature, or slightly spooked that he’s leaving civilisation without a proper taste of it,
knowing full well he might never see it again. Harry plays with the ring around his finger,
caressing it and twisting around, and he doesn’t stop when Argus parks next to a lighthouse.

The lighthouse stands proudly on Turtle Hill, surrounded by the sea and the clear sky. There’s a
bunch of houses cocooning the lighthouse, which is painted white with a thick strip of red. When
Harry steps out after Louis, his feet land in a mowed lawn, bushes of white-petaled flowers
dispatched randomly around, growing where the walls of the houses meet the grass. It’s a beautiful
sight which is rendered difficult to properly see thanks to the glowing sun. He spots Louis, his
hands in his coat’s pockets, squinting against the harsh sun rays, and he seems to shine brighter
than the ball of fire up in the sky. He wants to touch the flush on Louis’ cheeks, feel the warm skin
underneath his digits. Hamlet nudges him, and when Harry looks at him, he rolls his eyes. Harry
frowns but doesn’t say anything, instead turning around to look at Argus, who bows his head once
again.

“Thank you for driving us all over there,” Harry tells him, extending his hand before he can think
about it. Argus’ lips twitch and he reaches out, and Harry has to swallow a wince when all the eyes
on Argus’ hand close, and Harry is shaking said hand, feeling thick hair that he knows is eyelashes
against his skin. It’s bizarre, but then Argus gives him a thumbs-up and jumps back in the car, just
as Hamlet slides next to him, looking impressed.

“I think you’re the first one ever to have proposed shaking Argus’ hand.”

That’s sad, he thinks. He shrugs and starts to walk to Louis who is talking to the lighthouse keeper,
Hamlet hot on his heels. “Why doesn’t he talk often?” he wonders, thinking back to Argus and how
he has barely said anything.

“Who? Argus?” Hamlet begins, and he hums. “He can talk alright, but apparently he’s got an eye
on his tongue and doesn’t want people to see it, so he doesn’t speak a lot, or at least not in front of
people. Poor lad.”

He tries to picture an eye on a tongue, and shudders. Louis calls for them to hurry up, which they
do, and as they draw closer Harry sees that the lighthouse keeper is a stout, grey-haired man
wearing flip flops, floral shorts and a light grey tank top underneath a colourful flannel. There’s a
wide brimmed straw hat on his head, which does barely anything to keep in check his long, curly
hair that curls back up against the hat. He looks strangely a lot like Danny DeVito.

“Alright, young men,” the man says, casting a look full of apprehension towards Hamlet. Hamlet
glares back. “The boat’s down there on the beach, you go ‘round there and get your asses down
that rocky slope. Please, avoid banging open your head on your way down, I have enough shit to
deal with already.”

Harry sees Louis roll his eyes from behind the little man, and he wants to laugh, but he figures he’ll
do it once he’s out of the man’s perpetual glare. Hamlet is already walking down the slope, and
Louis’ shoulder brushes his, which gets him moving.

“Hm,” he says awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Harry’s sure the man’s plotting his murder. “Yeah, yeah, if I see a single drop of dirt on my baby
I’ll have your head on a silver plate.”

At least it’s clear. He doesn’t once look back as he follows the path Louis and Hamlet took.
Floating on the water is an impressive, sleek yacht, her polished surfaces reflecting the sun. It’s big
and white, with the latest technologies on it, and Harry thinks the guy must be seriously stupid to
lend such a great boat to three young adults. Harry guesses Chiron left out the part where they’re
going in an area of the earth where boats have been known to disappear forever.

“At least we will be comfortable,” Louis says while admiring the yacht, and Harry has to agree.
Hamlet is the first one to jump in the boat, and Harry knows Hamlet purposely rubs his dirty shoes
against the hull of the yacht, smearing it with dirt. In the distance, behind them, someone shouts,
and Hamlet’s smirking self-assuredly. Louis is giggling as he grabs the steel ladder, and his body is
right in front Harry, and Harry can’t help himself. He puts his hands on Louis’ hips and lifts him
up, making Louis let out a little shout of surprise, but the blue-eyed demigod quickly pushes
himself up using the ladder rungs until he’s up and in the boat. The lighthouse man shouts again,
and it’s probably because he’s realising he allowed a couple (or so Harry likes to think they are) in
his boat, which is a disaster waiting to happen. He puffs out a laugh as he quickly heaves his body
up, too, and he feels way too smug as he catches Louis’ shy eyes.

“I think the guy’s two seconds away from having a stroke,” Louis teases, hiding his smile behind
the back of his hand. Harry walks behind him with his hands on Louis’ hips, again, but he just
can’t help himself, so he won’t deny himself what he can have.

“I wonder why,” he teases back, and he feels Louis steps on his shoes, trying to hurt him, but it
makes Harry laugh more than anything else. Louis scowls, but there’s no heat behind it.

The yacht is a sight to behold, truly, and probably costs more than a penthouse in central New
York. It’s all white and beige, with several rooms that act as en-suites. The galley has a modern
kitchen fully stocked, and the cockpit serves as an open area for guests to sit and eat, but also as a
steering area for the captain. There’s a huge, beautiful wheel waiting for them. The bow is
encircled by cushioned seats, and Harry thinks he could just lay Louis down on them under the
clear, dark sky, and make sweet, sweet love to him—

Hamlet stumbles out of a door to their left, his face expressionless as his eyes fall on them.

“Just when I thought I was going to have some peace on this journey,” Hamlet says, tired, then
he’s rounding the bow and disappearing out of view, in the opposite Alee. Harry and Louis share a
confused look, and makes their way through the door Hamlet just came out of, and the first thing
Harry notices is that the room they just walked in is a living room of some sort, painted in warm
hues of brown, with potted plants almost everywhere.

And there, laying on the sofa reading the Olympus Weekly, is Julien.

“Surprise!” He half-says half-bleats, throwing the piece of paper he is holding over his shoulder
and opening his arms to present himself. “I hope you’re as delighted to see me as dearest Hamlet
was.”

As a matter of fact, Harry is fucking happy to see the satyr. He crosses the room and gives a one-
armed hug to the satyr, who coos and pats his head.

“Oww, Hazzy, missed me much, huh? Hold on, did you cut your hair?” Julien sighs, displeased.
“You’re a balding Mick Jagger now.”
Louis’ losing it behind them, but Harry can’t find it in himself to be offended by the insult. He’s
just too glad to see the satyr there. If there’s someone able to bring light to the darkest situations,
it’s Julien, and Harry feels like they’ll find themselves stuck in a lot of unfortunate situations that’ll
need a good dose of cheering up.

After a while, Hamlet joins them, and promptly flops down on top of the satyr. Julien pats
Hamlet’s back and turns his eyes on Louis, expression serious.

“We must get going, Lou. You know how to navigate that thing, right?”

Louis licks his lips, brushing his fringe out of the way. “Can’t be any harder than driving a car,
right?”

Hamlet turns his head, his cheek now resting against Julien’s chest. They look cute together, Harry
absently thinks. “Sometimes I’m truly glad my father’s the Lord of the underworld and can
contribute in my not living this world so early.”

“We’ll get the boat going,” Harry says, his tone final, then he spins around, ignoring Hamlet’s
snorts and mocking ‘we’. He can feel a warm body behind him, and he knows it’s Louis by the
usual scent of rose coming from the demigod.

When he looks in the distance, the stout man has disappeared, and there are bicolored seagulls on
the beach, searching in the sand for their next meal. Louis is the first one at the wheel, and Harry
lets him frown down at the button panel, until Louis’ face clears and he fishes out of his pocket a
key that he puts in the panel, turning it and putting the engine on. The boat roars to life, and it has
already been gently swaying along the waves, but now it’s moving even more, wanting nothing
more than to slide across the ocean.

Louis smirks, then does some stuff on the panel that causes the boat to lurch forward, and he has to
grab a rope lest he’ll stumble face first against the hard ground. Louis gives a happy shout,
powering the yacht up until it goes faster. The wind slaps Harry’s face, makes his hair fly back,
and it’s the best thing ever. Drops of salty water land on them, and Louis’ laughing, and it’s like
music to Harry’s ears. Harry walks unsteadily to one of the cushioned seats and drops his body on
it, his bag’s content becoming chaotic because of all the jostling. They’re far enough in the sea that
they can’t see Long Island’s rocky edge, and instead all they can see for miles on end is blue, blue,
and blue. The only thing keeping them company other than themselves is the birds flying through
the sky, chirping loudly. It’s peaceful.

It’s the calm before the storm, really. Harry knows the still landscape will end and leave in its wake
danger and death, things that he isn’t looking forward to.

The engine that has been roaring loudly enough to drown any background noises is turned down a
notch, and with that the boat slows down. Louis grabs his bag that he had thrown haphazardly at
his feet, and drops his body next to Harry on the cushioned seat. It’s a heady mixture, Louis’
flowery scent and the perfume of the sea, but somehow, it works for Harry.

“The Bermuda archipelago is huge,” Louis starts, grabbing a few things from his bag. There’s a
bottle of water that he uncaps and drinks generously from, before proposing it to Harry, who takes
the bottle gratefully. “But Medea lives on the smallest island that belonged to her father and,
therefore, after his death, went to her. She hasn’t been back on Kolkhis ever since Jason’s death,
and I honestly wonder why.”

“Maybe it’s because of all the bad memories?” he proposes, tilting his head back until it is resting
on the hard surface behind the cushion. “Her dad died there, she killed her brother and buried him
in several corners of the island, and there’s an insomniac dragon living there which is, if you ask
me, enough reason to flee Kolkhis.”

Louis’ frown doesn’t lessen in its intensity. “Yeah, maybe. Or, even though it’s not mentioned
anywhere, perhaps Medea had a thing with Jason and that is why she killed her brother in the first
place. We were never told everything, but it’s easy to guess. She was in love with Jason, and
helped him on his quest to get the golden fleece, and she killed her brother to distract her father for
Jason, who most likely had trouble carrying out the last task. But Jason must have betrayed her,
and in the end she killed him too.”

“That’s… very fucked up,” he grimaces, trying to picture Medea and how she must have felt then.

Louis nods. “It is, which leads me to believe she went to Jaleyra before she could become
completely insane.”

“Jaleyra? Is that the island?”

“Yeah,” Louis confirms, then he’s opening a black, leather bound journal, flipping through it until
he stops on a printed image of a map. The title reads: The Sea of Monsters, 345 AD. The year 345
AD? That sounds absolutely mad, but when Harry looks closely at the copy of the map, and how
it’s all handmade and so obviously old, it’s not so hard to believe that they’re trusting a map that
was made during the Roman Empire (not that Harry is convinced about its reliability). The Sea of
Monsters is apparently shaped as a star, with islands making the outline. In the very middle there is
a drawing of a mouth with pointy teeth.

Louis points to an Island located South of the Sea of Monsters. “That’s Jaleyra.”

“It’s going to be a pain in the ass to get there, isn’t it?” he wonders aloud, biting his lips when
Louis sighs and snaps the journal closed. They stay like that in silence for a while, simply enjoying
the background noises of their surroundings. It’s not much, of course, seeing as they’re in the
middle of the ocean, but there are all their thoughts merging together to add to the cacophony.

Wordlessly, Louis creeps closer to him and he puts his arm over the seats, and he can’t help
himself when he noses Louis’ temple and kisses his cheek, bathing in Louis’ natural flowery scent
and trying to think positively about what tomorrow will bring.

According to Louis, it will take two whole days and a night for them to reach the Bermuda triangle.
Five hours in, and Julien is puking his guts out off the side of the yacht with Hamlet rubbing his
back and wincing whenever Julien dry heaves. It goes on for so long that Harry stops acting
concerned and joins Louis in the cockpit. It’s a much more pleasant sight than Julien made, there,
with Louis’ hair flying on and out of his face depending on the direction the wind blows, and he
looks particularly stunning in his green coat that shows off his waist. It’s mouth-watering and
Harry’s hands itch to rest there, on Louis’ hip bones where he knows there are faded out lovebites
that he left a few days ago.

Louis’ face softens with a smile as he looks at Harry. “Hey,” Louis says simply, ducking his head
when Harry walks until he’s standing behind Louis and able to hook his chin over the top of Louis’
head. Harry puts his arms around Louis’ waist, sticking their bodies close to one another. The chill
wind seems insignificant now that Louis’ body heat penetrates Harry’s, and together they watch
the horizon, not even sure whether they are on the right path or not. Neither of them have sailed
before, and Louis has got the most knowledge in the field regarding reading maps which is the only
thing allowing them to even begin the journey, but they’re all amateurs and there’s a high
possibility they’re on their way to Ireland, instead, which will be the icing on the fucking cake.

Hamlet steps in the cockpit, rubbing his temples as if a headache were beginning. Harry doesn’t
move, doesn’t try to pretend he isn’t cuddling Louis as if that were the only thing worth doing
(which it is), he just stays there, his eyes slowly drifting closed, enjoying the purring of the engine
and the slight movements of Louis’ body against his own whenever Louis moves to keep the wheel
in check.

“How much longer again until our destinations?” Hamlet asks, despair colouring his tone.

“About thirty-eight hours, give or take,” Louis answers, and Harry doesn’t need to see it since he
hears it when Hamlet drops his whole body in the cushioned seats, huffing frustratedly.

“This is why I didn’t want Julien there, he’s sick as fuck! We don’t have any medoc! What am I
supposed to do, rub his back until we find Medea and ask her to create some kind of herbal remedy
for him? I’d rather be torn apart by Cerberus.”

Harry puffs out a gentle laugh, his breath causing a few strands of Louis’ hair to move, ticking the
tip of his nose. “Don’t act as if you hate taking care of him, I’ve seen you spoon feed him deserts in
the mess hall.”

Harry knows too, without seeing, that Hamlet’s blushing.

“Well, Styles,” Hamlet snides. “You can say whatever you want about me but it won’t change the
fact you almost crawled on all four to Louis whenever you saw him wanting to lick his legs like a
starved-”

Hamlet doesn’t get to finish for Harry clears his throat loudly, his cheeks burning. He’s about to
open his mouth to retort, but then Louis tilts his head back until he’s able to look up into Harry’s
eyes, and there’s a smirk on his soft, pretty lips which Harry definitely doesn’t like, as much as he
wants to bite and kiss and lick and caress those sinful lips.

“Is that true?” There should be some kind of mocking undertone to his voice, but instead it’s so
gentle it makes Harry want to admit to everything, just to get Louis to look at him the way he’s
doing for the rest of his life. Harry bites his lips and blinks, his eyes never leaving Louis’, then
when he can’t take it anymore, he ducks his head to kiss Louis, his nose brushing Louis’ chin. It’s
a delicate kiss, only soft brushes of their lips against one another, and it makes butterflies go
berserk in his lower belly, threatening to turn his legs into jelly.

Hamlet fake-retches several times, going as far as throwing Louis’ pencil towards them, the thing
bouncing off Harry’s bicep, but frankly, Harry doesn’t give a single fuck, especially when he’s
kissing Louis and he doesn’t ever want to stop. Hamlet keeps complaining, until Harry finally
detaches himself from the blue-eyed demigod.

“I’m going to say it now, and I mean it,” Hamlet starts, his voice monotonous the way it usually is.
“No sex on this boat, or I’ll tell the Lorax back at the lighthouse that you got cum all over his
bedsheets.”
“Hamlet, darling,” Louis says sweetly, blinking several times, his beautiful long eyelashes
mesmerizing. “You’re telling me, the child of the goddess of love and lust, to not have sex while
being cuddled by a very hot and very cute man. I think you didn’t think this through.”

It’s absolutely childish the way Harry’s body gets all hot at the very hot and very cute man, but
thankfully no one is the wiser. He simply tightens his hold around Louis, muffling his laugh in
Louis’ hair when Hamlet’s eyes zone out on where Harry is rubbing his thumb against Louis’
clothed tummy.

“You know what,” Hamley sighs, standing up. “I’d much rather listen to Julien retch all day than
you two making out. By the way I’m cooking tonight.”

Before Harry can ask him whether he even knows how to cook, Hamlet is gone, disappearing out of
view faster than a blink. There’s still an amused smile on Louis’ face.

“We’re having really loud, really dirty sex tonight,” Louis tells him out of the blue, making Harry’s
widens and his cock tingles, perking up at the prospect of getting wet.

“Yeah?” Harry gulps, but it’s not because he’s anxious or anything but because his mouth’s
flooding with saliva as he remembers the way Louis had tasted, the way Louis had moaned for
him. He wants more, right now even, and he can’t help it when he unconsciously starts trailing
kisses down the side of Louis’ neck, and he has to hold back a possessive groan from slipping out
of his lips when Louis goes as far as tilting his head to the side to grant Harry better access to his
jugular. He’s licking and sucking, going mad as Louis lets out breathy moans—

There’s a thump somewhere, close to them, then someone’s reaching loudly, loud enough to make
Harry jerk his head away from Louis’ throat. His eyes snap to the side, and he scrunches up his
nose when he sees that Julien is still puking but this time much too close to them. Hamlet’s
standing next to him, shaking his head, muttering For Styx’s sake over and over again.

Harry’s about to go over and help, too, but then something collides with the side of the yacht, and
seeing as they are going fast, the boat almost topples over. Hamlet has to fist the back of Julien’s
shirt to keep him from falling overboard, while helping himself to stay upward by gripping the
raling. Harry doesn’t have anything to hold on, so he goes tumbling down on the ground. Louis
tries his hardest to keep the wheel from spinning, digging his feet in the hard surface of the yacht,
but he doesn’t once try to slow down. Instead, he goes even faster, and Harry has the sinking
feeling that Louis knows something might be chasing them.

“What the fuck was that?” Hamlet shouts, his voice rising just above the deafening roar of the
engine. Julien’s looking worse, basically green at this point, but he’s not vomiting anymore.

“I don’t know!” Louis answers, his voice fading with the wind. With unsteady legs, Harry goes to
the deck, attempting to look into the ocean for something, for an answer to what hit them. There’s
nothing besides the spume of the disturbed waves of the sea as they practically fly over the water.
After a while, Louis slows down, and Harry’s still squinting at the salty water, racking his brain for
any mythological marine creatures.

He hears Julien speaking, his voice rough after spending hours chronically puking. “Maybe it was
nothing?”

Yes, maybe. Harry straightens up and takes a deep breath, stepping closer to where he remembers
the yacht being hit, and when he looks over the raling, he blanches.

There’s a hideous dent right there, disfiguring the smooth surface of the bow. It’s too big to belong
to a shark, and too little for a whale, but there’s the gut-wrenching possibility that only the tail of
the creature touched them, which means that said creature is much bigger than they expected and
anticipated. In the back of his mind Harry remembers the lighthouse man warning them against
scratching his boat. Well fuck. Harry sighs and walks back to the cockpit, finding Julien sipping
water and Hamlet smoking. Louis is bent over a spread-out map, his brows furrowed as he
positions the compass accordingly.

“We went slightly off course,” Louis says, looking up at Harry. “Night will settle soon, so it might
be safer to sail a bit more then turn off the engine for the night. Whatever touched us hasn’t caught
up to us yet, or isn’t willing to attack anymore, which means it doesn’t want us dead.”

“Great,” Julien croaks out. “Absolutely groovy, if you ask me.”

“We’re fine,” Hamlet sighs, flicking the butt of the stick, its ash falling down and getting swept up
by the wind.

“You’re destroying the earth,” Julien frowns, and Hamlet snorts.

“I’m destroying my lungs, see if I care.”

Julien gapes. Harry ignores them and joins Louis at the table, glancing down at the map. There are
highlighted names and red lines connecting dots and locations, but they all end up at the same
place; the Bermuda triangle.

“I forgot to mention something, but there are two entrances to the Sea of Monsters,” Louis begins,
his index finger lingering on the cursive letters on the map. “The first one is the entrance Jason and
the Argonauts took. It is extremely dangerous and known as the ‘Clashing Rocks’. The rocks roll
past each other so quickly it’s nearly impossible to go through them, hence the name Clashing
Rocks. Jason made it only thanks to the help of Hera. We don’t have the help of any god, so we’ll
most likely take the other entrance. The only problem with that one is that it will take us another
day to get there seeing as it is at the other side of the Sea of Monsters.”

“And what’s the other entrance?” Harry inquires, his eyes never leaving Louis’ face. He looks
beautiful like this, all focused, but the lines of worry distorting his features make Harry’s digits
itch to smooth them out.

“Do you see that big mouth drawn in the middle of the Bermuda triangle? The map is actually not
all that accurate. The islands are indeed placed in the shape of a star, but the mouth is not exactly in
the middle, but instead leaning towards the north point and east point. The monster’s stomach also
is present and acts over the water, creating a huge underwater storm that sucks in boats as well. It’s
located between the east point and south point. The mouth is called Charybdis, who used to be a
beautiful giantess, the daughter of Poseidon and Gaea. In order to show her loyalty to her father,
she caused great havoc, and your father punished her by turning her into a monster forever. She’s
now that huge mouth and stomach that swallow huge amounts of water and debris three times a
day, at random, which as a consequence creates recurring massive whirlpools, resulting in
disappearing boats. Now, Charybdis’ mouth lives on one side of a narrow channel of water, which
is our only way inside the sea of monsters. The stomach is out of question.

But, the thing is, on the other side of said channel of water lives Scylla, a grotesque sea monster
with four eyes, six long necks attached to heads equipped with three rows of sharp teeth. She’s
massive and ruthless. She used to be a beautiful nymph, but she was cursed by a jealous Circe. If
we want to make it in the Sea of Monsters and reach Jaleyra, we have to sail on that channel of
water, which is so narrow that usually sailers either get swallowed down by Charybdis or destroyed
by Scylla.”
Julien bleats, alarmed by what Louis just said, and Hamlet’s already on his second cigarette. Harry
isn’t faring much better. It doesn't take a genius to understand that the possibility of dying
outweighs the possibility of coming out of this alive. Harry isn’t thrilled about that, hell, it’d be
suicidal if he were, but at least there’s that inner voice telling him that if he dies, he dies trying to
save his sister and the camp, and being faced with the concept of death doesn’t seem too
frightening anymore. It doesn’t seem as scary when he knows he’s on his way to saving the people
he came to care about. He straightens up and clears his throat.

“Hamlet, you can stay here, I’ll do the cooking.”

Hamlet looks vaguely relieved, and he nods while keeping his eyes on the horizon line. He catches
Louis’ eyes, which instantly make him feel better, especially considering that they’re filled with
determination. Their soft blue colour becomes deeper as the sun slowly goes into hiding, and
unable to restrain himself, he caresses Louis’ cheek with his thumb, his hand cradling half of
Louis’ face. Louis leans against it, his eyes fluttering shut. Louis has that therapeutic, soothing
effect upon him, something he has never experienced before from anybody, not even with his
mother.

“I’ll see you in a few, yeah?” Louis whispers, his warm breath penetrating Harry’s palm.

“Yeah,” Harry says back, brushing the apple of Louis’ cheek with his digit one last time before
turning around and walking towards the kitchen.

The kitchen is fancier than his own back at his old apartment. It’s in hues of brown and beige, and
Harry’s pleasantly surprised that even the fridge is fully stocked with fruits, yogurts, cheese, milk
and sodas. The freezer has got ice cream, frozen chicken and fish, and Harry takes out the fish and
starts looking for a pan and olive oil. He finds everything he needs and gets to cooking, roasting
the fish then adding a dash of heavy cream mixed up with combava and lemon. He seasons it with
a bit of salt and pepper, and adds a few leaves of menthol at last to add a bit more of flavour. He
sets the fish aside in a box with a lid so it stays warm, and starts sautéing enough vegetables for
them all, making sure there’s plenty for Julien since he’s vegetarian. He’s always enjoyed cooking
even though most of the time he is too tired to do it.

He takes his sweet time putting up the plate, and he finds comfort in what he’s doing especially
when he brings all the plates to the dining room, all of them methodically and professionally
placed on his arms. He feels like he used to at his old job, and although his job wasn’t the most
wonderful one in the world, just being able to experience something so… familiar makes Harry’s
heart settle. It’s pitiable how it’s only when you lose the things you’ve always found trivial, or
annoying, that you start seeing how important they are. Harry’s been swept away in a storm of
unknown and almost unbelievable things, and the bits of familiarity he can find among the
unforgiving wind is like the first drop of water against a parched tongue.

With a lump in his throat, and a soft smile on his face, Harry puts the plates down on the table’s
white tablecloth, then goes back to the cockpit.

The sun has long then left in its wake the moon, which far out there on the sea seems ethereal. It’s
big and beautiful, it stands proud over the world and casts its glow over the water. The yacht has
slowed down, and when Harry steps in the cockpit, Louis spots him and turns off the engine.
There’s only silence now, except for Hamlet and Julien’s chat. The light has been turned on,
leaving the yacht lit up despite the pitch black sky.

“Dinner’s ready,” Harry says, and he’s never seen Julien run so fast. He blinks as Hamlet pats his
back, and then he’s left alone with Louis who’s gathering his things. Louis throws his bag on his
shoulder and smiles as he walks closer to Harry. He looks tired, and Harry wants to scoop him up
and cuddle him until they fall asleep.

“Coming?” he asks Louis softly, taking Louis’ hand, and Louis presses his body against his,
putting his head on Harry’s shoulder. He nods and they make their way to the dining room, where
Hamlet’s waiting for them and Julien’s stuffing cooked carrots in his mouth. Harry has to scrunch
up his nose to keep himself from laughing, especially when Hamlet glares at Julien.

“What?” Julien says, bits of vegetables flying out of his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

Hamlet leans farther away from Julien in disgust. “Yeah, you sure you’re not half-hog?”

Julien frowns and gives Hamlet the middle finger, and Harry shakes his head as he pulls out a chair
for Louis to sit, making the blue-eyed demigod blush and smile, pleased. Then Harry sits to Louis’
right, picking up a fork.

“Well, bon appétit!” Louis smiles, glancing down at his plate. “This looks delicious, Haz. Were
you a cook?”

The moan that leaves Louis’ mouth as he takes a bite of the fish is almost enough to make Harry’
manhood twitch, but Harry quickly looks away and tries to ignore his cock. What is he, fifteen?
Styx. He tastes his cooking before answering, and has to swallow down his satisfied smile because
well, it’s good. He blinks in surprise when it’s Hamlet who answers.

“No, the lad was a waiter at that restaurant, what’s the name again?”

“Pearl of Verglasse, or something like that,” Julien finishes, sending a thumb-up towards Harry
after pointing at his plate.

“Pearl of Versailles, lads,” he corrects, fighting back an amused smile. He turns his attention back
to Louis. “But yes, I was a waiter there for a few years. Quite gutted I had to leave, it was a great
job, mostly regarding the pay.”

Louis smiles in sympathy, tilting his head. “I’ve always wanted to go to France, and see the château
de Versailles,” Louis sighs dreamily. “Imagine la galerie des glaces! Must be out of this world.”

He bites his lips. He’s also always wanted to go to Paris, and visit the city of Love. He’s been
saving up for a trip around Europe that he of course never got around to doing, but gazing at Louis,
he thinks that maybe, once they come back to Long Island with the golden fleece, they might
together sail the world. It’s a foolish thought, especially seeing as the outside world is dangerous
for them. Harry frowns and fiddles with his ring, considering.

“Do demigods stay at the camp forever?” Harry wonders, looking between Hamlet and Louis,
expecting an answer out of them. It’s Julien instead who jumps in, wiping his greasy mouth with a
tissue.

“It depends, really, on who your godly parent is,” he begins, crossing his arms over the table.
“Some campers only stay the summer. If you’re a child of, let’s say, Demeter, Hermes, or
Aphrodite, you’re not really considered as a real powerful force, no offense Louis.”

“None taken,” Louis teases, chewing slowly around a mouthful of food.

Julien continues. “And by that I mean, the monsters might ignore you, and you’re less likely to
attract the wrath of a god because you’re the child of a god that pissed off, well, the other god.
Usually those demigods arrive at the camp to train, and spend a few months there until they’re
skilled enough to survive out in the mortal world. Most of the time they come back during summer,
to train and become stronger, but the rest of the year they’re living normally. Some have even
thrived in the human world, if I told you the name you’d be shocked. But, unfortunately, for other
demigods, it’s too dangerous out of the camp at any time of the year. The ones who are the most
safe are the ones who aren’t aware of their demigod status, usually, but even that is not enough for
the offspring of the Big Three, that’s it, you and Hamlet. The monsters just… don’t trust you to
keep it down, especially since the disaster of World War II, which you know had been carried out
by the offspring of the Big Three.”

“And,” Hamlet adds, straightening up. “Not to be mean, Harry, but your father’s a massive jerk,
which means half of the Olympian gods want your head on a silver plate.”

Julien bleats, his eyes wide. “We don’t use the j-word to address the gods, Hamlet, especially
Harry’s father, what the fuck?”

“What’s he gonna do, roast my ass with a lightning bolt?”

“And,” he says loudly, interrupting Hamlet. “What do you mean by thrive? Who are you talking
about?”

“Be prepared to fall off your chair,” Louis tells him, starting to list off names on his fingers.
“We’ve got Nicole Scherzinger, Marion Cotillard, Cilian Murphy, Leonardo DiCaprio-”

“Wait,” Harry interrupts, jaw-dropped. “DiCaprio? Cilian Murphy? They’re all demigods?”

“Yeah, fun fact by the way,” Julien says, smirking. “He got attacked by a monster on the set of The
Revenant, which took the shape of a bear. Beheaded the monster real quick. He came back to camp
after the movie was done to train some more. He’s still out there because he’s not often attacked,
the monster just happened to be around and wanted to be a pain in the arse. Anyway, I got myself
an autograph and everything. I’ll show you.”

Harry can’t believe what he’s hearing, chuckling in disbelief.

“Adam Levine is a demigod too, son of Ares. He’s remained the lead singer of Maroon 5 because,
well, he enjoys it but also because they all collectively stink, which hides Adam’s scent well,”
Hamlet snorts, shaking his head and muttering ‘the lad’s a fucking genius’.

“This is madness,” he admits, rubbing his temple while trying to keep in the onslaught of
information. He’s disappointed that he won’t be able to leave the camp, after all, but he doesn’t let
it get to him too much. Maybe if he figures out who has been sending monsters after him, he’ll be
able to convince Chiron that he can fend for himself out in the mortal world. He’s good with a
sword, and maybe he can even find a way to mask his scent the way Adam Levine did.

Hamlet yawns, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m knackered, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow,
alright? That fish was succulent, Haz, you should ask Chiron to put you in the kitchen at the
camp.”

On that, and rolling his eyes when they protest, Hamlet gathers their plates and announces he’s
doing the dish washing, then he’s off. Julien’s eyes don’t leave Hamlet until he’s not in sight
anymore, and then he clears his throat and straightens up, crossing his hands over his tummy, his
elbows resting on the chair’s armrests.

“So,” he begins, biting his lips. “I guess I… ugh… will get going too?”

Harry smirks. “You do that.”

Julien narrows his eyes at him, but otherwise stays quiet and simply stands up, making his way
towards the bedrooms. Harry does not miss the growing blush on Julien’s cheeks.

“They’re fucking tonight, aren’t they?” Louis snorts, biting his lips while looking at Harry.

Harry looks back, amused, and he reckons his eyes are enough to convey his opinion on the matter.
They’re alone now at the table, bathing in a comfortable silence and in the gloom of the night.

“I think we should sleep too, tomorrow we’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Louis tells him, and
when Harry hums, he stands up and waits for Harry to do the same.

Together they walk towards the bedrooms. There are exactly four in total, which should be a great
coincidence, but instead it makes Harry’s lower belly twist uncomfortably, especially when Louis
walks to another door that the one Harry is standing in front of. They won’t be sleeping together,
then. It’s not as if Harry should have expected the opposite; Louis and he haven’t established
anything, haven’t decided what they are to each other. As far as Harry knows, they’re back to
being friends, or maybe they’ve progressed to friends-with-benefits. With a tight smile Harry bids
Louis good night and doesn’t enter his room until Louis has closed his door.

The bedroom’s not big, but it’s furnished well. In the dark Harry can’t exactly tell its colour
scheme, and he doesn’t bother turning on the light. Instead, he makes a beeline for the shower, a
tiny thing really, that makes it difficult for him to fit his broad shoulders in, and rinses the day’s
filth off. If he thought he was tired, the shower wakes him up, and as he steps out and ties a towel
around his hips, the fabric hanging low on his hips, he knows he doesn’t want to sleep. But there’s
nothing for him to do besides look out at the ocean, and it’s a tad scary, staring at a vast
nothingness accommodating billions of marine creatures. So he flops down on his bed and
manoeuvres his body until his head is resting comfortably on the pillow. The bed is just the right
size, his feet touching the very edge of it, and there’s a little window to his right, looking out at the
dark sky. It’s full of stars, so far off land, and it is a stunning sight, one that Harry’s glad he can
witness from the clean-smelling sheets.

A whole hour later, or so it feels like it, Harry’s eyelids begin to droop, but he’s startled back
awake when a soft breeze penetrates his room. Somebody has opened the door, and is now
standing at the foot of his bed. He’s about to fly off the bed and gets in defensive mode, his thumb
caressing his ring, but then he registers the scent of rose and immediately relaxes.

“Fuck, Louis, you scared me,” Harry sighs, his tense shoulders dropping in relief. There’s a giggle,
then Harry feels the mattress dip under Louis’ knees as the demigod slowly crawls towards Harry
on all fours.

“Sorry?” Louis whispers, his breath fanning over Harry’s cheek. Then, he flops down and throws
one leg over Harry’s, his thigh resting over Harry’s crotch, and Harry’s hand can’t help itself from
resting over Louis’ thigh, Harry’s heartbeat speeding up when he sees Louis is bare down there.

Louis’ wearing a pair of shorts, and they’re so small Harry knows they barely cover Louis’ arse.
Biting his lips, Harry caresses the soft, hairless skin there, and tries not to get hard as Louis
purposely presses down on his dick.

“Louis,” he half-hisses half-moans, rolling over so that he’s on top of Louis. Through the faint
moonlight coming from his window, he can see the delicate curve of Louis’ nose, his long
eyelashes and sparkling blue eyes. Louis is smiling softly up at him, and Harry’s eyes flutter closed
when Louis’ hands come up to cradle his face, Louis’ thumbs caressing his cheeks. Then their lips
are on each other, soft and feral at the same time. Their tongues battle for dominance, and the heat
that Harry can feel in Louis’ mouth is being stolen, going down Harry’s throat and lighting up
Harry’s body in thousands of colours. His heart pumps lust in his veins with enthusiasm, and in no
time at all he’s hard, the head of his dick picking out of the towel that’s two strings away from
falling.

Louis detaches his lips from Harry’s, his breath blowing warm air against them as he whispers.
“Right back pocket.”

Harry doesn’t question it and instead slides one hand underneath Louis’ ass until he can feel for the
right pocket. There’s something inside of it, thin and round, and Harry doesn’t have to see it to
know it’s a condom. He smirks down at Louis, who shrugs, biting his lips to hold back a smile.

“I don’t make the same mistakes twice,” he answers, and Harry simultaneously wants to laugh and
gets Louis naked. The latter sounds more interesting and as he trails kisses down Louis’ neck, he
tries to take Louis’ shorts off. It gets stuck at Louis’ feet, but Louis kicks around until it’s flying
across the room. Louis’ not wearing any underwear and instantly Harry’s hands settled on Louis’
bare arse, memorising its curve through touch. Louis’ skin is so soft it’s basically addicting, and
Harry straightens up until he’s on his knees between Louis’ legs, gazing down at the stunning
demigod spread only for him. How did he get so lucky? He knows there’s a pretty blush on Louis’
cheeks, and he wants to reach out and caress the skin there, just to see if it feels as warm as it looks.

“You’ll be quiet, hm, baby? We don’t want our friends to hear us now, do we?” he says, smiling
when Louis pulls him back down into a searing kiss. There are hands pulling at the towel around
his hips and in no time at all it comes loose, Louis kicking it away with his feet. They’re naked
now save for Louis’ thin tank top, which he makes sure to get rid of as quickly as possible, then
he’s latching onto one of Louis’ nipples, sucking on the rapidly hardening bud until he feels Louis’
thighs trembling against his hips. He bites softly, switching nipples from time to time, and Louis is
fisting his curly hair, trying to stamp down his moans but failing. They should keep quiet, but he's
addicted to the way Louis sounds, and there’s a dangerous voice in his head that tells him it won’t
be so bad if Hamlet or Jason hear them, and that this way, they’ll know Louis is his and he’s the
only one who gets to see him like this, so open and vulnerable against his sheets.

He feels Louis’ hand caress down his chest, until Louis’ wrapping his fingers around his thick and
hard girth. Harry groans, his fingers fisting the sheet on either side of Louis’ head.

“You’re going to fuck me good, aren’t you? Going to make me scream your name and limp for the
next few days?” Louis says, his voice seductive, and Harry’s basically mesmerized, caught
between lust and love.

His heart stops and starts again, going faster than ever. So fast instead that he’s sure even Louis can
hear it.. Love.

It’s too soon to admit it, or to linger on that ache in his belly, so he crushes all the words that want
to be freed from the confine of his mouth against Louis’ lips, again and again, knowing that every
touch is a letter of the words he’s too uncertain to say out loud. He lets himself caress Louis’ skin,
tracing random shapes there, and he focuses on the pool of heat in his lower belly as Louis
continues jerking him off, the slide made easier thanks to his precome. He’s going to come, he
knows it, he feels it, except Louis stops, his hand resting just there on the head of Harry’s cock,
then there’s the sound of paper being ripped and something is put on him.

“Making me do all the work, hm?” Louis teases, licking the side of Harry’s neck, and… that won’t
do. Harry inches Louis’ thigh up, then with his other hand he’s reaching down and touching Louis’
rim. He’s surprised when he finds it open instead of tightly closed, and when he sends a curious
look at Louis, he bites his lips.
“Prepped myself before coming.”

Harry’s cock twitches at that, then he lets two fingers penetrate Louis, almost groaning at the heat
around his digits. Louis sighs and relaxes into the mattress, making the slide even easier, and in no
time at all Harry’s fingering Louis with four fingers, getting him ready for his dick. Harry ducks
and kisses Louis’ sweet tummy, enjoying the little pudge there, and he sucks the skin until it turns
several shades of red and purple. He’s always been fascinated by that part of Louis’ body, though
he adores every single thing about Louis, but he often thought about how Louis would look with
his chest and belly painted with lovebites, all coming from Harry. Harry’s never been this
possessive, but he can’t help himself when it comes to Louis, especially when Louis is easily one
of the most gorgeous people out there and draws the eyes of everybody wherever he goes.

“I’m ready,” Louis whines, one of his feet caressing Harry’s calf, and swallowing down the saliva
that’s gathered there, Harry takes his fingers out, using the wetness on them to lube up the
condom. Then, slowly, he eases himself inside of Louis, both of them panting by the time Harry
bottoms out.

Harry lowers his upper body until Louis is completely covered by him, then he kisses Louis’
cheek, his temple, his nose then his lips, and when he feels Louis squeezes his thighs, he starts
moving, in and out, slowly at first, building up a steady rhythm. And it’s just… it feels so good, it’s
like every single nerve in his body is on fire, and with Louis’ flowery scent cocooning him, it’s
even better. He loves the way Louis feels in his arms, loves how his fingerprints leave fading
marks on Louis’ thighs, and what he loves even more is when Louis scratches the back of his neck,
mewling into the skin there, breathy moans spilling out of his lips like drops of rain. Harry’s
nailing Louis’ prostate with each thrust, stimulating that little bud of nerves over and over again,
and from the way Louis’ scratching down Harry’s back, he’s close, and so is Harry. There’s static
in the air, and Harry curls his toes in the sheets and goes faster, making the bed frame rattle against
the wall.

“Ha-,” Louis starts, but he’s cut off by a moan. “Y-yeah, oh!”

Louis kisses him passionately, and Harry thrusts his tongue inside Louis’ mouth, saliva glistening
on their chins. It’s filthy and so good, and it seems Harry can’t have enough of Louis. He wants to
be closer to the blue-eyed beauty, wants to worship him as best as possible, wants their bodies to be
one. He slips his hand under Louis until it’s spread over the middle of Louis’ back, then he pushes,
making Louis arch up against Harry’s body as Harry keeps moving his hips. Louis is now
screaming, a mantra of Harry’s name and uhhh, and there’s sweat on them, sliding down their
limbs, the moonlight reflecting the curves of their bodies as they lose themselves to pleasure.

Untouched and shouting Harry’s name, Louis comes, and it takes one, two thrusts for Harry to
follow, filling the condom and wishing that this piece of rubber wasn’t there to block the
connection. A feral part of him wants to lean back and watches as his cum drips out of Louis’ rosy
hole, and he wants to use his fingers to plug Louis up and keep the liquid at bay inside of Louis. He
has never in his whole life thought that way, and instead of scaring him, he embraces his filthy
thoughts, loving the fact they’re all for Louis, and all of them are there to remind Harry of how
much he yearns for intimacy with Louis, both emotionally and physically.

Harry’s aware of what this is. It’s him longing for a relationship with Louis. For the first time in
twenty-two years, he wants something with someone else. He’s found a different kind of comfort in
Louis, he hasn’t felt like a total idiot whenever he’s around him, and surprisingly whenever they
bicker it doesn’t upset him but instead amuse him. It’s all so new that it’s admittedly terrifying, but
above everything, it’s thrilling.
The only drawback is that he’s totally unaware of Louis’ take on them. And Harry’s afraid the
answer will send him back to the dark place he used to be in, before the camp, before Louis.

So instead of talking, Harry slowly takes his cock out of Louis, peeling off the offending condom
and throwing it somewhere in the room, then he bends down to press a soft, lingering kiss against
Louis’ forehead, salty water getting stuck on his lips. It should be gross, but he only smiles fondly
when Louis’ eyes flutter shut and snap back open, trying to stay awake. Then, Louis makes grabby
hands for him.

“Cuddle,” Louis drawls out, pouting cutely when Harry holds a finger, reaching towards the
ground for his towel. Then, he gently cleans Louis up as best as possible, then drags the towel all
over his own body to get the sweat off. Louis’ natural godly perfume is so potent that Harry’s not
worried about the way he stinks of sex and sweat, so he flops down next to Louis, his chest to
Louis’ back, spooning him. He puts one arm over Louis’ waist, kissing the back of the demigod’s
neck, nuzzling at the skin.

“Night night,” Louis says cutely, his voice heavy with sleep, and before Harry can answer, Louis’
out, the sound of him breathing softly filling the air. Harry feels his chest swell with affection, and
he closes his own eyes, letting himself be lullabied into a deep slumber.

The landscape is blurry around its edges, but Harry suddenly finds himself standing in a valley,
rolling hills facing him. It’s so familiar. When he looks to his right, he sees a pine tree. Leyla. With
quick steps Harry goes to her, but he stops when he sees that the tree doesn’t have healthy,
shimmering green leaves, but instead only a mess of yellowing leaves that turn to ashes as they fall.
The trunk that’s been oozing life and positive aura, vibrating at the softest touch, is now cold and
unresponsive. No heartbeat. Panicking Harry presses his hands against Leyla, tears stinging his
eyes.

“No, no no no, Leyla, hey,” he mutters, choking on his own spit when all he gets in return is yet
another leaf falling on his shoulder, turning into dark grey powder that gets carried away with the
soft wind.

Leyla’s dead.

With his heart in his throat, Harry walks past the pine tree until he’s standing at the very top of the
hill, and the sight that greets him is enough to make him fall on his knees.

Monsters of all sizes and shapes are destroying the camp and killing demigods after demigods.
There are one eyed giants crushing his people, roaring and barely flinching as demigods use their
swords to push them back. Gorgons, which are horrifying monsters with hair made of serpents, are
turning demigods into stone. Gegenees are using their six arms to destroy the cabins, the big house
and everything they’ve built. It’s complete chaos, and Harry gazes down, his shoulders falling
when he sees he doesn’t have his ring. He doesn’t even panic about that, and instead he frantically
looks around the camp, trying to spot a weapon, anything that will permit him to help, but he can’t
see a single thing besides blood and despair. He’s about to stand up when there’s a voice echoing
all around him.

“You failed,” it says, over and over again, and the voice sounds neither male or female, but like
everything Harry’s ever feared. He’s shaking, and he can’t breathe. You failed. You failed. You
failed. It’s too late. Too late now.
Harry gasps, one hand coming up at his neck. He can’t fucking breathe, and he’s panting, trying to
get some fresh air in his lungs but something’s preventing him from doing so. Tears are now
sliding down his cheeks and into his shirt, and when he looks down he realises it’s suddenly tacky
with blood. His? He has no idea. He’s numb. He can’t feel anything.

He finds Louis fighting a harpy. And Louis sees him, too, because after decapitating the monster,
Louis whirls around towards him, his eyes gone wild. He takes a few steps towards Harry, and
from where he is Harry can sense the fear radiating off Louis.

Louis’ screams something, but Harry can’t hear. Then, just as Louis reaches the bottom of the hill,
ready to climb, there’s a sword ripping through his shirt, tainted velvet with blood, right where his
heart is. Time stops. Harry can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t move.

Louis’ eyes are still on him as he falls to his knees, face void of any expression.

The pain Harry experiences as he watches the life leave Louis’ body feels a lot like dying.

When Harry wakes up, he’s sweating, there’s sunlight filtering through the small window, and
Louis is not next to him.

He sits up and looks around in panic, ready to search the whole boat for the blue-eyed demigod,
except there’s the sound of water hitting vikrell coming from the bathroom, and Harry relaxes. His
heart is still beating at a speed twice above average, but as he takes deep breaths and stares at the
clothes still strewn around the room, especially Louis’ shorts that’s landed next to the door, he
manages to relax, his shoulders dropping.

What the fuck, honestly. He’s never had such nightmares before, and if he did, they didn’t leave
him breathless and with fear twisting his guts. They usually were typical nightmares, sometimes he
was trapped in a pool full of cockroaches, an insect he’s been phobic of since forever, or there
would be the occasional nightmares where he lost his mother, but ever since he arrived at the
camp, every single bad dream he had felt a lot more like reality, as if… as if they were predictions
or glimpses into the future. The thought makes him tremble, a shiver going through his body,
raising the hair on his arms.

What if they don’t find the golden fleece? What if Leyla dies, and with her the remaining hope of a
safe place for demigods? What if Harry is doomed to lose Louis, no matter how much he wills
himself to protect him? He suddenly wants to retch, and there are tears at the corner of his eyes,
ready to spill out and take with them the sorrow he feels. He barely registers the hand that lands on
his shoulder, but he does see through his disturbed vision stunning blue eyes. Louis’ next to him,
gazing at him with worry, and he’s rubbing Harry’s back soothingly, trying to calm him down.

It doesn’t work. He has yet to know everything about being half-blood, and that includes dreams.
He doesn’t want his nightmares to be predictions, not when they entail death and pain.

“Shhhh,” Louis says softly, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair, scratching his scalp. Harry
leans in the touch until his head is resting on Louis’ lap, and Harry’s left staring at the wall
opposite him, tattooing in his brain every single touch Louis gives him, afraid that one day, he’ll
only have his thoughts to rely on to cherish the moment once again. “You’re alright,” Louis keeps
saying, and he sounds so soft, so delicate, and he’s showing so much care towards him… He
doesn’t want to lose that.
He starts breathing harshly again, panic seizing him. Louis tightens his hold on him, and the scent
of perfume is potent, encompassing them. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Breathe,” Louis tells him. “In and out, yes, just like that, c’mon Haz.”

Harry obeys Louis, and he manages to calm down enough so that he’s breathing like a regular
person, though sometimes his breath catches in his throat. He can see fine now, especially after
Louis has wiped away the tears he hadn’t noticed have slid down, and with a sigh, he turns on his
back so that the back of his neck is on Louis’ lap instead of the side, and he’s looking up into
Louis’ eyes.

“Want to talk about it?” Louis asks, voice sweet like honeycomb, and… and Harry should
probably accept Louis is the best person to ask about his recurring nightmares, the one who will be
able to tell him everything he needs to know. But Harry can’t bring himself to do it, because he’s
actually afraid of the answer and how much it’s going to affect him. Maybe if Louis weren’t in the
picture, he’d be honest.

He feels bad as one hand reaches up to cradle Louis’ face, his thumb caressing the skin of his
cheek. Louis’ just… Louis’ everything.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, clearing his throat. He sees the doubt in Louis’ eyes, but before Louis can
open his mouth, Harry’s sitting up and slotting their lips together, effectively swallowing down the
worry at the tip of Louis’ tongue, and in the process burying down the guilt that’s burning his guts
like the green fire of the underworld would.

When they emerge from the bedroom, Hamlet and Julien are already gone seeing as their bedroom
doors are opened. Showering and changing have been an odd affair, especially after his panic
attack earlier this morning. Louis hasn’t taken his eyes off Harry, clearly expecting for more than
I’m fine and I’m alright and what should we eat for breakfast? and, well, Harry has never been a
great actor, but he’s mastered over the years the art of keeping his face expressionless, and it
comes in handy when Louis’ trying to read him.

“Look,” Louis snorts, and when Harry turns around, he sees there’s a single sheet of paper stuck to
their door by a strip of adhesive tape. Something’s written on it in big, bold letters.

I TOLD YOU WANKERS NOT TO HAVE SEX! (the pun is NOT INTENDED! WANKERS!)

“I think we might have been a bit too loud yesterday night,” Louis chuckles, giving the paper to
Harry. Harry can’t help it; he smirks, glad for the distraction.

“Might,” he laughs, and Louis gently slaps Harry on the arm, pouting.

“You were the loud one, not me.”

Harry looks at him in disbelief. “Right.”

Louis rolls his eyes and turns around, but there’s an amused, pleased smile on his face. “Let’s get
breakfast before Julien eats everything.”

The dining room finds Hamlet and Julien throwing crumbs of bread at each other, but when Harry
and Louis join them, they stop, and Hamlet narrows his eyes at them. Harry ignores him as he sits
down, agreeably surprised when he sees that there’s enough scrambled eggs to feed an army, as
well as chopped tomatoes and fruits. He lets Louis serve himself first, the gesture making Louis
smile softly at him (and the smile making butterflies fly all around Harry’s belly, though no one
needs to know that), then Harry’s piling eggs on his plate. He’s hungry, and he instantly stuffs his
mouth, chewing happily. The eggs are a tad unseasoned, but it doesn’t bother him. His mother used
to cook without salt, saying that salt is bad for his health.

“Well, good morning,” Hamlet says faux-cheerily, eyeing Harry with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“I see you worked up an appetite. Wonder why, honestly.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Louis snaps without much heat, pointing his fork at Hamlet. “It was a bit of
late night fooling around, I reckon you’re familiar with that.”

Hamlet raises an eyebrow, pointing his knife at Louis’ fork. Harry’s pretty sure they’re going to
stab each other sooner or later. “A bit of late night fooling around? Styx! You kidding? I thought
there was a cyclop banging at my door, but really it was Harry’s bed playing drums against the
bloody wall. Couldn’t damn sleep now could I? Had to stuff my ears with cotton pads.”

“And,” Julien snorts on his piece of watermelon. “All the baby, damn, was waiting for the daddy
which sadly never came.”

Louis’ cheeks turn pink, and he’s about to answer, but then Harry’s straightening up, his mouthful
of eggs almost flying out of his mouth in his haste.

“Hold on,” he begins, the beginning of a smirk on his face. “I understand Hamlet’s hearing us,
since his bedroom’s right next to mine, but how come you heard us, when you’re two doors
away?”

There’s silence for a few seconds, where Julien looks like a deer caught in headlights, and
Hamlet’s about ready to poke Julien’s eyes out with his knife.

“Satyrs, they, hm,” Julien splutters, gulping. “They have super-hearing. You know, like, proper
Lestat de Lioncourt-kind of hearing.”

“Bullshit,” Louis jumps in. “Satyrs have an exceptional sense of smell, and can see fine in the dark,
but they definitely don’t have super-hearing. You two slept together last night, oh my god that’s
too good.”

“It’s cold at night, ok?” Hamlet grunts out, stabbing a slice of melon with his knife. “And Julien’s
like a furnace, it’s a matter of survival. And at least we didn’t make a racket.”

“Yeah, ok, Ham, whatever you say,” Louis hums, quickly finishing his breakfast. “I’m going to get
the boat going. We should make it to the Sea of Monsters in six hours.”

They finish their breakfast in silence, and when Harry’s done he goes to the kitchen to wash his
plate. He can hear Hamlet and Julien bickering, and he snickers as he soaps up the sponge and rubs
the plate. Then, he walks to the cockpit, not without winking at a pissed-off Hamlet. The boat has
been booted up and is gently sliding across the water, and as soon as Harry informs Louis that
they’re all done eating, Louis speeds up the yacht, the water crashing against the bow, spilling salty
drops on them.
Harry reaches into Louis’ bag, and takes out the map on the round wooden table. Its corners fall off
the edge of the table, but Harry pays it no mind, instead focusing on what Louis wrote over the map
so far. There’s a bright neon green post-it on the corner, and on it is written, 30°31'N 75°12'W.
They must be the coordinates of the Sea of Monsters, and Harry traces the numbers with his
fingers, thinking. His digits caress the words Charybdis, then Scylla, and he gulps as the little
drawings of the mouth and the sea monster.

A Sea of Monsters. The gods are really fucked up in the head.

Hamlet and Julien join them an hour after the boat is turned on. Hamlet’s smoking, as is his wont,
and Julien has started turning a little bit green, rubbing his stomach.

“Think I’m gonna be sick again,” he croaks out, taking deep breaths to make the nausea go away.

“Tragic,” Hamlet deadpans, walking over to Harry to peer down at the map. After a while, he
starts to speak again, but there’s a frown twisting his otherwise expressionless face. “Louis, if my
calculations are right, if we do manage to get through Charybdis and Scylla, the whirlpool
Charybdis creates might steer us off course towards Magnus, right?”

Louis hums, but then his expression turns sour. “Oh, Styx! I hope that doesn’t happen.”

Hamlet looks grim.

“What’s so special about Magnus? That’s an island, right?” Julien wonders, and Hamlet clicks his
tongue.

“You might want to stay close to the raling,” Hamlet says, scratching the back of his neck.

“I can bear it,” Julien rolls his eyes. “Spill.”

Hamlet gives him a look, but doesn’t comment otherwise. “Magnus is the island where
Polyphemus lives.”

“Oh,” Julien blinks, blanching before turning several shades, from purple to yellow to green.
“Oh!”

Then the satyr sits up and runs for the side of the boat, puking. It goes on for so long that Harry’s
worried Julien will lose consciousness and fall into the ocean. When he finally stops, he straightens
up and turns around, leaning his body against the raling.

“Hm,” Harry clears his throat, looking between Hamlet and Julien. “Poly-”

He’s interrupted by Julien’s shriek. “Don’t say its name! Do not!”

“Okay, chill,” Harry puts both of his hands up in the air. He thinks of spelling out the name, but his
dyslexia won’t allow him anyway. “The monster you just named, isn’t it a cyclop?”

“Yes,” Julien whines, rubbing his temples. “Yes, he is a cyclop, and we absolutely have to avoid
Magnus.”

“Why?” Harry wonders. He knows facing a nine-feet tall cyclop is not ideal, but he’s fairly sure
they can survive through it.

“Because,” Julien answers, slightly hysteric. “He loves satyrs! He’s going to shawarma me faster
than I can bleat for help! That cyclop is especially known for his love for satyrs. I don’t want to
cross his path, nope, absolutely not.”

“Don’t worry, Jule,” Louis says, giving him his signature soft smile that can relax anyone. “We
won’t be going to Magnus, I’ll make sure of that. Also, the island’s kind of far away from Jaleyra,
so I’ll focus on steering us towards Medea. We can’t waste time.”

“Good,” Julien says, pointing a finger at Louis. “I like you, you’re a good cookie. I’m going to lay
down for a bit, my stomach’s upset as fuck. Stupid eggs are spewing acid all over my tissues, fuck
sake.”

One hour left until they reach the Sea of Monsters, and already its thunder is making its presence
known. The sky is cloudy, the waves are taller and roll over each other faster, making the boat
have to fight its way through them. The minutes tick by faster, it seems, and Harry’s watching the
distance with a worried expression, which transforms into panic when he sees the thick mist ahead
of them, waiting.

“Sea of Monsters,” Hamlet gulps, crushing his empty packet of cigarettes in his fist. “Here we
come.”

Harry’s heart is beating so fast he’s afraid it’s about to fly out of his ribcage. Louis isn’t doing any
better, but he keeps a tight grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes are never leaving the thick mist
before them.

“How the hell are we going to navigate through that mist?” Harry shouts over the deafening roar of
the sea, and Hamlet grimaces.

“Once we’re through that mist, we’ll arrive in the path between Charybdis and Scylla,” Louis
shouts. “We’ll be able to see then, because the mist will be over us. Mortals disappear because
once they’re through the fog, they can’t see the monsters, and they end up swallowed down by
either Charybdis or Scylla. Not us, though. We’ll see those fuckers quite well.”

“Yeah, unless we get our head ripped away from our neck by one of Scylla’s mouths,” Hamlet
sighs, and Harry’s about to talk, but then a wave, bigger than the other ones, goes over the yacht
and comes down, hard, drenching them.

Julien comes stumbling into the cockpit, his eyes wide. “Are we there yet?”

Harry puffs out a laugh, though it’s strained. “You sound excited.”

“I’m tired of puking, man, like I’m completely drained. Hell I’d do anything to be back on land.”

The yacht keeps going until they’re entering the mist, and Harry shivers. The mist is ice cold, and
causes droplets of water to appear on them. Harry can’t even feel the muscles in his face, and he
tightens his leather jacket around him, trying to warm himself up.

“Bloody fucking shit, why is it so cold,” Hamlet says through clacking teeth, and Harry has to
agree. The ocean is even more unforgiving, and the boat is sent left and right, and it’s practically
impossible to stay upright. Louis has a hard time keeping his grip on the steering wheel, and when
a particularly big wave crashes against the yacht, Julien is sent flying forward, his whole body
sliding down the slippery ground of the yacht until he’s knocking his head against a seat.

“I’m fine,” Julien shouts, but just as he gets back up, there’s a furious roar that Harry’s sure would
have shook the ground if they were on land. As they’re on the sea, it causes the water to go into a
frenzy, and Harry sees the exact moment Louis loses his footing and falls back, leaving the
steering wheel unsupervised.

The wheel starts spinning, fast, and without thinking Harry throws his whole body against it,
putting his whole weight on it to stop the spinning. It’s too late and the boat makes a U-turn, so in a
moment of desperation, Harry lets the wheel spin until they’ve done a complete circle. They’re
slightly off-course, and Harry knows that means they’re a tad too close to Charybdis.

They have to get back in the path. He glances down at the compass, squinting through the drizzle.
Always keep going East. His muscles bulging and hurting, Harry tries to steer the boat in the right
direction, but with the wind the thing seems to have gone rogue. Then, he feels a hand on his, and
when he looks up Hamlet’s standing next to him, helping him out. They manage to get the yacht
back on track, but just as they do that, there’s another roar, louder, closer, and Harry vaguely hears
Julien scream.

When Harry looks through the fog, he sees several pairs of glowing red eyes staring at him.

“Shit!” He hears Louis curse, then Harry watches, horrified, as a gigantic head comes at their level.
As it breathes, smoke rolls out of its nostrils, and Harry simultaneously appreciates the warmth it
brings and loathes the strong scent of sulfur. The mist has cleared quite a lot since then, and soon
enough Harry sees the entire body of Scylla. It’s bigger than he could have ever expected, and the
monster’s on a tall cliff that gives her leverage and easier access to them. They’re literally trapped
between a monster standing on a huge rock and another monster that acts like a huge ocean toilet.

“Be careful!” Louis shouts again, then he’s taking control of the steering wheel again and turning it
sharply to the left.

When Harry looks to his right, he almost faints. There, in the water, are several rows of sharp
rocks, taller than the boat, all swimming in a circle, and it doesn’t take long for Harry to see that
they are teeth. Charybdis. Whirlpools are created, threatening to make them fall into the abyss of
the mouth, and with his heart in his throat Harry realizes they’ve been sailing too close to it.

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for what’s enrolling in front of him. The fog is
making a dome-shape over the Sea of Monsters, effectively hiding what’s going on to anyone that
tries to fly over it. The ocean is darker, deeper than anywhere else in the world, and Harry can
clearly see through the salty drops of water in his eyes the narrow path they have to take, stuck
between two sea monsters. Scylla is so tall Harry can barely make out the details of her heads safe
for her glowing eyes, and Charybdis is loud, and angry, making it known by creating whirlpools so
harsh that Harry’s expecting for the boat to sink at any time. Every time Charybdis inhales, their
yacht shudders and lurches forward, and every time she exhales, it meets big waves, endangering to
destroy them.

“We have to keep sailing in the path! Scylla can’t attack us that way, and Charybdis’ whirlpools
lose their intensity!” Louis shouts to be heard, his voice cracking.

The problem is that the path is so narrow their yacht barely fits, and Harry stares at Charybdis’
mouth. He can’t believe his fucking father did it. A single tooth is as big as half the boat, and they
look like dorsal fins, except deadly. One of her Scylla’s heads comes down, but an invisible barrier
protects them. But, the left side of the boat is out of the path, and Scylla manages to dig her claws
into it, breaking the bow, and Harry’s pretty sure they’re going to drown before they can make it
through.

They need to do something, or else she’ll keep attacking the exposed side of the yacht, and they’ll
join Davy Jones.

Harry looks around frantically, running around the yacht, losing balance a few times as the boat’s
propelled forward by another giant wave. He trips and almost bashes his head open against the
wall. He groans and crawls on all four, but there are no weapons, nothing to help them out.

Harry looks up at the sky, desperate. Please, father, he silently begs. Please help me.

Overhead, thunder booms. Harry stands back up and turns around, facing Scylla. He knows he’s
the only one who can do something about the situation. Louis is busy with the wheel and doesn’t
have any power that can directly affect the monster, not when said monster is so tall and their
surroundings a giant mess of mist and water, and Hamlet has no power over the ocean and can’t
even make his underworld holes appear on the sea. Louis has tried sending enormous rose thorns
towards Scylla, but the monster’s so big the thorns have looked like toothpicks despite being
bigger than Harry himself.

Harry closes his eyes and channels all of his energy into the sky. Faster than expected, he feels that
tug in his guts, growing bigger and bigger the more he calls for the static in the air, then when he
feels ready, he touches that feeling, griping it with all his might. He can’t see the lightning bolts
causing havoc in the sky because of the thick fog, but he can hear them, feel them. They’re
familiar, gentle, they are responding to him.

There’s electricity in his hands, crackling, giving him energy, and with a shout he looks up at the
sky and channels all of the newfound energy towards Scylla, and he can feel himself grow weaker
as several lightning bolts answer his call and come barreling down towards the monster. When
they hit her, she lets out an horrendous shriek, falling back in the ocean. Several of her heads go
crazy, moving around in panic and pain, and her eyes turn black. Harry feels faint, and he can’t
stay on his feet. He loses balance and staggers forward, but before he can meet the ground, arms
circle his waist and pull him back in a warm chest.

“Hold on, buddy!” Julien shouts, cradling Harry’s head, but Harry can’t even answer. It’s like a
swarm of bees is flying next to his ears, and he can’t hear anything but the buzz buzz sound. The
fog is rapidly clearing, and there’s something warm sliding down over his mouth, tainting his taste
buds with a metallic taste. His nose’s bleeding.

He has the pleasure to see Scylla turn into powder, her soul going back to the underworld to
nurture, before he loses consciousness and sinks into darkness.

Voices. He can hear voices.

“Serious damages to the bow, yes. Also, the engine is practically dead, but we’ve got a spare.
Lighthouse Lorax ain’t gonna be happy though, what did he say again? Ah yes, not a scratch.”

“Maybe she’ll accept a few drachmas? We just want to see her stupid map, anyway, we’re not
asking much.”

“It’ll take us a few hours to get to Kolkhis, give or take. I’ll look after Harry. Hamlet, can you take
control of the steering wheel?.”

When Harry blinks his eyes open, a beige ceiling stares back at him, and there’s a table in his
vision. He’s laying on a settee, a thin wool quilt draped over his body. Louis is sitting on the couch,
reading, and Harry stares. He stares at Louis’ dry and stiff air that has soaked up sea water, at
Louis’ coat that’s tight on his body. Harry spots red patches on Louis’ palms, most likely from
holding the steering wheel so tightly.

Louis looks up, probably sensing he’s being looked at, and a soft, happy smile crosses his features
when he finds Harry’s eyes.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice light, then he’s snapping the book shut, slightly wincing as it
scratches against his irritated hands, and then he’s standing up and walking over to Harry. He
crouches down so he’s eye-level with Harry, and honestly? Harry’s body is on fire, especially his
muscles, and he’s got a hell of a headache, but seeing Louis makes everything so much better.

“Hi,” Harry croaks out, his throat dry, and Louis quickly reaches into his bag and takes out of it a
half-empty bottle of water that he holds at Harry’s lips. Harry tilts his head back and the water
gently slides down his throat, quenching his thirst.

“Better?” Louis asks and Harry hums. “Feel any pain?”

“Nah, just my head but nothing serious.” Harry waits for a moment, licking his chapped lips. “Are
we…”

He doesn’t need to say anything more; Louis gets it, and from the brilliant smile Louis gives him,
he can already guess the answer.

“We made it through, Haz, thanks to you. You were… you were absolutely amazing out there.
Though I’d rather you don’t go on hero-mode if it is to lose consciousness.”

Harry shrugs, but there’s a smirk on his face already. “You love it when I take the role of the
knight in shining armour.”

Louis scrunches up his nose and leans closer to Harry’s face, a glimmer of amusement in his blue
irises. “Not quite a knight, hm, but rather a demigod?”

Then Louis’ lips are on his own, and it’s heaven. Louis doesn’t fight against Harry’s tongue as it
dives into the heat of Louis’ mouth, and it’s wet and sends sparks up Harry’s spine. Ignoring his
sore muscles, Harry uses his bicep to stay upright and keep his body angled towards Louis, and
with his other hand he cups the back of Louis’ neck. The kiss turns deeper, more urgent, and Harry
can almost taste the salty water on Louis’ lips. When they slow down, they don’t stop kissing, but
their lips brush against one another as their tongues dance together, shy and teasing. It’s so soft and
such a contrast to what they had experienced earlier, with the sea monsters, that the kisses
practically act as a cure.

When they do stop kissing to catch their breath, Harry keeps Louis’ face close to his, just bathing
in the demigod’s aura.
“I brought you some stuff to eat,” Louis half-whispers, walking to the round-shaped wooden table
and coming back with a tied-up cloth. He sits down, crossing his legs, then unties the cloth,
revealing a grilled cheese, some honey, an apple cut into small pieces and a tiny jug of what Harry
assumes is water.

Harry’s about to reach out and grab a piece of apple, his stomach growling, but then Louis’
slapping his hand away and taking the piece himself, holding it up to Harry’s lips. Harry raises an
eyebrow, taken aback but pleased. He opens his mouth for the piece, making sure to close his lips
slightly around Louis’ digit, making the demigod flush.

“Feeding me, hm?” Harry says as he chews, and Louis rolls his eyes, but the lovely blush on his
cheeks intensity.

“You’re in serious pain,” Louis replies with a faux-sweet voice, fluttering his eyelashes knowing
damn well the effect it has on Harry. “You need assistance.”

It’s bullshit, it’s complete nonsense, but Harry sees right through Louis’ façade and plays along.

“Oh yes,” he sighs, relaxing back in his pillow. “I feel so weak, I definitely need some help here.
Can I have some of this delicious-looking bread?”

Louis has to bite his bottom lip to keep himself from laughing, but he complies with Harry’s
request, bringing the grilled cheese up to Harry’s mouth until he’s biting down. It’s buttered and a
mix between Emmental cheese and goat cheese, and Harry’s not usually a fan of goat cheese, but it
tastes amazing.

“Julien almost threw the whole fromage de chèvre towards Charybdis,” Louis snorts, feeding Harry
another piece of apple.

Harry laughs, his eyes never quite leaving Louis’. Louis ducks his head then, and promptly dips
the grilled cheese in the honey, making Harry’s eyes widen.

“Right, now what the hell are you doing?” Harry wonders, scrunching up his nose when Louis
holds the sticky, honeyed bread to Harry’s lips.

“Chèvre-miel, c’est tellement délicieux!” Louis exclaims, pushing the bread further towards him, a
thin trail of honey falling down. It bothers him, so he gives Louis a look, then bites down, closing
his eyes at the unusual flavour. It’s not bad, surprisingly, but it’s not something he’ll eat everyday.

“I’ve got a question,” Harry tells him, swallowing down the food. “How come I can understand
you when you speak French? I’ve never, ever learnt the language.”

Louis blinks. “Oh? I’ve been speaking French? Sorry, most of the time it’s not on purpose. It’s…
well, French is the language of love, and all that, right? And me being the child of Aphrodite,
goddess of love and beauty, French is therefore my first language, even though I wasn’t born in
France, or even went there. It’s natural, a bit like Ancient Greek. English is the one language I had
to learn. A soon as I was able to talk, I would use French, because it was easier for me, and um…
My dad knew I wasn’t speaking English, but he still understood me perfectly. I guess it’s a bit of
magic? I can be understood by anyone when I speak French, which is quite useful when
travelling.”

“That’s awesome,” he tells Louis, impressed, and somehow slightly turned on. Louis’ flawless
French is beautiful, alright? He’s only human.

Half-human, a tiny voice in the back of his head supplies, but he ignores it.
Louis shrugs. “Well, all of my siblings have that… specificity? So with time it kind of lost its
awesomeness. But thank you, Haz. Now eat. You need your strength, we are far from being done.”

Harry finishes his meal in silence, then Louis is kissing his forehead and walking to the door, the
cloth balled up in his hand. He stops in the doorway and looks back.

“Go take a shower, alright?”

Harry nods, and on that, Louis is gone.

“Welcome back Micky,” Julien sing-songs, patting him on the back. “There, I made you coffee,
you know, as a thank you for saving our asses.”

Harry smiles at him, and brings the cup to his lips, but from behind Julien he sees Hamlet shaking
his head rapidly.

Too late. Harry takes a large gulp of the liquid, and practically spits it out. It’s probably the worst
coffee he’s ever tasted, and he didn’t even know it was possible to make coffee taste bad. It’s like
toilet water. It’s not strong enough, and there’s enough sugar in it to attract every single ant on the
earth. Hamlet has started chatting up Julien, and Harry seizes the opportunity to spit the gruesome
liquid back in the cup and empty the whole cup in the nearest plant pot. When Julien turns back
around, Harry’s smiling, and Julien’s pleasantly surprised by his empty cup.

“Want some more?”

Harry hopes his grimace looks like a smile. “Oh no, it’s fine, thank you though. I’m gonna see
what Louis is up to, alright?”

Julien winks at him and takes Harry’s cup to wash, and as Harry stands up and walks past Hamlet,
the demigod catches his arm.

“He’s in the cockpit,” he tells him, then he rolls his eyes fondly. “He doesn’t trust us with the
yacht.”

Harry snorts and thanks Hamlet, then he’s off, walking to the cockpit. On his way there he’s able
to see the damage that’s been done to the boat by Scylla, and it’s not pretty. There are gigantic
claw marks taking off the white paint, creating deep wounds in the bow and side deck. With the tip
of his shoes, Harry touches them, and frowns, thinking back to the roars of pain Scylla had let out
in the air among the deafening noise of the waves as they crashed against one another. She’s not
dead, he knows that, seeing as monsters are like gods; they can’t disappear from existence for as
long as people believe in them. She’s slowly, but surely, reforming in Tartarus.

Louis is at the steering wheel, looking in the distance and sometimes glancing down at the
compass in his hand. Harry stops before he can enter the cockpit, and for the first time properly
looks around.

The archipelagos of the Sea of Monsters is a sight to behold. Although the sky is nothing more
than a thick grey mist, not letting a single ray of sunshine through, to see so many small islands
close to one another, forming a star, is incredible. The Sea of Monsters is bigger than he expected,
so big in fact that his eyes can’t make out the islands behind him, but the few that are in front of
him grow bigger as they get closer to them. The water is bright green, like acid, like the magic fire
of the underworld, and it’s deep.

“Jaleyra is among these islands,” Louis says suddenly, glancing at him.

“How do you know which one is the right one?” Harry asks while walking to Louis. He puts one
hand on Louis’ hip, and has to hold himself back from preening when Louis leans back against the
touch.

“We’ll look for the one with the most trees. And also, the one with a big statue of a woman with
long hair.”

“Medea?” Harry guesses, and Louis nods.

“A bit pretentious, isn’t she? Though if I were her, I’d be too. She’s very powerful.”

Harry hums and kisses the back of Louis’ head, before nodding towards the wheel.

“Can I take it? You deserve a break, love.”

Louis smiles softly up at him, then he’s going on his tiptoes to kiss Harry’s cheek.

“I’d rather not,” he finally says, voice faux-sweet. “We didn’t get all the way here for you lot to
drive us into a rock.”

Harry pretends to be offended, going as far as spreading his fingers over his heart. “You wound
me, captain Louis Tomlinson, you truly do.”

Louis ends up elbowing him in the belly, muttering ‘idiot’ under his breath, but there’s an amused,
pleased smirk on his face that Harry cherishes. Harry puts his arms around Louis’ waist, his chin
resting on top Louis’ head, and together they gaze at the horizon.

Like that, Harry feels closer to the future he wants, with Louis in his arms and a solution to their
riddle right in front of them, and because of that Harry diligently ignores the slight tremble in his
fingers, or the worried voice trying to break free from the barriers keeping it at the back of his
head.

The moment the boat touches where the sand meets the sea, Julien’s jumping off it, practically
face-planting among dried up seashells. Hamlet’s following suit, his thick boots landing on
Julien’s hooves, and while they banter, Harry helps Louis out of the yacht and onto land. It’s such a
relief to be on concrete ground that Harry almost wants to drop on his knees and sends a prayer to
whoever’s listening, but before they can properly enjoy the sight of tall trees and bright green
leaves, Louis is walking forwards towards the prominent female statue, the only thing that’s
welcomed them.
Louis puts both of his hands on the statue’s belly, then, with a monotonous voice, says, “I, Louis
Tomlinson, son of Aphrodite, would like to speak to Medea about important matters that require
her help.”

Julien stands up and dusts the sand off his tee-shirt, then he’s jerking his head towards Louis,
frowning. “Do you think he’s gone bonkers? Surely it’s not healthy to be talking to statues. Maybe
the sea salt got to his brain.”

“Shut up,” Hamlet snaps without heat, his arms crossed over his chest, a bored expression on his
face. Julien shrugs and takes a few steps forwards, but just as he’s about to walk past the statue,
something prevents him, an invisible barrier, and he’s thrown backward into the sea.

Harry’s about to ask Louis, what’s going on?, when the statue’s eyes, where there are black
diamonds hammered in the marble, turn green. Tentatively, Louis makes a few step forwards, then
he’s walking around the statue and beyond where the invisible barrier is.

Right. This is not weird at all. Harry puts his hands in his pockets and follows Louis, glancing
curiously for a few seconds towards the statue. Up close the amount of details is astonishing; the
woman’s hair looks real, the strands curling against her back. She’s wearing a long chiton where
the folds and creases are meticulously carved, and her toes are barely peeking out from the fabric,
but even then the nails on them and her hands are perfectly manicured. It’s as if a real human got
turned into a statue by Medusa. The thought sends a shiver down Harry’s spine.

Julien quickly catches up to them, drenched, and when he’s at their level, he sighs. “Why did no
one tell me there’s even weirder shit to be cautious of?”

No one answers him, though Harry pats him on the back in sympathy. They quickly break through
the line where the forest begins, and instantly the temperature drops. On the beach it was
pleasantly warm, as if the sun were casting its glow over them, but in the forest it’s a whole other
business. The temperature’s close to how New York is during winter. The soft breeze that filters
through the canopy is ice cold, and when Harry makes the mistake of putting a hand against a tree
trunk, he almost jerks away as frost threatens to melt away the skin on his palm.

“What the fuck,” Hamlet says around clacking teeth, and that’s honestly the best way to put it.
Even Louis who has the thickest coat of them all is shivering, and they all have to put their hands
under their armpits to keep in their body heat. They’re walking closer to one another at this point,
practically huddling for warmth and the further in the forest they progress, the colder it gets, until
there’s a thin layer of snow on the ground and falling from… from the canopy, as unbelievable as
that sounds.

“If the drag-dragon waiting f- for us at Kolkhis doesn’t roast me a-alive,” Julien tries to say, his
cheeks bright red from the biting cold. “T-then hypothermia will get the job done.”

“We’re getting c-closer to her house,” Louis says, barely ducking to avoid a thick, frozen tree
branch when Harry has to practically squat to get through. “I think.”

Hamlet scoffs at the ‘ I think’, and Harry tries very hard not to snap at him because Louis is doing a
lot for them, and Harry’s thankful Louis has got so much knowledge about Greek mythology to
even be able to navigate them through this endless sea of frozen vegetation.

He hears Julien whimper at one point. “I can’t s-sense life here,” he whispers, loud enough for
them all to hear seeing as it’s completely silent around them. “Everything’s… everything’s dead.”

Harry gulps, his throat dry. Julien, being a woodland creature, has got several understanding of life
in forests, and extended knowledge regarding nature. He has got a bit of magic, and can control
plants, talk to animals and even heal minor injuries. But if there’s one thing Julien is particularly
good at, it’s reading emotions and sensing life and death. So, the fact he can’t feel a single drop of
life is creating fear in Harry’s guts, mostly because he’s afraid they’ll end up as cold and lifeless as
those trees surrounding them.

“I can’t sense death, though. Not here,” Hamlet adds after a while. “None of us is going to die, th-
that much is sure.”

Well, what a relief. Harry brings his hands up to his lips and blows in them, trying to warm himself
up. Despite his jacket’s sleeves covering his hands, he still can’t feel the tip of his fingers, and he’s
slowly starting to panic, especially when the muscles in his legs become painful. He can’t even
breath.

This is not your regular cold. This cold… it kills you.

Hamlet said none of us is going to die, he mentally repeats to himself over and over again, like a
mantra.

When he looks up, he’s surprised to see every single tree still has their foliage, and despite the frost
on them, he can tell they’re healthy and bright green. It’s as if the whole forest were protected from
the cold except for them. Typical, he thinks bitterly. There are no birds chirping among the canopy,
no squirrels munching on hazelnuts, no snakes sliding among the detritus. They’re all alone, and
they’re being frozen little by little without any way to reverse the damage.

Harry’s about to lose hope when finally, finally, they arrive at a clearing, and there’s chimney
smoke curling high up in the air. The moment they step out of the forest and into the clearing,
bright, brilliant, god-sent sunlight shines over them and Harry’s dropping on his knees, face tilted
towards the ball of fire, his body soaking up the heat like a thirsty man. There’s an actual sky
there, not the gloomy, joyless mist that acts as the Sea of Monsters’ sky, and everything probably
just magic, but Harry doesn’t care. He can feel life slowly slips back inside his body, the pain
that’s bloomed from his frozen muscles fading away. Harry’s never, never going to complain
about how hot summers in New York can get.

He spots Louis laying among the grass a few meters away from him, and after a while, the
demigod sits up, reaches into his bag, and takes out of it a tall bottle of water. He drinks from it
first, a-third of the bottle gone by the time he’s done, then he’s passing the bottle over to Harry
who fervently takes it.

He takes large gulps, and once he’s satisfied he gives the bottle to Hamlet. Once all of them are no
longer thirsty, they stand up, their eyes drawn to the rather small but homey wooden cabin waiting
at the opposite side of the clearing. Bushes grow at the bottom of the walls, and there are flowers
of several shades bringing colours to the otherwise dull brown of the cabin. As they get closer, the
smell of baked vegetables and roasted meat make their palates itch with hunger.

Harry walks ahead of them until he’s at the door, and when he glances over his shoulder at Louis,
Louis nods at him, and he brings his fist up, ready to knock. But the door swings open before he
can even touch its surface, and slightly creeped out, Harry takes a step inside, looking around
curiously.

“Hm, hello?” He says loudly, and he’s highly aware of how unconventional the indoor decor is to
the outside. There’s a big cauldron in the middle of the living room, and on the shelves that make
up most of the walls, are various jars filled with odd things, going from dog teeth swimming in a
green liquid to frog legs waiting to be used. Medea seems to be the typical sorceress that uses
disgusting things to make her potions, and Harry hopes these things are limited to animals and
plants only.

There’s the sound of a pot pan being put on a stove, then a tall, curvy woman appears, a little smile
on her face. Her complexion is fair, as if she hadn’t been in the sun for years, and she’s wearing a
long and black chiton that contrasts barely with her long, curly dark hair. Her eyes are grey and so
light she seems blind, and the only spot of warm colour on her face is her lips covered with bright
red lipstick and the light blush dusting the apples of her cheeks. She’s barefoot, her hand and
toenails painted in blood red nailpolish, and she’s a stunning woman, that much is sure, but there’s
a frightening, untrusting aura around them. It doesn’t help that the deep sorrow that seems
perpetual on her face makes her look dangerous and fragile.

She’s a thousand and five hundred year old, too, and it’s slightly unnerving that she doesn’t look a
day older than thirty.

No one speaks for a moment, not Harry who seems to have lost his tongue, and not Medea who
assesses them with her wise, empty eyes.

It’s Louis who steps forward in the end, chin held high, but Harry can tell he’s trying his hardness
not to let Medea’s scariness get to him and show on the surface.

“Medea, Great Sorceress of Jaleyra?” Louis asks, and when the woman, Medea, nods slightly,
Louis continues. “We’re sorry for bothering you. I am Louis Tomlinson, the one who talked to you
earlier, and next to me is Harry Styles, son of Zeus.” Medea’s eyes seem to flash at that, her
attention snapping to him like a predator spotting its prey. “This is Hamlet Smith, son of Hades,
and this is Julien Matsui, satyr and Camp-Halfblood demigod seeker.”

She looks at each of them, lingering a few seconds too long on both Hamlet and he, probably
because they’re the offspring of two of the Big Three. Then, her smile widens and she gestures to
the round dining table.

“I’ve baked an apple pie,” she says, her voice light and high-pitched. Around them, it doesn’t smell
at all like apples. “Take a seat, I’ll be back.”

Harry definitely does not want to get comfortable in the house of someone such as Medea, but then
they look at each other, and there’s a silent conversation going on that leads to them all agreeing on
the same thing: they better get on her good side, or else she might never show them the map. So
they each take a seat at the table, which is made of a strong, dark brown wood, and they wait.

Medea comes back, cooking gloves covering her hands, holding a steaming hot pie pan, and it’s
only then that the mouth-watering smell of baked apple and buttery crust fills the room. She puts
the pan down, takes the gloves off, then with a flick of her finger, several plates appear and she
starts cutting the pie and putting a piece on each of them, all the while keeping her smile. She gives
each of them a plate, then she’s crossing her hands in front of her bosom, her eyes flicking between
one person to another.

It’s creeping Harry out so much his fingers shake as he cuts a mouthful of pie, and it takes
tremendous effort on his part to stop trembling. The moment the pie touches his tongue, it’s
heaven, and without a doubt the best pie he’s ever eaten in his life. He sees Louis’ eyes widen after
eating a bit, too, and Julien’s already half-done with his own piece.

“This is delicious,” Hamlet tells Medea, licking his fork clean, and she perks up, her cheeks
colouring.
“Why thank you, sweetheart. Here, have another piece. I’m going to ask you some questions, I
remember Louis telling me you’ve sought me out for my help. How can I help you?”

Louis puts his fork down, licking his lips, and focusing his attention on Medea. “It’s quite a long
story, and I’d appreciate it if you’re willing to hear it out.”

Medea puts one hand over Louis’, and Harry sees the way Louis tense at that, but then the
demigod relaxes and smiles slightly. Harry kind of wants to stab Medea’s hand with his fork, but he
stays put and quiet instead.

“Of course, love, go ahead. I will try to help to my best ability.”

Louis nods, then proceeds. “We come from Camp Half-Blood, and as you know, there’s this pine
tree guarding out camp from harm. The problem is that, someone poisoned the tree and now we
are left defenceless and vulnerable to monsters. And we think the only way to save Ley- the tree, is
through the use of the golden fleece.”

Medea’s face falls, and she blanches, her grip tightening around Louis’ hand before a jerk from
Louis makes her loosen her grip and takes her hand back. She smiles tightly, putting a rogue strand
of hair behind one of her ears.

“The golden fleece,” she chuckles, but it’s bitter. “Haven’t heard of it in a while. Doesn’t bring
happy memories, actually. I guess you need to see the map to know the way to Kolkhis.”

Louis nods, and Medea takes a deep breath.

“Listen, children,” her voice is back to its faux-sweet, high-pitched one, and it’s starting to piss
Harry off. “The path to getting the golden fleece is such a difficult one. I do not want you to die
trying to get the golden fleece, sweethearts. Maybe it would be for the best if you found a way
around to save your camp, hm?”

Hell no. They did not nearly die getting into the Sea of Monsters only to get out of it empty-
handed. Before Harry can open his mouth, Louis jumps in, sending him a warning look.

“If we weren’t desperate, we wouldn’t have come all the way here to bother you, Great Medea.
But it’s crucial that we get to Kolkhis so that we, demigods, have a chance at living in peace again.
The fact you’re worried for us is truly sweet, and we appreciate it, but we came here knowing the
risks, and we are ready to brave them.”

One look at her, and Harry knows it’s out of the window. She stands up, her hands holding the
edge of the table tightly.

“Enjoy the rest of the pie, please, and I hope you’ll find your way back to your boat alright.”

He does remember the whole ‘be nice’ personna to get her to talk, but to hell with that, it didn’t
work. So, gritting his teeth, he says, his voice ice cold.

“I want to save my sister, and for that I need your help.”

Medea stops just as she’s about to step back into her kitchen. She’s listening, and Harry straightens
up his back.

“Your sister,” Medea speaks, but her tone is low. “Is the pine tree?”

He almost nods until he remembers she can’t see him, seeing as her back is to him. So he speaks.
“Yes. My sister was ten years old when she was attacked at the camp’s borders by a giant. She was
attacked by the monster, and just as she was on the brink of death, Z- my father turned her into a
pine tree so that her soul would live on and the energy radiating from the tree would also protect
any demigod that wishes to join the camp. My sister, Leyla, she is dying as we speak, and the only
way to save her is the golden fleece. We need to see the map, please.”

“Ten years old?” Medea parrots, turning around to look at him, and it’s when Harry nods that her
whole face scrunches up, and tears start to leak out of her eyes. She leans against the wall and just
sobs, hiccuping and shaking, and Harry’s too much in shock to even ask her if she needs help. At
one point she makes a tissue appear and blows her nose, then she’s wiping away the tears and
clearing her throat.

It goes on for so long that Harry’s about to snap at her, but then Louis is giving him the eye, so he
waits. Finally, she ceases crying and walks over to them, distress written all over her face.

“Family is important, right?” She says, pain and sadness colouring the tone of her voice, and it’s
such a funny thing for her to say seeing as she committed fratricide. “No one- no one can replace
them.”

Harry smiles tightly and slowly moves his head in agreement. “Yes,” he mutters. “Family is
important.”

She lets out a wet chuckle, then she’s taking a deep breath and straightening up.

“I’ll help you out. I’ll show you the map.”

On that, she whirls around, her chiton following the movement, then she’s unsealing a cupboard
with her magic and taking out of it a rolled up parchment.

“Kolkhis borders on the eastern edge of the Euxine, long ago called Axenos, which is nowadays
known to humankind as the Black Sea, and is south in the Caucasus Mountains,” she licks her lips
and tightens her hands around the map, as if what she is about say pain her greetly. “The island is
actually not on the water, but inside the Caucasus Mountains, more precisely in the Lesser
Caucasus. To enter, you need the blood of a demigod that you’ll have to put on the rock that faces a
certain constellation. It changes depending on the earth’s rotation. You’re lucky, because this year,
the rock will point towards Orion, which is easy to recognize. Look in the southwest sky, you’ll
find it. The rock’s rather big, it’s hard to miss it, and it’s shaped like an arrow.”

She unties the strap of leather around the parchment, then rolls it over the table after having made
the pie and plates disappear with a wave of her hand.

The map is literally alive. It moves constantly, the name changing from Ancient Greek to Latin to
English, and in red is drawn the earth the way mankind knows it, but in black is all the hidden
islands and even countries that were sired by the gods and by Greek mythology and the events that
happened. It’s absolutely incredible, especially when Medea points at the Caucasus Mountains, and
in the Lesser Caucasus there’s the outline of an island, and inside of it is written Kolkhis.

“How on Mount Olympus did Kolkhis end up in the Caucasus Mountains?” Julien exclaims,
scratching the back of his head while looking down at the map.

Medea sighs. “Hades, Poseidon and my father went into a huge argument which is too complex for
me to even begin explaining it. But the outcome of it was pretty much the Caucasus Mountains,
which were built from the purest Tartarus rocks and the coldest water of the ocean. The Mountains
were built over Kolkhis, which has got its own little sun and moon, though when it’s day in the
mortal world, it’s night at Kolkhis, and so on.”

That’s the weirdest thing Harry’s encountered so far, even after being attacked by a harpy, by the
Minotaur, by a Hellhound, even after being struck by a lightning bolt and surviving it, even after
becoming friends with a satyr and being accepted to a camp whose activities director is a centaur.
Because honestly… an island inside a mountain, what the fuck. Harry stays silent though, because
Julien’s expression of disbelief is showing way enough for the both of them. Even Hamlet, who
isn’t fazed by a lot of things, is glancing between Medea and the map, waiting for her to tell them
she’s playing and Kolkhis is an island that’s actually on water.

None of that happens, of course. Louis is the only one who isn’t showing any sign of losing his
mind, and he even looks at Medea, thoughtful.

“It’ll take us way too long to get to the Black Sea, and I’m afraid we don’t have much time,” Louis
sighs, and Harry didn’t think of that, but Louis is right.

The thought causes his lower stomach to heat up, and not in a pleasant way. He thinks of the time
they will waste at sea getting to Euxine, and of Leyla slowly fading away as they fight tooth and
nail to get to the island. What is the point of retrieving the golden fleece, if in the end Leyla is
gone?

It’s like a bucket of cold water is being poured over him.

Medea looks properly sorry. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I can’t do anything about it.”

Harry feels even more downtrodden, but then Hamlet’s clearing his throat with a little smirk.

“This is no problem. I can shadow travel us all,” he says, but then Julien is looking at him with an
expression of utter horror.

“Ham, I know you can take upon yourself someone else, but three all at once, including yourself?
This can kill you.”

Hamlet shakes his head. “No, I can do it if I gather all of my strength up. Just give me a day.”

Julien is shaking his head, but Hamlet raises his hand and gives him a look, and it’s obvious Julien
is actively against it, but he doesn’t comment on it any further.

“Shadow travel?” he wonders, and Hamlet nods at him.

“I’ll explain it to you later on.”

“Well,” Medea claps her hands, smiling brightly. “I’m glad this is sorted. I wish you all the luck in
the world.”

Hamlet jerks his head in a half-hearted goodbye, then he’s spinning around and walking to the
door.

“Wait!” Medea shouts suddenly, and Harry can hear Hamlet’s sigh. Medea turns towards her
stocked shelves and takes a clear vial filled with a thin, light blue liquid. She whistles and a spoon
appears in between her fingers, then she’s turning towards Harry while pouring the liquid in the
spoon.

“Open up,” she tells him, and she really must have not read the room, because there’s no way in
hell Harry trusts her enough to let her put a foreign liquid down his throat. She blinks, then giggles.
“It’s just an anti-cold potion, so that you won’t freeze on your way through the forest.”

Harry is not a hundred percent sure about this, but he spots Louis looking at him, and there’s
something in his eyes that tells Harry that it’s alright. So, he opens his mouth, and tries not to
wince when he closes his lips around the cold spoon. The potion doesn’t taste like anything, but as
it goes down his body, it heats up his insides incredibly, then the feeling is gone and he feels
normal again. She repeats the action with everyone else, then once it’s done, she puts the vial back
where it belongs and gives them one last smile.

“Oh!” She exclaims just as Hamlet’s hand has closed around the door handle. “Also, in exchange
for my help, I’ll need a little something from you.”

Is she serious? Harry looks at her in annoyance, but doesn’t say anything and only raises one
eyebrow to urge her on.

“Nothing serious,” she reassures them, though there’s a smirk stretching her lipstick-coated lips. “If
you do manage to get the golden fleece, which means you’ll have killed Peleus, the dragon that
guards it, well, I will appreciate it greatly if you can bring me a handful of dragon teeth. Their
properties are rare and truly incredible, but as you imagine, it’s quite hard to come by such a
product.”

“Sure, of course we will go through Scylla and her sister and risk our life once again to bring you
some dragon teeth, no problem,” Hamlet says sarcastically, and Harry has to hold back a snort.
Medea doesn’t let his tone deter her, though, for she only gives him a coy look.

“You don’t have to bring the teeth right now, but I expect them sometimes in the near future…
unless they never come which probably will mean your souls remained back at Kolkhis, which will
be very unfortunate. I like you all.”

Harry wants to tell her that it’s not mutual, but he only slides his fingers down the length of Louis’
arm, and when the demigod looks up at him in curiosity, he glances repeatedly at the door to get
his message across.

“Great Medea,” Louis announces loudly, bending down slightly in front of her. “Thank you so
much for your help. We will try our best to bring those teeth back to you.”

Medea looks pleased enough and lets them go. They are all through the door when Harry looks
back, only to see Medea holding Louis back and whispering something in the demigod’s ear. He
sees Louis nodding, and when Louis joins them and Harry looks at him, intrigued, Louis only goes
on his tiptoes and kisses him gently on the cheek.

Someone’s making loud retching noises, probably Julien. Harry honestly doesn’t care, not when
Louis’ lips are as soft as rose petals. Only to spite the other two (and because he really, really wants
to), Harry ducks down and catches Louis’ lips in a small, sweet kiss that leaves the blue-eyed
beauty with a delicious flush on his cheeks.

He glances one last time over his shoulder, just to keep the sight of the little cabin in his head, and
catches Medea looking at them with melancholy.

He feels a pang of sadness for the woman, because she lost the man she loved, and did
questionable things because she was blinded by love. He looks at Louis who is walking close to
him, looking ahead at the mess of trees, his long eyelashes fluttering whenever he blinks. He can’t
help himself when one of his hands comes down to rest on Louis’ hip, and he knows Louis likes it
judging by the way he leans against the touch. They’re in the forest, and the cold doesn’t affect
them one bit, and it’s most likely because of the potion Medea gave to them, but in the end, if he
feels that much more warm, and if there’s a glow falling over him, it’s all because he’s got the boy
that makes him a bit more strong tucked close to him.

They arrive quickly at the yacht that’s swaying gently on the water. Julien is the first one to get up,
then it’s Hamlet. Harry lets Louis go first so he can help him up, and when he’s heaved his body
up, Louis is waiting for him, leaning against the raling.

Harry crowds him, trapping Louis between his body and the metal ropes, and Harry doesn’t think,
doesn’t care if he’s seen, he cups Louis’ cheeks and brings him in a long, full-of-untold-feeling
kiss. He licks his way into Louis’ mouth, caressing Louis palate and moaning as Louis’ tongue
teases his. They’re breathless when they detach from one another, and Harry touches Louis’ nose
with his own, stealing one last small kiss.

“You alright,” Louis whispers the words in the tight space between them, and Harry kind-of wants
to chuckle, because he’s brilliant and he doesn’t even know why.

So he goes for honesty. Or, well, he allows himself to lay on the table his cards, and lets Louis pick
the ones he wants.

“I really, really, really like you a lot,” Harry tells Louis, his green eyes never leaving Louis’ blue
irises, just so the other demigod knows he’s serious, and even though there’s so much they need to
talk about, and so many things they have yet to know about one another, Harry’s heart is still
beating a bit too fast whenever he gazes at Louis, and his lips still tingle with the constant need to
lay his love against Louis’ skin.

Because this is love, isn’t it? The butterflies he’s read about are there, the need to be around Louis
and to just sit down to admire just how incredible he is, well, it’s there, and acts as a perpetual
reminder that he’s found someone that he can picture himself being with for more than a few
weeks. That’s love, isn’t it? Harry hasn’t experienced any of this before, hasn’t exactly been
interested in the idea, positive he’s meant to remain on his own for the rest of his life, but it must
be love if whenever he looks at Louis, all of his doubts and past insecurities are left tiptoeing on
the edge of a cliff, waiting to be pushed in the deep, bottomless ocean. It must be love if Louis is
the only one who can get his heart to beat as fast as it’s beating right now, waiting for an answer.

Then Louis’ looking up at him, positively beaming, then he’s saying, “I really, really, really like
you too, Haz.”

And yes, Harry knows it’s love he’s feeling, a love he’s never felt before, a love that’s different
from the love he has for his mother, or for the few friends he’s made at camp.

Harry loves Louis. It’s not an earth-shattering, ground-breathing news. He’s realised it and the
planets are still rotating around the sun, Harry’s father is still a god, global warming is still a pain
in the ass. But to Harry, it’s just… it’s tremendous news. It’s like pieces within him he didn’t know
were scattered around are taken and mended back together.
Julien’s head pops in and he looks at them funnily.

“Are you twats done doing Pan-the-fuck-knows over here and coming?”

Harry blinks and leans back, giving Louis some space, then Julien’s not there anymore and Louis is
bursting out laughing, and Harry feels every single vibration in his jaw seeing as he’s still cupping
it. Harry joins in, shaking his head, then Louis is fisting the front of his shirt to bring him down in
another, too-short to his liking kiss, and walking backwards towards the cockpit.

“You coming, rookie?” Louis teases, and Harry rolls his eyes at the name, but doesn’t comment on
it while he follows Louis. He actually has to fight the smile that threatens to split his face in two,
because he might act annoyed by Louis’ banter, but he secretly loves it.

And Louis knows it, too. So it’s a win-win situation, really.

There’s no one in the cockpit, so they walk to the bedrooms. Julien is leaning against the doorway
of Hamlet’s bedroom, and when Harry glances inside, he can see Hamlet stretching his muscles.
The bedroom looks a lot like his own, except for the colour scheme which is darker. Julien lets
them inside, and he sees Louis cross his arms over his chest, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Are you preparing for a Death Trance?” Louis wonders, and Hamlet jerks his head in agreement
while reaching down to his toes.

“A Death Trance?” Harry parrots, glancing at all of them. Louis looks mildly uncomfortable, and
Julien seems completely against the idea. Harry can’t deny that ‘Death Trance’ sounds anything but
fun, but then Hamlet’s straightening up, exhaling, and speaking.

“It’s basically a trance that children of Hades can enter,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket
and fishing out a black vial. “In that there are several Persephone’s pomegranate seeds. If I eat one
seed, I’ll enter the trance for exactly one day. You can see it like… a hibernation, except I’m
temporarily dead, and my soul momentarily leaves my body. When you’re just starting the trance,
it can be draining and render you weak, but I’ve gone into a Death Trance so many times that now
I know how to control it so that instead of draining my strength, it reinforces it. Just need someone
to put a bit of food in my mouth every few hours.”

“This is a bad idea,” Julien adds, practically glaring at Hamlet as the demigod lays on the bed,
kicking his boots off. “Do you have any idea of how creepy it is to put food in a corpse’s mouth?”

Hamlet smirks. “You like creepy, baby.”

“Ew,” Julien scrunches up his nose, but otherwise doesn’t say anything else.

“Well,” Hamlet sighs. “See you lot in a few.”

Then he’s uncapping the vial, pouring a single seed in his hand, and swallowing the tiny thing
down. He puts the vial back in the inside pocket of his jacket and closes his eyes, relaxing back
into the mattress. In no time at all, Hamlet’s chest stops going up and down, and his already fair
complexion turns completely white and his lips lose their red shade to become an icy blue.

He looks exactly like a corpse that’s been dead for a day or so. It’s absolutely scary and Harry is
pretty sure Hamlet’s body is as cold as Jaleyra’s forest.

“Let’s go,” Louis says in his ear, his voice low. “Julien knows how to deal with the trance.”

Harry nods, then after glancing one last time at Hamlet, he steps out of the bedroom, closing the
door behind him. Louis is waiting for him, and together they walk to the cockpit, Harry’s hand
settling on the small of Louis’ back.

“How long is he going to stay like that again?” Harry asks after a while, unconsciously looking
back towards the bedrooms. It’s just… he can’t get the sight of his dead best friend out of his head.

“How many hours are there in a day?” Louis says lightly, skipping to the kitchen, dragging Harry
with him.

“Twenty-four,” Harry answers right away, and Louis smiles cheekily at him while grabbing from
the fridge a cluster of red seedless grapes.

“There you have your answer.” And right. Hamlet did say it’s for a day. Harry shakes his head and
leans against the kitchen counter while Louis rinses the grapes under the cold spray of water, then
he’s popping a fruit in his mouth, chewing slowly.

A bit of juice beads at the corner of Louis’ mouth, and Harry wants to lick it.

Before he can even register what’s going on, Louis’ chest is pressing against his own, and then
he’s got a handful of arse, Louis’ arse, and they’re kissing. There’s the lingering sweet taste of the
fruit on Louis’ tongue, and Harry sucks on it to get every last bit of it. Maybe he’s never going to
eat fruits the normal way. Maybe from now on he’ll just get them from Louis. It’s a good idea, if
anyone asks him, and it turns into a brilliant idea when their lips detach and Louis looks up at him,
all pretty and soft, and pops another grape in between his lips. Harry smashes his mouth against
Louis’, an he’s able to bite into the small grape, and he can’t actually believe he’s getting hard over
Louis and grapes, of all things, but he is, and Louis feels it too, because he’s smirking, smug of
what he’s provoked.

“Don’t begin what you can’t finish,” Harry hisses, half in distress and half in pleasure. Louis cups
his crotch and squeezes, and Harry sighs both because he’s happy and because he’s frustrated,
because it’s not enough.

Harry barely registers Louis kicking the kitchen door closed, but the light dims until they’re
practically only in darkness, except for the orangish glow above their heads.

“Who said anything about unfinished business,” Louis whispers, and. And Harry goes feral. He
pins Louis against the door, Louis’ thighs on either side of his hips, and he’s trailing kisses all over
Louis’ face and down his neck where he layers love bites. Louis is moaning loudly and scratching
at his clothed back, and why are there still clothes? Louis pushes Harry’s leather jacket away, and it
falls to the ground with a pleasant loud thud.

“You’re so pretty,” Harry blurts out, and maybe it’s stupid to say it like that in the heat of things,
but he’s also realized he hasn’t showered Louis with enough compliments, when he deserves to
know that everything about him is everything Harry wants.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs against Harry’s ear, licking at the piercing there. “Do you only like me for my
body?”

He’s teasing, Harry knows he is, but Harry’s probably more sex-stupid than he thought as he keeps
liking at Louis’ neck.

“No. Love the way you talk. The way you laugh,” Harry enumerates between kisses. “Love how
courageous and smart you are and how nice you are and love when you take care of children and
love, love when you’re in my arms.”
Louis probably didn’t expect Harry to spew all of that, but he doesn’t seem displeased about it
when Harry’s eyes found Louis’.

“You’re a dork, aren’t you?” Louis says, but he’s smiling wide and Harry loves it and he can’t help
it when he catches Louis’ lips in yet another kiss. Maybe that’s what he’s meant to do for the rest
of his life. Kiss Louis.

“I don’t know about me being a dork, but I do know my dork is waking up.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Louis’ slapping his chest and laughing.

“You’re stupid,” Louis giggles, and Harry kisses his forehead.

“You like it.”

Louis pretends to be thinking that statement over. “I kinda do.”

Then Louis pushes him until there’s a bit more space between them, and drops to his knees.

Harry has absolutely no idea how he ends up there, on the floor, his back to the wall with Louis
leaning against his chest, but he is absolutely not complaining. He’s still flushed from the blowjob
he got from Louis, and there’s still the sweet taste of Louis after he’s buried his face deep in Louis’
arse. They planned on going back to a bedroom and taking everything a bit further, but then when
they emerged, night had fallen, and for some reason there are so many stars in the pitch black sky.
It’s probably magic, it must be, and it’s the most beautiful sky he’s ever seen in his life.

Louis had stopped, then had asked him to sit down, and here they are now, watching the spectacle
miles above them. Louis smells like rose and fruit and also a bit of sweat, and he’s warm in
between Harry’s arms, and Harry hasn’t felt so at peace in a while.

He’s staring at the brightest star when he wonders if his mother is watching the same sky at the
tiny window in her flat. A lump forms in his throat, and he presses his lips against the back of
Louis’ head to prevent himself from making any noise that will disturb the silence. He hasn’t
talked to her in months now, and it’s the longest he’s gone without giving her any update on his
life. It’s never bothered him that he still needs to talk to his mother for comfort, and since he’s
taken to doing it, the fact he had to stop it is leaving him hollow. Perhaps, when everything’s over
and Leyla as well as the camp are safe, he can go out in the mortal world and see her. He won’t
take the risk to call her and attract monsters, but he refuses to go another month without hearing her
rant about her flowers or the lavender muffins recipe that failed.

“What are you thinking about?” Louis’ voice breaks through his endless thoughts, and Harry can
lie, and say something about Louis that will turn the moment in a romantic setting, but he just…
Louis is giving him a way to be open and honest and is willing to be a shoulder to cry on, so Harry
sighs and rubs his cheek against Louis’ soft hair.

“My mom,” he breathes out softly, and the words hang in the air for a few seconds. He feels Louis’
hands tighten around his where they’re resting on Louis’ belly.
“You miss her,” he says, matter of fact, and Harry nods against Louis’ head.

“Haven’t talked to her since I left for camp,” Harry tells Louis, who tilts his head back to kiss the
underside of Harry’s chin.

“You’ll get to see her again, once we get back.”

Harry shrugs slightly, because Louis says once, but all Harry can think is if. If they get back.

“How is she like?” Louis wonders, and Harry smiles.

“She’s lovely,” he begins, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin of Louis’ hand. “She’s always
simultaneously been a mother and a best friend to me, you know? Especially seeing as I wasn’t
very friendly and had trouble socialising. She’s kind and incredibly loving, and I never really felt
the lack of a father figure because she did everything by herself and it’s always been enough. She
has always believed in me and my capacities to accomplish things. When I got that job as a waiter,
instead of telling me that it’s a lame one, she was all for it.”

“She sounds amazing, and strong.”

“She is.”

He can’t help but smile.

“I miss her,” he admits, tears threatening to fall down.

“I promise you, you will see her again.”

He kisses Louis’ neck as a thank you.

“I can’t stop thinking about what Medea said,” Louis admits softly, almost as if he were scared of
saying whatever he has in mind. “About family being important.”

Then it hits Harry, that Louis hasn’t really had the best childhood. He’s arrived at the camp at five,
for crying out loud. Harry tightens his hold on Louis, listening as Louis gulps and keeps speaking.

“I’ve never known my mother,” he reveals, playing with Harry’s ring. “Only my father. Well, I
don’t even have concrete memories of him, seeing as he-,” Louis takes a deep breath. “Seeing as he
abandoned me.”

Louis’ voice cracks on the word abandoned and he moves his arms so that he can put Louis’ legs
over his right leg, and cuddle Louis better against his chest. He can tell Louis needs to talk about it
all, too, and it striked Harry how alike they are deep down.

“You know,” Louis picks up again once he’s comfortably positioned on Harry’s chest. “When I
was born, my father wasn’t there, and he only found me when my mom dropped me off in front of
his door with a little card reading my name in gold ink, and a small blanket that smelled strongly
like rose and kept me safe from monsters.”

At this point, Harry can’t pinpoint Louis’ feelings, if he’s upset about what he’s saying or if he’s
grown numb from the lack of parental love in his life. Still, Harry tries to make his presence known
in any way possible, be it a stroke of fingers over Louis’ skin, or a kiss against Louis’ rose-smelling
hair. He just wants Louis to know that he’s not alone. Not anymore.

“There was a letter with me that my father never exactly told me about, but I figured out that the
letter revealed to him everything there was to know about me, from my half-blood status to Camp
Half-Blood and to the danger society can be to me as a demigod.”

Louis stops and chuckles, hiding the sound in between Harry’s pectorals.

“My father never told me about my being a demigod, and he always kept me wrapped in that rose
blanket mom gave to me at birth, because he knew it protected me. He practically never took me
outside, unless to eat some ice cream or go see a movie, but usually we stayed together in his
cramped apartment, watching football matches and eating Orville Redenbacher popcorn.
Regardless of everything, now that I think back about it, he wasn’t the worst father in the world.
He worked hard to put food in my stomach, and he would read me a bedtime story nearly every
night. But I guess he got tired of being restricted because of me, and a part of him was perpetually
scared that a monster would find us. I had never seen the beach until I woke up for the first time at
Camp Half-Blood, and the Fireworks beach was staring at me from across the packed Hermes
room I was put into.”

Something wet slides down Harry’s neck where Louis’ face is buried, and when Harry brings a shy
hand up to brush the tears away with his thumb, Louis lets go and openly sobs.

“He didn’t know where to drop me,” he says brokenly, fisting Harry’s jacket as if his life depended
on it. “Mom couldn’t tell him the exact address, so he let me off in the area and thought I’d
magically find my way to camp. I’d be dead if it weren’t f-for Leyla. And it hurts so much, that my
father thought he was protecting me by abandoning me with my blanket when really, he put me in
even more danger.”

Louis scoffs, shaking his head and rubbing furiously at his wet cheeks. Harry has to grab his wrists,
gentle, to prevent him from continuing. Louis doesn’t want to cry about it, Harry understands, but
sometimes it’s good to let it out.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers, caressing Louis’ hair and rubbing his cheek. “Let it out.”

And Louis does. His tears soak into Harry’s shirt until the fabric sticks to his skin, and Louis’
fingers are digging so hard into Harry’s leather jacket that he has to wrench them away lest Louis
would hurt himself. But he does kiss the tip of each of Louis’ digits to soften the harsh movement,
and he keeps showering all of his affection over Louis until the sobs turn into whimpers, then into
sighs.

“I’m sorry,” Louis practically whispers, his index finger now drawing random shapes against
Harry’s clothes.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, love,” Harry tells him, hoping Louis trusts his words. “You don’t
have to apologize for wanting to talk, and for wanting to express yourself. Sometimes when it gets
hard you need to let it out, or else bottling up your emotions can result in terrible outcomes. You
can always, always talk to me, and I’ll be glad to help you as best as I possibly can. I lo- I care for
you so much, Louis, don’t ever forget that.”

He feels Louis shifts, then their eyes meet. Louis is smiling softly at him.

“Thank you,” he says, then he’s kissing Harry, a cute little peck of the lips that leaves Harry warm
despite the slightly cold breeze of the night.

Harry kisses Louis’ forehead as an answer, then he stands up.

“Let’s get to bed, shall we?” He says lightly, ready to help Louis up.
But then Louis looks up from underneath his still wet eyelashes, looking all pretty as the stars
reflect in his irises. “Carry me?” he asks, the little tease that he is, and Harry would be damned if
he refused. He crouches down, puts one arm underneath Louis’ legs and another against his back,
then he stands back up, holding Louis bridal style.

All the crying probably tired Louis out, for when Harry wakes up, Louis is still sound asleep next
to him. He looks peaceful like that, his hair falling prettily on the pillow, his eyelashes casting
shadows over his face, and his rose-petal lips slightly parted. He’s in one of Harry’s shirts, the only
one Harry thought of bringing besides the one he’s been wearing, and even though he should
change seeing as the other tee-shirt is starting to smell and get stiff with the salty water, he doesn’t
have the heart to actually do it, not when Louis looks so small and pretty in his clothes. Harry
drops a soft kiss on Louis’ forehead as he stands up, careful not to disturb Louis in his sleep, then
he stretches his sore muscles, swallowing down his moans.

He takes a steaming hot shower and brushes his teeth, barely acknowledging his reflection in the
foggy mirror.

When he walks out, Louis is leaning against the bed frame, his plush thighs on display. Harry has
never thought he’d get to discover that Louis usually sleeps in a pair of the tiniest shorts on earth
and a light tank top, but he came to discover it, and he’s absolutely obsessed. Especially now as
Harry’s oversized shirt bunches up against Louis’ belly.

“Hi,” Louis says, smiling at him as the soft sunlight filters through the window and against Louis’
skin. Harry feels himself untense and joins Louis on the bed, his track pants hanging low on his
hips as Louis makes grabby hands for him. He goes willingly and scoops Louis up in his arms,
manoeuvring their bodies around until Louis is laying on his chest and playing with Harry’s chest
hair.

“Hi baby,” he finally says, ducking his head and asking for a kiss.

“Ew no,” Louis giggles. “I have morning breath.”

Harry raises one eyebrow, which makes Louis roll his eyes.

“I wanna shower, and brush my teeth, and then you can kiss me.”

He's not a patient man, is the thing, so he pouts and goes for Louis’ lips again, but Louis stops him
with a finger against his lips. Louis tuts.

“Behave.”

Then there’s no more Louis against Harry’s body to keep him warm, and Harry watches as Louis
gathers his clothes and disappears in the bathroom.

“For your information, I think your morning breath is very sexy,” Harry shouts, and he can hear
Louis laughing, and Julien telling him to shut the fuck up from the bedroom next to his.
Harry shakes his head, chuckling to himself, then he quickly dresses. He steps out of the bedroom
and walks to Hamlet’s door, which he pushes open. Julien is sitting on a chair next to the bed, and
Hamlet is still where Harry last saw him. He’s laying among the sheets, lifeless. For the second
time, the sight of his dead best friend leaves Harry speechless, and a bit worried that this will turn
out to be a bad idea.

“Hey mate,” Julien greets him, smirking. “So you have something for morning breath?”

Harry punches Julien in the arm and leans against the desk.

“No, really,” Julien continues. “If you’re into that it’s totally fine. No kink-shaming in this house.”

He has befriended idiots, that must be it. He kicks Julien in the calf this time, causing the satyr to
bleat in pain.

“Ok, Styx, no need to be violent,” Julien mutters, but then he stands up and takes a small piece of
orange that Harry has just noticed. Harry watches as Julien opens Hamlet’s mouth and places the
fruit on his tongue, and it’s so bizarre to see Julien having to close Hamlet’s mouth. Slowly, Harry
makes his way to Hamlet and tentatively takes his hand, almost dropping it when he registers how
cold Hamlet’s body is.

“He’s gonna be alright?” Harry asks, turning to look at Julien, who first shrugs then nods.

“Yeah, don’t you worry. He’s done this plenty of times before, so he’s become experienced. I’m
just worried about shadow-travelling so many people at once. And it doesn’t help Hamlet has done
it only a handful of times, and the more he does it, the more he loses contact with the physical
world.”

“How does it work?” Harry wonders, tilting his head to the side. “That whole shadow-travelling
thingy? And what do you mean by losing contact with the physical world?”

“Basically, creatures of the underworld, offspring of Hades and children of Pluto can use shadow-
travelling. They basically slip into the shadows and can reappear anywhere else they desire. It’s
very useful, but it’s incredibly draining. Hamlet has shadow-travelled with me once, and the few
times before he’s done it on his own, but what worries me is that he can only shadow-travel us all
together once, because he won’t be able to keep his strength up for another shadow-travel in the
wake.”

“So we basically got one shot,” Harry summarises, glancing at Hamlet in worry.

“Yeah,” Julien sighs. “Basically. And what I mean by losing contact with the physical world. Have
you noticed how sometimes, Hamlet seems… disconnected from his surroundings? Like, he is
completely expressionless? That’s not because he doesn’t care about what’s going on, but because
he’s not aware. Sometimes he’s just isolated in his own brain. Disconnected.”

Harry frowns. He can remember a few times Hamlet has seemed completely uncaring of his
surroundings, and Harry thought it was just the way he is.

“Maybe there’s another way to get to Kolkhis?” Harry tries, but then Louis enters the bedroom,
shaking his head.

“No, there’s not, unfortunately. Shadow-travelling is the fastest way. Hi, Jule, how are you
doing?” Louis inquiries, coming to stand up next to Harry.

“He’s right,” Julien tells Harry, then he’s focusing his attention on Louis. “And I’m great, Lou,
thanks. There are some grilled cheeses waiting for you in the dining room. Enjoy! Hamlet should
come back from the dead in a few hours.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiles, patting Julien’s back, then with Louis they walk to the dining room.

The Sea of Monsters is no more different than yesterday. The fog is still present, hiding the sky
from view, which makes the starry night they got to admire that much more magical. They’ve
drifted away from Jaleyra, and in the distance the islands look like little dots of brown in the
middle of acid green. When Harry glances down into the water, he can’t make out anything, not a
single presence of sea life or any colourful corals. It makes him nervous to not be able to see the
bottom of the green ocean, but he figures if he stops thinking about it, he’ll go through it all alright.

“After breakfast I’m gonna boot up the yacht and we’ll sail out of here, alright?”

Harry pales, stopping. His eyes are fixed on Louis’ retreating back.

“Wait,” he says, making Louis stop and turn to look at him curiously. “We have to go through
Scylla and her sister again?”

Louis blinks, then shakes his head. “No, oh my god, no Haz, it’s only dangerous to enter the Sea of
Monsters, not to get out of it. If we were to sail right now towards Scylla and Charybdis, you’ll
find they’re not here and you will make it out perfectly alive.”

Harry glances towards the heavens above, sighing in relief. He feels Louis’ hand slips into his
own, and when he looks down, the demigod is looking up at him fondly.

“Let’s eat, alright?”

Harry nods, and Louis is about to turn around and tug him along towards the dining room, but
Harry holds him back.

“Hold on,” he says, and when Louis blinks in confusion, Harry ducks his head to steal a kiss. It
quickly heats up when Louis parts his lips and Harry can thrust his tongue inside.

“Didn’t get my morning kiss,” Harry whispers in the space between them as he detaches his lips
from Louis’, and Louis smiles, scrunching up his nose in amusement. God, he’s so fucking pretty.
Harry doesn’t want to look at anyone and anything else for the rest of his life.

But Louis starts to walk and Harry has to look at the way Louis’ hair moves along with the breeze,
not that he’s complaining. Right. Food.

The grilled cheeses are slightly burnt on the edge, and there’s too much cheese in them to be
socially acceptable, but they’re good, especially with the tomato sauce Julien made, which is
slightly sweet and spicy all at once. Louis is content with one piece of bread, and he pushes the rest
towards Harry.

“I’m going to get the boat going,” Louis tells him while dabbing his mouth with a tissue. “Join me
afterwards?”

Harry takes a moment to enjoy Louis and the way his green coat outlines the curves of his body,
then he’s taking another clean tissue, gathering several grilled cheeses on top of it, and walking to
Louis.

“Lead the way, love,” Harry says, smiling when Louis rolls his eyes and steals the piece of grilled
cheese straight out of Harry’s hand.
“Impatient,” Louis jokes as they make their way to the cockpit, and Harry lets his entire body fall
back on the cushioned seats as he swallows another mouthful of food.

“I can’t stay away from you for too long, baby, you know this.”

That pulls a laugh out of Louis, and Harry adores the sound, such a high and light one. It fills the
room with happiness.

Louis turns the engine on, and the boat roars to life. Slowly, it starts advancing, and Louis picks up
speed until there’s a wind making Harry’s curls fly all around his head. He quickly finishes eating
then comes to stand next to Louis, looking out into the fog that grows closer as the minutes tick by.
He allows himself to be practically stuck to Louis’ back, enjoying their shared body heat. It takes
them a few hours to cross the Sea of Monsters, then they’re breaching the thick mist. It’s then that
Harry’s lower belly begins to twist, expecting for Charybdis to roar at any moment, or for red
glowing eyes to appear through the mist. He can’t see anything, but he trusts Louis, so he stays
quiet and waits for the first glimpse of a clear sky.

When Harry glances towards the green water, he finds pieces of wood, fiberglass, cushions and
safety jackets. The wreckage of old ships and planes. He shivers, gulping.

Then he frowns.

“Louis?” He calls, and he gets a little hum in response. “Aren’t debris of lost planes and ships
supposed to be in Charybdis’s stomach?”

“Yes, why?” He hears Louis ask, and he has to wet his lips. He can’t make sense of what he’s
seeing right now.

“There is debris floating in the water.”

“What? Please take the wheel.”

Harry can hear the tremor in Louis’ voice, and Harry hurries to the steering wheel, gripping it
while Louis lets go and dashes for the raling. Louis glances down, and Harry sees the colours drain
from his face.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Louis mutters, running back to him and taking the wheel back, turning it sharply
to the left.

“Harry,” he says, his hands shaking. “I need you to find anything, anything, that can tune out
sounds. Earplugs if possible. If you can’t find anything, create something, maybe from candle
wax?”

What the fuck is going on, Harry wants to ask, but he sees the distress written all over Louis’ face
so he doesn’t question it. He sprints towards the bedrooms and enters his. He finds his bag
carelessly laying on his bed, and he takes out of it his ridiculously expensive earphones. They’re
good enough to drown any outside noise, making you feel as if you were alone in the world. He
glances around but doesn’t find candles, so he quickly makes his way out and into the living room.

There’s a desk that seems to call for him, so he goes to it and sweeps through the drawers. There
are pencils, a heavy stapler, several sheets and other knacks that Harry won’t find any use in. He’s
about to give up when he opens the last drawer and falls upon earplugs.

He almost passes out in relief. He grabs the box and looks at it. It reads, HEAROS ear plugs,
original formula, Xtreme protection. 56 pairs. More than enough for all of them.
He stuffs his earphones in his trousers back pocket and barges into Hamlet's bedroom, finding
Julien snacking on a tin can. What? Nevermind.

“Jule,” Harry stresses out, taking out four earplugs. “Take these and put them on. I don’t know why
but Louis is adamant.”

Julien straightens up in alarm and takes the earplugs. He looks at them in thought for a second,
before he gasps.

“Anthemoessa!” He exclaims, giving back two of the four earplugs Harry gave him. “Fuck! Go
give those to Louis, Hamlet doesn’t need them, he’s dead. Hurry mate!”

Fuck, ok. He runs back to the cockpit to find Louis still trembling and glancing around in
apprehension.

“I found earplugs,” he tells Louis, who sighs in relief and reaches for the box. He takes a pair for
himself, putting them in his ears.

“Please, could you give some to Julien?”

“Already done,” Harry informs him, before plugging his own ears with the little foam buds.

Then there’s silence. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. All he can actually hear is the loud beating
of his heart. Louis is still looking around, his grip tight on the steering wheel. The fog is still
slowly clearing away, but not enough for them to see properly.

Harry’s holding the raling, looking into the water once again, when he sees the flutter of feathers.

He slowly looks up and his breath catches in his throat when he spots pitch black sand and tall,
deadly looking rocks. They’re not what makes panic bubble up in his chest like boiling water,
though. No, it’s the creatures on the rocks, looking straight at them.

If Harry has to describe them with the least amount of words possible, he’d say they’re human-
sized vultures. Their black plumage, even from the distance and the fog, looks dirty, caked with
dirt. They have grey talons with long, fatal claws, and their vulture bodies stop at their pink neck,
where a human head begins. Harry tries to look away, but something prevents him, and when his
eyes meet one of the creatures, he almost falls on his knees.

He’s looking in the kind eyes of his mother.

“Mom?” He chokes out, his fingers shaking around the raling. She smiles sweetly at him, and it’s
so reassuring, and he’s missed it, that before he can think about it, he’s leaning over the raling,
ready to dive into the water.

Something pulls him back, but he never takes his eyes off his mother. He is spinned around until
he’s looking into Louis’ eyes, who is looking back in horror. He’s talking, Harry thinks, but he
can’t hear anything, not when in the back of his head he remembers the way his mother laughs, and
how she sings as she puts loaves of bread in the oven. “It’s good to sing to your creations,” she
tells him, smiling. “They become happier, and as a result, they turn out better.”

Louis is shaking him now, his mouth moving. Harry frowns.

“Harry, stop biting your toy, you’re going to break your teeth, darling.”

Louis cups his cheeks, rubbing his thumbs against the apples of his cheeks. He doesn’t exactly
register the gesture though, not when his mother is waiting for him behind him.

“Harry! Dinner’s ready!”

Harry pushes Louis away and quickly whirls around. It takes him only a few seconds to put his feet
on the raling, and dive into the murky water.

He manages to swim against the current, which feels much stronger than it looks. He dodges pieces
of rusty steel and other odd things all the while keeping eye contact with his mother. Her long,
curly hair flows behind her back with the wind, and the closer Harry gets, the better he can make
out the details of her face. Her honey brown eyes are welcoming, and she’s speaking, or singing?
But Harry can’t hear. He wants to hear her, and he thinks maybe he should take off the earplugs,
except he doesn’t want to risk slowing down. Not when his mother is so close.

He wants to take her in his arms and apologies for going so long without contacting her.

He’s several meters from the black sand and the rocks, but a hand comes up around him, pulling
his body back into another one. He struggles, trying to wrench himself free from the hold, but then
Louis’ body comes into view, and there are soft lips on his own.

It draws his attention away from his mother for a moment. All he can think about is the warm
tongue against his own, and when Louis detaches them, he sees the blue-eyed beauty pleading with
his eyes, his wet hair falling over his forehead.

“Harry, can you get the door please? I think the pizzas have just arrived! The money is on the
table.”

His mother.

He blinks and turns his head, meeting once again his mother’s eyes. He smiles, and she smiles
back. He tries to swim once again towards the rocks, but a hand prevents him from doing so. He
glances back at Louis, only to be smacked in the face. Hard.

He blinks in confusion, one hand coming up on his reddening cheek. That hurt. He sees tears on
Louis’ cheeks, and he’s even more confused. Why is Louis crying? He cups Louis’ face and
brushes the tears away with his fingers. “What’s wrong?” He asks, but Louis can’t hear him, but he
can read Harry’s lips. So he answers. And Harry has to focus on Louis’ lips to try and decipher the
words.

He says, ‘This is not your mother, Harry. Come back with me.’

Harry gulps and attempts to look back at his mother, except Louis tries to block his vision. He fails
though, partly because Harry grabs Louis’ wrists and pins them against his chest. Then he takes the
time to properly look at his mother. Nothing seems wrong, that’s it, until Harry glances down at her
mouth and notices that it is greasy, and her teeth are yellow with bits of something rosy stuck in
between them.
Flesh. Raw flesh.

His mother does not have teeth like that. He startles and flails around, the water getting into his
mouth, but Louis manages to keep him above the water. He’s breathing harshly, and when he looks
at the creature again, it doesn’t have the face of his mother, but instead the hideous face of a
woman. It barely has hair on its head.

He has been fighting his way closer to this monstrosity. He can’t fucking believe it.

Louis, with his hand in Harry’s, urges him forwards and together they swim away from the black
sand island. The yacht is exactly where Louis left it, and it takes a tremendous effort to heave
themselves up with their water clogged clothes, but they manage to and flop down, Louis’ body on
top of Harry’s. They take a bit of time to gather their wits, especially Harry who is still shivering at
the sight of those creatures.

The boat is powered up, and starts to sail once again. Julien is probably at the steering wheel.
Louis is practically dead weight on top of him, and Harry doesn’t feel like moving. He simply
looks up into the fog, feeling it around them, and he waits to be out of the Sea of Monsters.

It comes faster than he expected. It begins with the fog dissipating, letting through its thin layer the
picture of a sky partially cloudy, and the horizon line. Then, it’s the regular blue water of the ocean
that comes into view, and Harry lets out a little sigh of relief. They’re out of the Sea of Monsters,
and he promises himself to never come back unless it’s absolutely necessary. He relaxes and feels
Louis’ body relaxes, and when they share a look, they can’t help it; they smile. Louis sits up and
takes his earplugs out, and Harry does the same. There’s no singing, only the gentle lullaby of the
small ocean waves.

Then Louis is hitting him in the chest.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, pouting slightly. “Got yourself a nice pair of earplugs and still is getting
drawn by those sirens.”

Harry splutters in disbelief. “Sirens? These were sirens?”

Louis hums. “Yes, and they attract their next meal by singing. And sometimes, if longing is
omnipresent in their victim, they can take the appearance of the victim’s loved ones.”

Harry feels goosebumps rise on his skin at the word ‘meal’. He sits up too and takes Louis’ hands
between his own, kissing the knuckles.

“Thank you for saving my arse,” Harry tells Louis softly, and Louis shrugs, his eyes warm.

“You’re very welcome. Now let’s change clothes, shall we? I’m freezing.”

When Hamlet comes back from the dead, it’s a lot less dramatic than Harry expected. They’re all
sitting around the thick wooden dining table, mostly silent after Louis told Julien everything about
Harry losing his mind because of a siren. They’re eating orange chicken with rice, and Julien has
stuck to the rice and the cooked, spicy tofu and vegetables sauté Louis did especially for him.
They’ve driven far away enough from the Sea of Monsters to be halfway to New York, and the
boat’s engine is turned off seeing as night has fallen already. They plan on making it back to land
before Hamlet can shadow-travel them to the Caucasus Mountains.

“Please, tell me there are Twinkies somewhere,” is the first thing Hamlet says as he flops down in
the chair next to Julien, stealing a piece of chicken straight out of the bowl. He hums around it,
sending Harry a thumb-up.

“It’s actually Louis who cooked,” Harry tells him, and Hamlet raises one eyebrow, before shooting
a thumb-up at Louis, who rolls his eyes and chuckles.

Hamlet doesn’t particularly look good, is the thing. He still hasn’t recovered any colour, his blue
veins are prominent from underneath his practically translucent skin, and his movements are a bit
sluggish.

“You alright?” Louis wonders, frowning in worry. Hamlet blinks as if he had trouble focusing on
Louis’ words, but when they do reach his brain he answers.

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine, don’t worry. I just need to properly wake up, s’all.”

Julien scoffs, but doesn’t say anything as he chews around a broccoli.

“So,” Hamlet begins, looking around. “Did anything exciting happen while I was… hm… dead?”

It’s so weird, it’s so fucking weird, honestly, and Harry’s not sure he will actually become
accustomed to the fact his friend died for a day and came back. He stuffs his mouth with the
delicious chicken to avoid answering. Of course, that’s when Louis decides to open his mouth once
again to tell the story of how Harry got into the claws of a siren despite being deaf to their singing.
It’s almost embarrassing, but Hamlet doesn’t really comment besides the occasional hm and ahh so
Harry is not too bothered. Once they’re done eating, Julien collects their plates to wash them, Louis
puts the leftovers of the chicken and rice in a receptacle, and Hamlet leans against his chair, props
his feet up, and makes a cigarette appear out of nowhere.

The smoke curls in the air and disappears towards the heavens above, and the odour joins the salty
scent of the sea. Harry’s tempted to ask Hamlet for a fag, too, because he feels like he needs one
right now after everything he’s been through, but he’s not particularly keen on picking up his filthy
habits again when he’s been doing so well so far, so he only grabs his glass of grape juice and
brings it to his lips.

Louis flops down in the chair next to his once again, and throws on the table a few candy bars that
Hamlet practically jumps on.

“Where’s Jule?” Hamlet asks around a mouthful of Kit Kat. Harry can’t even believe Hamlet bit
into all four bars, that should be illegal.

“Went to bed already, poor lad is knackered,” Louis answers, and Hamlet frowns. Then he gathers
some more candy bars and stands up, bowing to bid them goodnight, and he’s off too.

He’s left alone with Louis, who breaks little bits of Twix and puts them gently into his mouth. He’s
so… delicate. He’s like the elegant curves of rose petals, or even like a ballerina. He’s so careful
with how he acts, and it’s so obviously natural Harry’s left in awe. Harry himself is big, broad, and
rough, with his facial hair that’s rapidly growing back while Louis is smooth all over. Harry wants
to touch Louis’ skin and layers kisses all over it, but he holds himself back and instead bathes in
the silence around them. The only thing he can hear is the waves as they move, and Louis chewing.
He tilts his head back and turns it to the side to watch Louis, who when he spots Harry watching
him, smile and leans towards him.

“You’re not going to share?” Harry asks with a smirk, glancing down at the second stick of Twix.
Louis pretends to ponder the request, tapping his chin with his index finger.

“No,” he finally says, and he looks so smug, it turns Harry on.

“But I want something sweet,” Harry whines, and they must look ridiculous, especially Harry since
there are still loads of chocolate bars on the table, waiting to be eaten.

“I’m plenty sweet,” Louis shrugs, pulling his legs up on the chair and smirking, knowing exactly
well the effect he has on Harry.

He’s a tease, is what he is. Harry’s cock twitched, wanting to get out. Harry doesn’t even know
how he still has the energy to get horny, seeing as the episode with the sirens left him quite
drained, but here he is, wanting to grab Louis and throw him in his bed.

He does just that, and as much as he appreciate Louis’ little yelp of surprise as Harry picks him up
as if he weighed as much as a feather (which he does, but Harry won’t tell him that or he’s sure
Louis will cut his head), he knows Hamlet and Julien are asleep, so he leans down until his lips
graze Louis’ earlobe and whispers.

“Be quiet, baby, we don’t want to wake up our friends, hm?”

And Harry hears Louis’ breath catch in his throat, and can see the delicious blush that creeps on
Louis’ cheeks. Louis lets the piece of chocolate he’s holding fall on the table, then he’s bringing
his chocolate-covered fingers to his mouth, and he sucks. Harry watches as his tongue darts out to
lick a strip of chocolate, and as he pushes his fingers deeper in his mouth to clean them of the sweet
goodness, and Harry can’t help it when he kisses Louis the moment the demigod takes his fingers
out. There’s lust pumping in his veins, acting like a fuel, and Harry hurries towards his bedroom.

He puts Louis gently on the bed, and closes the door. When he turns around, Louis is unbuttoning
his coat and pushing it to the ground, as well as kicking his boots off. Harry wants to be closer, so
he does walk to the bottom of the bed, and he’s about to put his knees down and crawl in-between
Louis’ legs when Louis stops him with a foot on his chest. It shouldn’t be sexy, but it is, it’s a
massive turn-on when Louis tortures him and doesn’t allow him to touch the blue-eyed beauty.

So Harry stands there, one of Louis’ feet on his chest, and watches as Louis strips naked. It’s
difficult seeing as Louis is laying down, and maybe it shouldn’t be sexy the way Louis has to move
his body to get out of his clothes, but Louis knows how to move, knows how to get Harry hot and
hard. It’s almost as if he were doing some kind of erotic dancing as his hips move up so that he can
peel off his trousers, and as his fingers softly caress the thin white pantie he’s got on.

Panties. Fucking panties. White lacy panties that hug his little dick beautifully. Harry’s fingers are
shaking with the need to touch, and his mouth salivates with the yearn to taste.

Louis’ trousers are now down at his calves, so Harry grabs them and pulls them off. Louis’ foot
has to fall back down on the bed, but the moment Harry is back, Louis is putting his foot where it
has been, and slowly trails it down until his toes can push against Harry’s erection. Harry hisses
and his hand comes up to circle Louis’ clothed ankle, and Harry takes off Louis’ sock, too, not
liking how the piece of fabric disturbs the length of Louis’ stunning legs. Louis shakes his foot
until Harry lets go, and goes back to teasing Harry’s crotch with his toes. Harry groans and starts to
pull off his leather jacket, then his shirt, and he enjoys the way the light breeze touches his heated
up skin.

“C’mon, baby, let me touch you,” he practically pleads, and Louis bites his lips while he keeps
trailing his toes up and down Harry’s clothed dick that’s now perfectly defined and fully hard.

“I want you to eat me out,” Louis tells him, blinking his long eyelashes up at him. Harry nods his
head fast. As if he were going to refuse such a privilege.

Louis takes his foot back and Harry lurches forward, gripping Louis’ thighs and ducking down to
kiss Louis’ honey lips. He progresses further down, licking Louis’ nipples until they’ve hardened
and rosy. He completely bypasses Louis’ small cock, and instead spreads his thighs and pushes the
fabric aside, exposing Louis’ hairless, smooth and pink rim. He doesn’t waste time; he licks Louis’
balls down to his hole, and relishes in Louis’ moan.

There’s saliva dripping down from his mouth straight onto Louis’ perineum, acting as a lubricant,
and he’s able to ease a finger inside of Louis next to his tongue. He fucks his digit in and out of
Louis, and the demigod keeps moving, his toes curling in the sheets, the pleasure overtaking him.
Louis’ fingers grip his hair, pushing his face closer to his rim, and Harry goes happily. His nose is
pressing against Louis’ swollen balls, and there’s the heady scent of rose and body there. Harry’s
like a starved man at this point. He keeps flicking his tongue, pushing deeper inside Louis’ hole.
Once he’s sure Louis is properly open, he puts another finger, then another, until he’s four fingers
in and scissoring Louis, preparing him for his cock.

“I’m ready,” Louis whines, digging the sole of his feet in Harry’s arse cheeks, pushing him closer
to Louis. “C’mon, please.”

“Wait, baby, condom,” Harry croaks out, his hands patting the sheet around them, praying for a
packet to magically appear. But then Louis shakes his head, his wet eyes looking at Harry.

“I’m clean, Haz, please, I’m clean, wanna feel you.”

Harry’s brain kind of stops working for a few seconds too long. Louis is handing a lot of trust, and
Harry’s never done it bare before. He takes his time to gaze at Louis, who looks back with his
bottom lip caught in between his teeth. Before Louis, Harry hadn’t have sex for a good three years,
and in the meantime he did get tested. He’s clean, anyway, has never done it without protection,
but the fact Louis is asking him to do it, and the fact Louis will be his first doing it bare. Harry
kisses Louis softly, conveying all the love he feels. Maybe it’s not even a big deal to Louis, but to
him it is.

“I’m clean, too,” he whispers, then he straightens up and unbuttons his trousers, unzipping them.
He struggles taking them off, but Louis giggles and uses his feet to get the trousers down Harry’s
legs. Harry’s underwear follows, and his erected cock slaps against his belly, the head red, almost
purple with want.

Louis whines.

“I’m here, baby, gonna give you what you want,” Harry says while lining himself with Louis’
shiny hole. Slowly, he penetrates Louis until he’s bottoming out, and he can feel Louis lets out a
sigh into his ear.

It’s fucking incredible. That’s the only way to put it. Without that piece of latex to separate them,
Harry can feel Louis’ walls constrict around him, can feel the wetness and the heat even more. It’s
so much more private. Harry doesn’t want to wear a condom ever again, at least not with Louis,
who he hopes he’ll get to be with for the rest of his life.

That last thought should scare Harry. He’s known Louis for a few months and he’s already talking
about forever. But his life has changed so much in such a short amount of time, and maybe wanting
a forever is not as scary as it should be.

Harry kisses Louis’ temples as Louis’ hands grip tightly his biceps, and when Harry draws back
and snaps his hips forward again, they both moan loudly. He can feel Louis’ thighs tremble around
him, and can tell Louis’ yearning for Harry to move and bring them both to their climax.

Harry can feel the fabric of Louis’ panties against the base of his shaft, and it drives him crazy.

Then he is letting go. He starts fucking Louis properly, snapping his hips forward and backward.
The bed creaks along their moans, and the bedpost hits the wall. Thud thud thud. It’s constant, it’s
so good. Everything in Harry has been set on fire, and there’s sweat already sliding down his
forehead and onto Louis’ neck, where Harry’s been burying his face in, licking and biting and
kissing at the skin, eyes closed and focused on the heat that grows where he’s connected with
Louis.

Louis is shaking, and he’s mouthing at Harry’s temple, saliva mixing with Harry’s sweat. Louis
can’t even close his mouth, the pleasure too intense.

Harry’s lower belly keeps rubbing against Louis’ prick, creating friction, and just like that Louis is
coming, tainting his belly and wetting his panties and crying out and clamping down his thighs
around Harry’s hips. Louis’ fingers that found their way in Harry’s hair tighten and yank, and it’s
the slight pain Harry can feel then, and the desperation in Louis’ movement, the complete loss of
himself to pleasure, that tips Harry to the edge and he comes deep inside of Louis.

He’s coming inside of Louis. Literally. The surge of possessiveness Harry suddenly feels takes him
aback, but it’s just. Louis is full of him.

He stays deep inside of Louis for a few hot seconds, until he’s too sensitive and has to ease himself
out. He doesn’t have to take off any condom, which as basic as it sounds makes him happy.
Instantly, he takes Louis’ panties off and bunches the fabric in his hand, ignoring its dampness, and
he cleans Louis’ belly free of cum. He throws the underwear behind him and flops down next to
Louis, gathering the demigod in his arms and battling with the quilt, trying to drag it over them. He
succeeds at one point, and can hear Louis’ soft giggle that’s partially hidden in the pillow
underneath his head.

Louis is sleepy, and there’s a sated, happy little smile on his face that Harry looks at in fondness.
Harry throws his arms over Louis’ waist and pulls the demigod against his chest, until there’s not a
single inch of space between them. Harry takes a deep breath, exhales, and closes his eyes. His
eyelids are heavy, and he’s about to doze off when Louis whispers in the darkness.

“Haz?”

Harry hums. Louis shifts slightly, his bum caressing Harry’s soft cock.

“There’s cum dripping out of me.”

Harry’s eyes snap open. Fuck. He didn’t even think of that. One of his hands creeps down Louis’
back, making goosebumps rise there, then he’s reaching Louis’ bum. He parts Louis’ cheeks and
allows one of his fingers to graze Louis’ rim, and he expects for the area to be wet, but there’s
something thick and slightly sticky oozing out of Louis. Fuck.
Needless to say, Harry doesn’t get much sleep, especially when he gets hard again and Louis’
smirking, aware of what he’s just bestowed upon himself. Round two.

“I wish I were still dead yesterday night just to save my ears from the horrors they heard coming
from your bedroom,” is the first thing Hamlet says when Harry and Louis appear in the dining
room. The boat has been booted up early in the morning, and Julien is at it. He’s doing a relatively
good job at steering the yacht in the right direction, though the poor satyr is looking a bit
guacamole-green in the face.

Louis smirks at Hamlet, stealing a buttery toast straight from Hamlet’s plate. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about,” he sing-songs, and Hamlet narrows his eyes at Louis.

“Like hell you don’t,” he huffs, and glares at Harry as he sits down and gathers eggs and canned
beans on his plate.

“Hey, I’m innocent,” Harry says, batting his eyelashes.

“You’re not as cute as you think you are,” Hamlet tells him, pointing his fork at him, then he’s
stabbing a piece of sausage and throwing it in his mouth. “God, this is getting boring. I can’t wait
to get back to camp.”

“I thought you hated camp,” Louis frowns, chewing a bit of eggs. Hamlet shrugs.

“It’s not that I hate it, it’s just that it gets boring. Just like living on this boat gets boring.”

Harry should shut up, but he can’t help it. “Too bad our sex noises don’t distract you enough.”

Hamlet doesn’t even look at him. “I’ll kill you,” he says without heat, twirling his fork around his
fingers in a practiced move. “I’ll send you to Tartarus with your friend, Mimi. He’ll be so glad to
see you.”

The Minotaur, is what he means. Harry rolls his eyes and continues eating.

They all end up joining Julien in the cockpit, and while Hamlet smokes, looking out into the
horizon, Harry sits down, Louis leaning against him in between his legs. Harry’s arms are around
Louis’ waist, and Louis is playing with Harry’s ring unconsciously, twirling it around from time to
time. It’s comfortable, the silence, except of course for the roaring of the engine. They’re going at
full speed, eager to be back on mortal land. Drops of ocean fly towards them, landing on their skin,
on their clothes.

Harry hasn’t gotten enough sleep last night, so despite himself, he ends up dozing off.

A voice is whispering, but Harry can’t make out what it says. He’s standing somewhere rocky,
that’s the only thing he can tell. It’s pitch black, and he has to use his hand to navigate. He’s
touched a wall, he thinks, made of smooth rock, as if with time it has been polished. Maybe it’s
melted, hardened molten lava. That’s how it feels underneath his digits. He’s scared, his heart is
beating in his throat. If there’s something he hates other than cockroaches, it’s darkness. He hates
not being able to see, not knowing where he puts his feet. There’s whispering, and it sends chills
down Harry’s spine.

He walks, and walks, and walks, but he never gets close to a source of light. Sweat has broken out
from his skin, and he smells, and his clothes are heavy and damp with it. It’s so fucking hot. With
fear clogging up his senses, Harry is pretty sure he’s inside a volcano. He must be. Why else would
it smell like freshly burnt charcoal?

He should give up. His legs are sore, his muscles are screaming at him to take a break. But he
doesn’t want to. He wants to get out of here. So he keeps walking.

After what feels like hours, he finally starts hearing the whispers better. He can at least make out
what they’re saying.

Betrayal. That’s the word that’s repeated over and over again, in all kinds of voices. Harry wants to
puke when he makes out one distinct voice in particular.

Louis’.

The light, high-pitched, melodious voice he’s come to adore is there repeating betrayal over again.
There’s something off about it, though. It sounds… dead. Emotionless. Harry gulps and leans
against the wall, and stops. Betrayal betrayal betrayal, Louis repeats, but then it’s not just him. It’s
Hamlet, too, and Julien, and Chiron, and his mother, and Maia and Jace and so many other people
he’s not sure he even knows. They’re all saying the same word, and it grows louder until Harry has
had enough. He doesn’t want to hear them. Shut up, he pleads, shut up shut up shut up.

He starts running, pressing his palms against his ears. It doesn’t do anything. He can still hear
them. Fuck off, he screams, shut up! But they don’t. They’re mocking him at this point.

Shut up. He wants them to be quiet.

He stops running, breathing harshly, not from exhaustion, but from fear.

Something cold lands on his shoulder, and something hard digs into his skin. Nails, he thinks.
When he moves his hand up, and when his shaky fingers touch the new dead weight, all he can feel
is dead skin.

Harry’s eyes snap open, his whole body jerking. He sees over him, shaking him by his shoulders.
There’s worry written all over his face.

“Harry, you’re with me? You had a nightmare, babe,” Louis tells him, pushing Harry’s damp curls
back from his sweaty forehead. For a moment, he’s disoriented. Where is he? Then he spots Julien
puking over a raling, Hamlet is standing behind the steering wheel, a pair of black sunglasses on
his eyes, and the voices have been replaced by the boat’s engine.

The yacht. The quest. The golden fleece. Leyla. Right.

He offers Louis a smile that he’s pretty sure came out much more like a grimace, and he sits up.

“I’m fine,” he reassures Louis. He’s not. He’s really not fine, and he’s more than fed up about
those nightmares.

At least, he thinks, this one wasn’t about the camp.

Louis doesn’t look convinced, worry swimming in his beautiful blue irises. Harry usually enjoys
the sight, but then he can hear Louis’ voice from his dream, saying betrayal like a mantra, and he
has to look away.

Louis’ grip tightens around his shoulders, but then his hands slide down Harry’s biceps until he’s
cupping Harry’s hands gently.

“You can talk to me, you know? You remember what you told me, under the stars?” Louis asks
softly, and Harry has no choice but to look at him. He softens and leans down, kissing Louis’
forehead.

“I do. Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

It has to be.

“Yo, guys!” Julien croaks out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just saw a seagull!”

Harry perks up. Seagulls are good. Great, even. They mean there’s land nearby.

Louis stands up and quickly walks next to Julien, looking out into the horizon, trying to catch sight
of another bird. They do, at one point, and over Louis’ head Harry sees the first sight of mortal
land in what feels like a decade. Harry sighs, his tense shoulders dropping. Hamlet whoops, and
they all laugh. All of this for a magical map. Harry shakes his head and scratches one of his itching
arms, crossing them over his chest and closing his eyes, wanting to enjoy the slightly more stuffed
air around them, a sure sign of pollution, of civilisation. Even though they’ve spent only five day or
so at sea, it feels like a lifetime.

“Great Pan, I thank three for bringing us back to safety,” Julien prays, kissing his fingers and
putting them up in the air. Louis turns around and leans against the raling, smiling, and when his
eyes meet Harry’s, Harry doesn’t look away. Everything will be alright, he’s sure of it, he can feel
it.

They get closer to the shore, and Hamlet navigates the yacht somewhere less crowded. Harry sees
right away that they’re not in Long Island, though, and he frowns. Louis knows that, too, because
he blinks and comes to stand next to Hamlet.

“This is not Long Island,” he states, blinking down at the opened map on the table.

“Aye,” Hamlet sighs, huffing in frustration. “I’m pretty sure we’re in Florida.”

Louis mouths, Florida, his lips open in slight disbelief.

“We’re supposed to be in Long Island, not in…” Louis looks around and spots a billboard with a
woman in a bright pink bikini. Over her in yellow, bold letters is written, Highland Beach. “In
Highland Beach.”

Hamlet shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s whatever, we can shadow-travel here as well as
in Long Island.”
“I wanted to give the lighthouse man his yacht back, though,” Louis sighs, glaring at the few
people laying on the sand without a care in the world.

Hamlet brings the yacht to a stop. There are seagulls squawking, the sound of waves washing over
the white sand. Sometimes there are cars honking, and other times it’s silent. Harry’s never been
there before, but he takes time to appreciate the palm trees and the buildings.

“Who give a fuck about Lorax,” Hamlet snorts. “And let’s be real, he’ll go into cardiac arrest at the
sight of his half-destroyed yacht, so I think it’s better if he never sees it ever again.”

Louis’ fuming, but doesn’t say anything. He simply makes a gesture towards Harry and walks to
the steel ladder in front of the yacht. Harry follows him, grabbing his bag and hosting it up on his
shoulder. He quickly descends the ladder, his boots ending up in sea water, and walks to the sand
until he’s standing behind Louis. Then, he ducks his head, kisses the back of Louis’ neck, and
Louis softens at the gesture, giving him a small smile.

When he’s sure Louis isn’t as upset as he’s been a few seconds before, he allows himself a quick
glance around. They’re in between two large black rocks that hide them from view, and when
Harry sees their rather smooth surface, he tries not to panic as he thinks back to the dream he had.
It’s a dream, only a dream, nothing more. He moves his head a bit to relax his neck and shoulders,
then gives a small smile to Julien and Hamlet as they job towards them.

“Now to the worst part of the whole quest,” Julien laughs nervously, which causes Hamlet to roll
his eyes.

“It’s not that bad, I promise. It doesn’t feel like anything, actually.”

Julien scoffs.

“Alright,” Louis begins. “How does it work?”

“Well, first of all, drop your bags. It’s going to be a pain in the arse if you add weight. Maybe
pocket anything that’s valuable, but other than that, no bags please.”

Harry nods and throws his duffel bag to the side. There’s nothing of value in there, actually, and
the things that do have value are already on him; his ring and his fancy earphones which are still in
his trousers’ back pocket. He sees Louis taking his compass out and pocketing it, as well as the
leather bound journal that he slips inside his coat. Julien doesn’t even have any bag on him, though
there’s a rolled up Olympus weekly underneath his armpit that he seems adamant on keeping with
him. Hamlet is staring at it, and when Julien realises that they’re all kinda wondering why he’s
even bothering with the piece of paper, he frowns.

“What?” He says a bit defensively. “I’m collecting them, ok? In a few hundred years I want to be
able to re-read all the godly dramas.”

“Whatever,” Hamlet waves off, gesturing for them to come closer to him. They do, until they’re
standing in a square. Louis is next to him and Julien is next to Hamlet. Harry has no idea of what to
expect, but he watches as Hamlet closes his eyes and puts his hands in front of him, palms up.

For a moment, nothing happens. The seagulls are still being noisy, there is laughter in the
background, the city is making itself heard through car horns and some dumbass talking into a
microphone about a discount on shampoo. It’s all very different from the roars of monsters or the
singing of sirens. But then, the temperature seems to drop, and Harry feels his eyes widen when he
sees his own shadow disappearing, moving towards Hamlet.
The way the sun is inclined, casting its glow directly over them, causes for them to each have a
shadow. Except they move, attracted to Hamlet for some reasons, and it’s not just their shadows
that want a piece of Hamlet, but the shadows of the seagulls as they fly over the beach, the shadow
of a woman with her sunglasses resting on her head, or the shadow of a chubby toddler that’s been
building a castle out of the fine sand. There are so many shadows around them that it’s as if they
were no sun, and Harry tries his hardest not to freak out when the shadows turn into thick, black
mist.

Darkness. Pure, unfiltered, darkness.

Don’t think of your dream, Harry repeats to himself.

He feels something warm slide into his hand, and he glances down to see Louis’ fingers interlaced
in his own. He squeezes.

The darkness falls down upon them, and then Harry can’t feel anything anymore. He can’t feel the
breeze of the beach, or smell the salty air, or even feel the warmth of Louis’ hand. His senses die
suddenly. He becomes numb to everything.

But then it’s over as fast as it started. When Harry blinks his eyes open — or were they always
open but he just lost his ability to see for a moment? He can’t tell — he’s no longer on a beach
south of Florida, but among dried grass and yellow rolling hills. There’s absolutely nothing around
them besides vegetations that have seen better days and the unforgiving sun above their heads
that’s misplaced among the clear blue sky.

He can feel Louis’ fingers still around his own, and it makes him relax.

Until he sees Hamlet wobble on his legs and fall forward, face first into the dirt. Julien is instantly
kneeling besides Hamlet and rolling the weak demigod over. Hamlet’s pale and sweating
profusely, his eyes barely open. Louis crouches to the other side of him, taking Hamlet’s pulse with
two fingers held at the side of his neck. But then Hamlet jerks his head away, groans and attempts
to sit up, to no avail.

“I ain’t dead,” he croaks out, waving Julien’s hand away. “Styx, gimme a minute I’ll be good to
go.”

Harry seriously doubts that, but he doesn’t say anything. He regrets not bringing a bottle of water
for Hamlet, but he resolves to rub Hamlet’s back when the demigod manages to sit up with the help
of both Julien and Louis.

“Listen,” he says, rubbing his temples. “I’ve managed to get us to where the entrance of the island
should be. A bit farther away towards that tall peak, I think. You go ahead without me, alright? I
uh, kinda can’t feel my legs.”

Julien looks like he’s about to kill someone, and Louis looks sympathetic, which Harry feels too.
Harry pats Hamlet’s shoulder gently.

“Thanks for the ride, man,” he says, making Hamlet crack a smile.

“You go ahead, guys, alright? I’ll join you when I get better.”

He sees Julien hesitating, but at last he stands up.

“We’ll come back to you,” he says with certitude, and Harry wishes he were half as enthusiastic as
Julien is, even if Julien might just be pretending. It’s just… they’re going on an island that’s inside
a mountain to get the golden fleece which is guarded by a dragon that never sleeps.

It’s madness, is what Harry means. And the chance of them coming out alive seems to him to be
dangerously close to none.

“C’mon,” Louis tells them, then he’s squeezing Hamlet’s shoulder once last time and starting to
walk towards the tallest peak around them. Harry follows him, feeling Julien behind him, and wet
his lips. He has to squeeze his eyes when they arrive in a particularly sunny part of the area, and by
then he’s walking right next to Louis.

He can feel sweat sliding down his temples, that’s how fucking hot it is. If he’s complained about
the cold of Medea’s forest, then he’s sure he’s going to complain about the nearly unbearable heat
there. At one point he takes off his leather jacket and ties it around his hips by its sleeves. He hears
Julien muttering several curses towards Hamlet, and at any other given time he would have
laughed, but right now he can only focus on his parched tongue.

“I can’t believe I forgot to bring my bottle of water,” Louis sighs in frustration, knowing his hand
against Harry’s.

“Maybe there will be a pond or a river on Kolkhis?” Harry suggests, squinting towards the tallest
mountain in front of them. Is it him or the thing seems to get farther away the closer they get?

“Maybe,” Louis agrees, picking up speed.

Harry’s brain is just acting up, because they do end up getting close enough to the tall mountain to
be at where it starts. It’s a giant rock in the middle of fucking nowhere, and Harry looks around,
trying to spot an arrow-shaped rock. There are several rocks all around them, but none of them
really look like what Medea told them, and he can see out of the corner of his eyes Julien kicking at
pebbles, sending them flying towards the mountain.

“I think we should wait here for night to fall. Then we’ll get to see Orion and find the rock, and
that way it will be day at Kolkhis,” Louis tells them, and Harry hums. Julien flops down under a
rock where there’s no sunlight, and they copy him. Harry’s the first one to sit, and of course Louis
flops down on top of him, on his chest.

The rocky, uneven surface behind him digs uncomfortably in his back, but he doesn’t dare move.
Not when Louis is leaning against him, his eyes closed, his pretty lips slightly parted. Harry noses
Louis’ hair, savouring the sweet smell of rose. Quickly enough, Louis has fallen asleep, and Harry
is left wide awake. He’s already napped on the boat, and when he glances towards Julien, the satyr
is also dozing off. He’s left alone with his own thoughts. He thinks about his dreams, from the
faceless giants fighting to the one where Louis dies, to the one where betrayal is repeated to him
over and over again. It’s all a mindfuck, if he’s honest with himself, and as much as he wants to
pretend they’re insignificant, he can’t. He can’t because he’s pretty sure they’re all important, but
seeing as none of them are positive, he doesn’t want them to have any impact on his future.

He tightens his hold around Louis. He doesn’t want to lose him. He doesn’t want to lose the one
person that makes him feel alive, when he’s been partially dead for so long.

He looks up at the clear sky, and tries to think about positive things. Maybe, once the golden fleece
is back at camp, he’ll get to take Louis out on a date. A restaurant sounds fancy, but knowing
Louis, he’ll love a quaint, romantic picnic among green grass and colourful flowers. He’ll cook
Louis’ favourite dish, once he’ll get around to asking him what it is. He wants to take Louis to
Paris, and around Europe, wants to scroll around in the streets, hand in hand with Louis. He wants
to live a normal relationship.
Perhaps, if everything goes exactly the way he wants, he’ll get to present Louis to his mother.

He can see them sitting around the little dining table with its red and white checkered tablecloth.
His mother will most likely do a vegetable and chicken broth, with fresh bread and for dessert a
strawberry pie. She’ll be over the moon that finally her son has gone out and found someone he
likes, and she’ll be all cliché and tell all of the embarrassing stories of Harry’s childhood such as
that time Harry’s baked a cake (with his mom’s help of course) to bring to school but messed up
and confused salt for sugar (because his mom went to answer the phone so he decided to continue
without her… for the record it tasted horrible), or when he’d broken a bottle of wine at the
supermarket but blamed it on Richard, his imaginary friend (he was extremely sure that he wasn’t
at fault, and the manager found him so cute he didn’t make them pay in the end).

He can picture Louis laughing and blushing and sending smirks towards an embarrassed Harry.

God, Harry wants it all. He wants the awkward stories and the embarrassment and he wants to
bring Louis everywhere and makes him happy.

Harry sighs and closes his eyes. He must fall asleep, because when he blinks his eyes open, it’s
night, the sky pitch black, and his jaw drops open because in front of him is the most stunning sky
he’s ever seen, right after the one at the Sea of Monsters.

People often say, skies everywhere are the same, but it’s not true. In New York pollution has
created thick clouds in the sky that practically always cover the stars from view. Maybe underneath
all those clouds, the sky is the same as everywhere else, but its perception is not the same.

Here, away from everything, it’s brighter than ever.

Harry ducks his head to nose at the back of Louis’ neck, and he trails kisses all over the skin there
and even bites down gently on Louis’ earlobe. The demigod shifts, but doesn’t wake up, so Harry
shakes him, being as gentle as possible, until Louis’ eyes flutter open, thick eyelashes making his
baby blue eyes more profound.

“Hi,” he says cutely, puckering his lips, silently asking for a kiss that Harry is all too happy to
oblige.

“Hi,” he answers back, then Louis is standing up, helping Harry up.

Harry tries to hide his wince, because his back hurts like hell, and stretches his muscles while
watching Louis walk to Julien and shakes him awake. Julien bleats, startles awake and looks
around.

“Oh,” he sighs. “So this is not a dream.”

Harry snorts.

When he turns to look at Louis, he finds him staring at the sky. Harry follows the invisible path his
eyes create, only to fall on the sky full of stars. It doesn’t take long for him to spot Orion; the stars
that make up the constellation are the brightest. Nine stars are shaped in a bow tie, making up
Orion’s body as well as his belt, five stars are the shield and two are his sword. You can, with a bit
of imagination, make out the hunter. Louis moves a bit as if he were caught in a spell. He walks to
the rocks until he’s practically disappearing from sight, swallowed whole by the darkness, and
Harry and Julien hurry behind him.

It’s almost as easy to spot the rock as it was spotting Orion. The moonlight seems to shine directly
upon it, embarrassing the curves of the rock. It’s not perfectly shaped into an arrow, but Harry can
see the resemblance. It’s small, too, smaller than he thought, probably the same size as his hand.
When he comes to a stop next to Louis, the demigod is touching the tip of the rocky arrow.

“Demigod blood,” he mutters to himself, then Louis bends down and takes from the lowest pocket
of his coat, a small knife.

And no. Harry doesn’t see why Louis should do it.

“I’ll do it,” he says, asking for the knife, but Louis shakes his head.

“It’s fine.”

Then Louis is opening his palm, and Harry cringes, but Louis’ face barely shifts. He closes his
hand in a fist, then holds it over the rock, letting several drops of blood fall down, tainting the
greyish surface. For a moment, nothing happens. But then there’s light breaking through the thick
rocks, and Harry watches, awe-struck, as the rocks part, moving on their own in different ways
until they leave a bright hole in the mountain. When the light dies down, there’s only gloom.

Harry gulps. “C’mon.”

They step inside.

The rocks close behind them, and Harry has a hard time not panicking.

“What the fuck? What island is that?” Julien says angrily.

When Harry puts his hand against the nearest wall, he feels smooth rock. Like hardened molten
lava. Like in his dream. His fingers are shaking now, because what the hell. He’s not sure anymore
it’s a great idea to have kept his nightmares to himself, but he doesn’t have time to open his mouth
to say something, seeing as Louis — or so he assumes it’s Louis, judging by the overpowering
scent of rose next to him. He can’t see a single thing through the abyss — grabs his hand and pulls
him forward. He’s pretty sure Louis can feel how clammy his hand is, but thankfully he doesn’t
comment on it.

There’s no light, he wants to stress out, but he keeps his mouth shut.

They walk for a while, Harry thinks, and he’s starting to lose hope when by miracle, orangish light
starts to appear, illuminating the walls. He almost wants to run towards it, get out of the shadows
that haunt him, but Louis is walking next to him at a normal pace, and Harry adapts himself to it.
There’s no reason for you to fret, he tries to convince himself.

But the word, betrayal, rings loud in the back of his brain. It’s a constant itch that Harry can’t
scratch away.

He wants to forget it, but he can’t.

This is not your dream. There’s light here.

They all expected to step on the island, but instead, the cave they are in opens on a canyon, or at
least something that looks a lot like it. To his left, there’s the same smooth black wall, but to their
right it’s a rocky, orangish and uneven wall. It stops several meters away from them. There’s no
island, nothing.

“It’s up there,” Julien suddenly says, irritation colouring his tone. “The island. We have to climb
this.”

Harry looks up, seeing the tall, sharp wall, and is glad he’s managed to gain some muscles during
the few weeks he’s spent training at camp. But he can’t help himself from picturing himself falling
and dying. That’s the only thing he can think of right now, really, and he sees Louis looking
unsure. Julien is not doing any better; he’s turned green, on the edge of puking his guts out.

“I can’t do this guys,” he croaks out, tears swimming in his eyes. “I’m afraid of heights.”

Harry walks to Julien and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok, Jule, you don’t have to
tag along. You can go back to Hamlet.”

“B-but-” He splutters, but Louis sides with Harry.

“He’s right, if you can’t climb it’s better if you stop here, or you might get seriously hurt. We don’t
have any rope or anything to help us. It’s ok love, you go and keep an eye on Hamlet, alright?”

Julien looks reluctant, but one last look up and he’s nodding.

“Good luck,” he chokes out, pulling Harry in a tight hug. He does the same with Louis, then he’s
brushing a few tears away and walking back into the cave, disappearing in the darkness.

They don’t talk for a few minutes, only gaze at each other and try to brace themselves for what’s
about to enroll.

“Ready for a Climbing the Wall game?” Louis asks, half-teasingly half in apprehension, and Harry
chuckles, shaking his head.

“In full lava-mode, hm?” He teases back, and Louis laughs.

“Add earthquakes to the lot.”

Then Louis puts one foot in one of the millions of holes in the wall, and starts climbing. Harry
follows right behind, and together they manage, slowly but surely, to climb one meter, then two,
then three and so on. Half-way through, Harry’s arms positively burn, and he wants to let go so
bad, but the thought of crashing down and dying is enough to spur him forwards. Drops of sweat
slide down his back and face, tickling him, and he’s so fucking thirsty. Several times they both
come close to letting go, or to falling, and it’s absolutely terrifying. Once Harry grabs a piece of
rock which breaks under his weight, but thankfully he quickly manages to fit his hand somewhere
else. Or at one point the foothold under Louis’ foot crumbles away, but he manages to put his foot
somewhere else, even if that somewhere else ends up being Harry’s face.

“Shit, sorry,” Louis breathes out, panting, heaving his body up again.

“It’s fine,” Harry groans out, even though he’s pretty sure there’s wet dirt on his face that’s shaped
like the sole of Louis’ boots.

It must take them a good hour to make it to the top, and Harry thanks all the gods for his godly
abilities and reinforced strength or else he’s pretty sure he’d be dead. They both collapse on
brilliant green, sweet-smelling grass, and Harry doesn’t even care his mouth is full of the lawn,
he’s so fucking tired. He can hear Louis’ erratic breathing which matches his own, and he’s sure
his heart is beating so fast its shape can be seen through his ribcage. He only moves when he feels
Louis’ hand on his back, rubbing soothingly.

When he sits up and takes a first look at the island, he has trouble not gasping.

Rolling hills covered in sparkling grass welcome him. There are healthy sheep and cows grazing
on the lawn, birds flying through the sky and landing on green trees whose thick foliage adopts the
colour of a bright yellow as the sunlight shines on them. In the distance, there’s a gigantic marble
castle that seems to make up half the island by itself, and even from there Harry can tell the
gardens that surround the castle are made up of all kinds of flowers, from forget-me-nots to
hydrangeas. A fountain stands tall and proud amidst them all, clear water with specks of gold
coming out of the mouth of a dozen or so cherubs. From time to time wild winged-horses soar
down then disappear in the nearest forest, and all kinds of woodland creatures make the bushes
tremble as they hurry to hide themselves from view.

It’s a sight taken straight from a fairytale.

Louis next to him is appreciating the view, too. They’re still panting from their exertion, but it’s
gone down considerably, especially when the air here is so pure and tastes so sweet. Harry’s pretty
sure there’s magic in the air, literally, because each breeze against his face is like a wave of fresh
air, and each shy sunray against his skin is like a shower of warm, pure water. He feels marginally
better after a few minutes of resting his muscles, which aren’t screaming in agony anymore. He’s
pretty sure in any other circumstance, or in any other place, he wouldn't have healed so fast.

He turns his head and catches Louis’ eyes, and they pretty much come to the same conclusion; the
golden fleece is making the land here thrive. It’s obvious from the way everything seems to have
never endured a harsh winter, or the magic surrounding them. Harry spreads his fingers in the grass
one last time, then stands up, helping Louis up in the process.

“The golden fleece must be in the castle,” Louis says, biting his bottom lip and tilting his head in
thought. “I’m really not sure, to be honest. From what I’ve gathered no one lives here because of
the dragon, and the golden fleece must be in the castle because I’m pretty sure that’s where the
dragon lives.”

The dragon. Harry almost forgot about it. He allows himself to properly look at it, squinting when
he realises the marble in some parts is black, as if it had been burnt. He shivers in unease and
reluctantly follows Louis. They start walking up the hills, bypassing several sheep and cows that
don’t pay them any mind, except for when a calf accidentally runs into Harry’s legs, making him
crack a smile and pet the baby cow fondly. Nothing seems out of place, or at least not at first
glance. It’s only when Harry walks slightly off course and ends up stepping on a bone that he stops
and just stares.

“What’s going on?” Louis asks him, walking backward until he’s standing next to Harry. Together
they look at the few bones scattered among the grass, and he can feel Louis tense.

Harry sees what the sheep and cows are for now. Livestock.

It’s not reassuring in the least that they’re standing in the middle of the dragon’s big banquet.

“We need to hurry,” Louis hisses, and Harry agrees. They start to walk faster, until a bridge made
out of wood and rope comes into view. It stands above a gigantic, deep ditch that stands above a
current of water with several sharp rocks breaking through its surface. If someone is to fall down,
they will surely die from the shock provided upon hitting the water. It doesn’t help that the bridge
doesn’t even look secure.

They’re almost to the bridge when there’s a loud roar that raises the hair on Harry’s neck. They
stagger back when bright, green fire goes up in the air from the castle, and Harry sees the exact
moment the dragon makes his existence known.

Peleus is magnificent in that he’s enormous. He stands twenty feet tall, and his green and blue
scales shimmer under the sunlight. He’s not close enough for Harry to make out the details of his
face, but when he enfolds his wings, they’re practically bigger than him. As he takes off into the
sky, his shadow almost reaches them. Long, deadly claws are at his feet and hands, and it’s no
wonder no one has managed to get past him; he’s terrifying. More so when he spits green fire.

“We have to hide,” Louis stresses out, looking around, except there’s nowhere to escape the danger
coming towards them besides the forest, and by the time they get there Harry knows the dragon
will have spotted them already. And a fire spread the fastest when there are woods.

Harry grabs Louis’ hand and pulls him closer to the bridge until they’re crossing it. Peleus is high
in the air and hasn’t spotted them yet; he dives towards the sheep and catches one, throwing it
among the clouds and letting it fall back into his awaiting, wide open jaw. The spectacle is
gruesome, especially when after chewing thoroughly, the dragon spits back the sheep’s bones. He
feels Louis’ hand squeeze his as they step on the bridge, and it’s surprisingly steady for something
that’s made of wood and worn-out rope. It’s also the only element on the whole island that seems
not up to date and tattered with the weather, the only thing that has the evidence of rain and wind.
They’re almost at the other side when the ground shakes, making them lose their balance, and a
warm wind practically sweeps them off their feet. They managed to drag themselves to the grass,
but when Harry glances over his shoulder, he’s met with golden, furious eyes.

Peleus roars, green light flashing within the deepest part of his throat, and Harry thinks, this is it,
they’re done for, there’s no way they’ll survive through it all and there’s no way they’ll get out of
the way. Bright flames swirl and come out of his mouth.

Harry tries, though. He tries to drag Louis to the side, but the dragon’s jaw is so wide it swallows
the bridge and them. Harry closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Louis as he sees the fire speed
up towards them.

It’s hot. It’s so insufferably hot that he wants to scream. He can’t breathe, not when the smell is so
strong, irritating the inside of his nose, making his lungs jerk in exhaustion. But it doesn’t burn, is
the thing. When the heat is over and he blinks his eyes open, he’s shocked that he can even do that
again, and he’s even more in shock at the shield that’s standing in front of them, effectively
protecting them from harm. He scans its whole expense, and notices that it’s tied to Louis’ arm.

He vaguely remembers Louis telling him about a bracelet.

He doesn’t have time to think about it, though, for the shield disappears and they’re left once again
in sight of the dragon. Harry scrambles to his feet and drags Louis with him. He runs. He runs and
doesn’t look back, not even when the dragon starts to fly once again. From the canyon, the castle
seems so far away, but it doesn’t take them long to cross the meadow and reaches the castle’s
gardens.

“The fountain,” Louis says, running ahead of him until they’re crouching down behind the sculpted
marble. The dragon flies over them until he lands on the castle’s side, his legs resting in a few
balconies, making the marble crumble under his weight. He roars, saliva raining down, and his
furious eyes flash black.
“He’s blind,” Louis whispers, his eyes widening. “Or at least he’s got very bad vision. I’m pretty
sure he only relies on his nose.”

“How can you tell?” Harry wonders, flinching when Peleus lets out a deafening roar once again,
the sound getting louder and louder, which he’s pretty sure means the dragon is getting angrier and
angrier at knowing there are strangers on his island, but not being able to find them.

“He should have found us by now,” Louis replies with conviction, playing nervously with the pure
gold bracelet that’s clasped around his thin wrist and that Harry has only now seen; it’s encrusted
with diamonds in the shape of rose, and the jewel is absolutely stunning, almost mesmerising.
Harry startles only when Louis elbows him. “Focus,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes and sliding his
sleeve down over the bracelet. “But as I was saying, had he not been blind, he would have found us
already, or at least known where we currently are. But he’s using mostly his sense of smell, and I
know for a fact the flowers all around us partially hide our scents, and also my own flowery natural
scent must act as a barrier. This might be easier than we both expected.”

Harry highly doubts that, but he doesn’t voice his opinion. He’s too busy trying to get a good look
at the entrance without attracting the dragon’s attention, because blind or not, the sight of the
creature is enough to chill Harry to the bones. He’s never liked dragons, is the thing. Even little
when his mother would tell him stories about brave knights fighting off bad dragons, he wouldn’t
feel fascinated by the giant, winged, fire-breathing monsters; instead he was terrified. Not even the
cartoon of the small, cute purple dragon could make him see the creature as anything more than
exactly that; a creature, one that must be avoided at all cost. Little Harry knew that dragons were
not real, of course, but as any other children, his childhood had nevertheless been filled with
imaginary friends and little fairies and mermaids that lived underneath the sea and dragons that
lived in high mountains, hiding from mankind. The fact he’s just found out dragons actually exist,
well. Harry has to curl his fingers in fists to prevent them from shaking too much.

He manages to stick his head farther enough to see the destroyed, giant double doors of the castle.
The polished wood has long since lost its shine, and the doors lay in a pile of mess. They’ll have to
climb the bits in order to be able to step inside the castle. He doesn't even need to say all this to
Louis, who has come to the same conclusion judging by the frown on his face.

“How the fuck are we going to get there,” Harry breathes to himself, thinking. The entrance is far
away, and the garden stops at one point, leaving them unconcealed and vulnerable.

He can perfectly picture Peleus dipping his head and snatching them like Scylla had tried to do.

“We need a distraction,” is what he says at last, and it’s so obvious that he’s expecting Louis to
make fun of him, and say obviously, rookie, but the demigod only nods and glances around.

“Ok,” Louis says to himself, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. There’s silence for a
moment except for the gush of wind through the forest, and Peleus’ heavy breathing and the
occasional crumpling of the castle as the creature shifts, and Harry stays completely still, watching
Louis and wondering what’s going on.

Louis moves his fingers, and as he does that, there’s the sound of flowers hitting each other, and
when Harry looks up, in the distance, where the dragon is, there are giant, growing roses. They’re
almost as big as Peleus, their petals large and soft, but the thorns look deadly. Harry’s eyes widen
in awe as the roses brutally bend themselves to attack Peleus, the thorns stabbing through his thick
scales, blood starting to slide down his body, and it’s effective in that it draws the dragon’s
attention away until they’re able to get up and make a dash for the entrance.

Louis is sweating from the effort it took to make those roses grow, and he looks pale, but the blue-
eyed demigod progresses forward, panting. Harry has got Louis’ hand clasped into his own so that
he can help Louis along, pulling his body, but when they reach the pile of broken doors, Harry puts
one knee down. He knows Louis needs a few minutes to gain his strength back.

“On my back,” he rushes, giving Louis a look when the demigod hesitated, and at last Louis puts
his arms around Harry’s neck, hitching up his legs on either side of Harry’s hips.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fear that comes with being so close to a dragon, but Harry
manages to climb over the debris with Louis on his back, catching the demigod’s thighs before he
could slide down and fall off. Sweat drips down his forehead, and the heat that radiates off Louis’
chest where it’s stuck to Harry’s back doesn’t make it any easier, the fabric sticking to Harry’s
back uncomfortably, but he doesn’t care about any of that, doesn’t even think about where Peleus
is or if the roses have by then given up. He keeps going on. His palms are scratched from holding
on the broken wood bits, their edge sharp and leaving wood splinters underneath his skin. They
hurt like a bitch, but for now he succeeds in reaching the entrance, and it takes even more effort to
go down seeing as whenever he moves he’s threatened by a wobbly piece of wood. He doesn’t
want to fall and risk them getting injured, not when they need to be at their best physical abilities in
order to get to the golden fleece, not die roasted alive, and go back down the canyon.

When Harry’s feet touch the ground of the castle, Louis slides off his back and smiles gratefully at
him. He goes on his tiptoes to kiss Harry, a little peck of the lips, but then he doesn’t waste time
before walking further inside the castle and its gloom.

Harry’s smiling, he can’t help himself, even if he’s sweaty and smelly and he’s hurt all over. He
follows Louis, his eyes glancing around and taking in the state of the castle. It has been abandoned
for a while, judging by the cracked walls and destroyed throne, as well as the ripped fabric of
fancy clothes, women chitons that are made of silk and men’s togas that have turned brown with
time. There are still silver and gold plates, goblets laying among the chaos with dried up wine
frosting against the once pristine white marble. It’s a sad sight, the evidence of life that’s been
tarnished and destroyed, reduced to being only a memory. When he catches up to Louis, the
demigod has stopped walking and is looking down at something.

When Harry glances down, he has trouble not retching.

Several decaying corpses are there. There’s the horrendous scent of rotting, mould-eaten flesh.
There must be five bodies all in all, all of them men, but the one that’s sure to cause Harry
nightmares is the corpse lying in the middle of the puddle. His eyes are wide open, worms
appearing and disappearing within the irises, eating away at the eyeballs. They do the same on his
stomach, which is gaping open, guts spilling out on the floor. The man’s naked, and has been
castrated. The sight is so unbearable to behold that Harry has to look away.

He knows who’s the miserable soul.

“Jason,” he croaks out, gulping when he sees Louis nodding, looking a bit green in the face.

“And for the rotten feelings he’s ignited within me, he shall pay,” Louis says softly, a tear escaping
the corner of his eye. Harry looks at him in curiosity, and Louis smiles in sadness. “Medea has a
tattoo on her wrist. I saw it in passing, and now I understand what those words mean.”

Medea did this. The knowledge of the culprit of such a gruesome sight doesn’t make the disgust
within him any stronger, but he can’t help from feeling sympathy for the woman who’s been
destroyed by the man, in more ways than they all can ever imagine. Harry looks above the scene,
above the torn apart souls of the men that are doomed to suffer for eternity, and instead steps to the
side.
“Let’s go?” He says gently, reaching out with his hand, palm up, and waiting. Louis brushes the
tears away and slips his own hand inside of Harry’s, and with a self-deprecating chuckle, lets
himself be guided out of the throne room and up a flight of stairs.

They keep discovering more of the castle, and it becomes obvious it used to be a stunning one,
before everything turned into chaos. The library is the most magnificent thing Harry has had the
pleasure of seeing, with the tall bookshelves and the thousands upon thousands of books written in
Ancient Greek with ink gold spelling their titles. The room is so delicate, and the air around them
is so different from anywhere else. It must have been a well-loved, well-used room, for there’s the
remaining of laughter suspended around them. The plush settees are covered with layers of dust,
but they still call to Harry, asking him to come take a seat and relish in a good book.

“Look,” Louis whispers, pointing at a vase that’s on a little table. They approach it, and with
delicate fingers Louis picks it up, blowing on it to make the dust fly away. The ceramic is painted
in beautiful figures that depicts a story; in this case, from what Harry gathers, the vase shows the
earth being split between the Big Three. He sees Zeus becoming the lord of the sky, thunder and
the weather, Poseidon controlling the ocean, the storms and earthquakes and Hades having
dominion over the underworld, darkness and disasters. He reaches out to brush his thumb over
Zeus’ figure, nostalgia filling him. That’s his father, and as much as it displeases him, it’s still a
part of him, what even makes him relevant in the end.

Louis puts the vase back to where it belongs, his fingers leaving dusty marks in their wake, and
glances up at Harry’s emotional face.

“Alright?” He wonders, his hand coming up to cradle Harry’s right cheek. Harry hums but doesn’t
elaborate, afraid his voice will crack the moment he opens his mouth. Louis gives him a lopsided-
smile and opens his lips, ready to say something, but then the castle shakes, sending them both to
the dirty floor.

A roar echoes all around them. It must come from the castle’s ceilings. And it sounds pissed off.

“C’mon,” Louis groans, getting back on his feet and starting to run out of the room. Harry follows
closely behind, and just as they step outside, a good chunk of the library’s roof goes smashing to
the ground, where they’ve been seconds before.

“We’re losing too much time, we gotta hurry. The golden fleece must be where the dragon remains
the most,” Louis stresses out, running up another flight of stairs, looking around frantically.

“His den,” Harry acknowledges, scrunching up his nose at the words. He does not want to
purposely step where the dragon is most likely to find them with ease. And there’s the fact Peleus
never sleeps that keeps waving from the back of his mind, so they can’t even wait until night for
the creature to be asleep to snatch the golden fleece. They have to do it now, and pray that they
make it back to the canyon in one piece.

The problem is that, the higher in the castle they get, the more the rooms become destroyed, until
there’s nothing that could act as the dragon’s den. Moreover, they both expected to be drawn to the
golden fleece, being so close to its magic, but they don’t feel a single thing. There’s only the
shaking of the ground and walls as the dragon looks into the windows, forcing them to hide from
time to time, and the occasional river of green fire that menaces to kill them both on sight. Louis
has rolled up his sleeve in case he’ll need his bracelet, and Harry has kissed his ring and got his
sword firmly held in his fingers. The golden fleece is not here, it can’t be, for they’ve looked
everywhere and only risked themselves being found by the suspicious dragon.

“This is all so wrong,” Louis mutters, thumping the back of his head against the wall, as if to
punish himself for not finding the golden fleece. Harry reaches down to take Louis’ hand, and
squeezes to make Louis not forget that he’s not alone. He’s got Harry, and together they will find
the golden fleece.

Harry wracks his brain, trying to remember what he’s read about the fleece. The part that has stuck
into his brain is the one about it being able to heal any disease and any poison, and even avoid
someone on their dying breath from joining the underworld, but there’s something else… it’s
practically on the tip of his tongue. When he finally grasps it, he practically gasps, straightening
up.

“The Garden of Ares,” Harry says out loud, turning his attention on Louis. “Are we sure it’s a
castle?”

Louis shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers from his other hand. “No, I
assumed it was the castle because, well it’s big enough for the dragon. But the Garden of Ares is
also called the Sanctuary of Ares, and they say it’s a grove, except I thought it was a metaphor for
the castle.”

“It’s in a grove, then?”

Louis nods. “We have to get out of here.”

They look at each other, and start to run for the stairs. They’re at the bottom of the first flight when
the wall behind them breaks apart, the long scaly tail of Peleus appearing, sweeping the area,
looking for them. Harry ducks just as a piece of marble flies over his head, crashing against the fall
in front of him and breaking into thousands of fragments. Louis grabs his hand and pulls him
forward, and they manage to arrive in the throne room when heat cocoons them. Louis stops and
pushes them both to the ground, and his shield appears just as the fire catches Harry in the leg,
melting off the fabric of his trousers and his skin. Harry screams. He screams and has to close his
eyes as the pain paralyses his whole limb.

This is the worst kind of pain he’s ever felt. The fire has turned half of his limb into a black mess,
and there’s blood already dripping down onto the floor. When the fire goes out and the dragon
looms over them, Louis doesn’t even have time to get out of the way before Peleus’ paw press
down over the shield, and Louis’ arms shake trying to hold it off, but soon enough he will give out
and they will both end up crushed into the ground. Despite the pain and his left leg that he can’t
even move, he manages to drive his sword straight into the dragon’s palm, twisting it until Peleus
roars in pain and takes his hand back. Harry’s not quick enough and the sword stays lodged in
there, and it hurts Harry to watch the only thing his father gave to him get taken away, but then
Louis is pulling him up with difficulty and steering them towards the doors.

He’s practically leaning his whole weight against Louis, and he’s bigger, broader and heavier than
Louis so he sees the demigod winces several times. He tries his absolute hardest to get his left leg
going, except the limb is unresponsive to his silent pleads. When they’re at the entrance, Louis
jumps on one of the broken pieces of wood, and Harry manages to heave himself up, except when
he puts his left knee down he hisses in pain and practically crumbles to the floor. Louis fists the
back of his shirt, helping him up as he’s leaning back, and Harry knows that at his pace, they’ll
never make it to the top before Peleus finds them again.

Harry glances back just as the dragon’s eyes snap to them, his nostrils flaring, probably picking up
their scent, and he’s prepared for the onslaught of green fire but then—

“Hey!” A voice shouts. “You ugly ass lizard! Lunch time! Come get yourself a nice goat!”
Harry looks to his right and sees Julien, who waves at the dragon, trying to gain his attention. He
succeeds, for Peleus roars and turns his head towards the satyr, who blinks and starts chuckles
nervously.

“Maybe I didn’t think this through,” he admits, dashing to the side when Peleus opens his mouth
and green flame shoots straight where Julien has been seconds before. Julien is fast when he wants
to, so he quickly ducks under the dragon’s tail until he’s at their level. Then, he jumps next to
Harry, slips his arm around Harry’s waist right on top of Louis’ arm, and like that it’s easier for
them to climb the broken doors until they’re at the top of the pile, the breeze ruffling their hair. The
dragon roars and exhales, sending warm air their way, and it makes Julien jerks forward and they
all slide down, falling to the ground painfully.

“Sorry, shit,” Julien mumbles, standing back up and looking down in sympathy at Harry, who is
pretty sure he’s just broken the ankle of his wounded leg. He can’t even tell, honestly. He can’t
feel anything, which is starting to really freak him out.

Peleus roars again. Can he shut up? There’s a headache starting to blossom within Harry’s skull.

“Jule, the golden fleece is in a grove, not in the castle,” Louis says rapidly, tugging on Harry’s arm,
trying to get him up except Louis’ strength seems to leave him. Julien frowns, then literally scoops
Harry up, which must be quite a blizzard sight seeing as Harry is much taller than him. But Julien
is also a satyr, and has got super strength. He starts to run, Louis tagging along, just as there’s a
huge sound, as if Peleus ran head first into a wall. When he appears a few minutes later, his wings
unfolding, it’s pretty obvious he’s done just that. The castle starts to tremble, unsteady after so
much damage done to its base, and Harry’s afraid the thing is going to fall down and over them.

He prays it falls on Peleus instead. That would be the icing on the cake.

The castle stays upright, though, and he’s left watching the dragon as he flies through clouds,
dipping down until he’s on the ground, his limbs digging into the grass, making sheep run away,
bleating in panic. Julien bleats along with them.

“Where’s that fucking grove,” Louis shouts, huffing, and they make it to the bridge because Peleus
gets distracted…

By Hamlet. Hamlet is throwing rocks at the dragon, shouting and running about to confuse the
creature. When Peleus is sure he’s aware of where Hamlet is, he goes to grab him, except he
always ends up with a handful of cows, Hamlet already behind him. Harry cracks a smile despite
everything, and tries to keep his eyes open even though they’re falling closed.

“I think I know where the grove is,” Julien pants out, then he’s taking a sharp turn and running
towards the tallest mountain on the whole island. It takes them much too long to get there, and
halfway through they can’t see Hamlet anymore, and Peleus is a far-away shape. Through his
blurry vision, Harry can tell that the mountain is actually a volcano, flashing bright green at its
very top. Green lava.

Julien is walking ahead of Louis now, and over Julien’s shoulder Harry can look straight into
Louis’ face. He is obviously tired, from running, from dragging his body everywhere, and there’s
blood on his green coat, most likely belonging to Harry. Wordlessly, Harry reaches out and
caresses Louis’ cheek, and Louis leans into the touch, a small but soft smile on his face.

Every stroke of Harry’s thumb on the apple of Louis’ cheek is a way to foster hope, even if right
now it seems unlikely they’ll get past Peleus.
We’re not alone, he says in his head, thinking back to Julien’s appearance in the castle that
basically saved their life, or Hamlet who is distracting Peleus, allowing them to get to the golden
fleece. Perhaps Louis understands what he wants to say, for his schools his expression into a much
more resolute one and marches next to Julien, looking around for the grove. The closer they get to
the volcano, the brighter the grass is, which Harry can’t believe is even possible seeing as the
meadow is already quite bright and healthy. But here, the trees are taller, and the flowers are
practically shining despite the sunlight not quite reaching them. The golden fleece being so near is
obviously making its effect, and Harry feels the thrill pumping through his veins quickly, because
they’re just so close.

The magic in the air is electrifying. Maybe they’ll get to save Leyla, and the camp, after all.

Louis casts a panicked look towards him. “Julien, Harry’s losing colours.”

He’s jostled then put down, and he sighs as the cool grass meets his clothed back and his exposed
neck. He’s so hot, honestly, when did it get so hot? And he can’t feel his leg anymore. He manages
to blink and he sees Louis crouched next to him, worry written all over his face. He feels a hand
push his hair back.

“He’s burning up,” Louis tells Julien, and somehow Harry sees the tears swimming in Louis’ eyes.
It’s alright baby, he wants to say, but he can’t quite get the muscles in his jaw to move.

Julien joins Louis on the ground and looks at his leg. He gasps.

“He’s lost too much blood, which is abnormal seeing as when someone gets burnt, the heat usually
stops the blood from flowing. There’s something about the creature’s green fire,” Julien says,
ripping a long strip of his shirt and tying it several times around Harry’s leg. He presses down, and
the pain Harry feels is a breath of fresh air; he feels something, and it’s such a relief. “The golden
fleece can heal him, Lou, we have to carry on and bring it back. Hamlet will keep distr—”

There’s a roar that’s much too close to them, and Julien blanches. The distraction seems to not
work anymore.

“Ok, back up, we have to hide Harry and get the fleece.”

Louis and Julien look at each other, and together they drag Harry through the trees until he can’t
see the grass. They lay him among fallen leaves, and he’s hidden by a huge rock, and somewhere
there’s the gushing sound of water. A pond, maybe. Julien pats his shoulder and stands up, ready to
leave, but Louis cups his cheeks and brings their lips together. It’s so soft, and comforting, and
Harry leans into the touch.

“We’ll come back for you, alright? Please, Haz, hold on. I-,” he stops, frustration twisting the fire
within his blue irises. “I really, really, really like you a lot.”

His voice cracks, and Harry is about to open his mouth, ready to tell him that he too really, really,
really likes Louis a lot, but then Louis is unbuttoning his green coat and draping it over Harry’s
weak body. The coat is warm from Louis’ body heat, and smells beautifully of rose.

It’s the only thing that’s left of Louis as the demigod turns around and runs away. He’s gone before
Harry can even blink.
 Chapter 3

LOUIS

Louis’ fingers twitch. There’s everything within him that’s screaming at him to turn around and go
back to Harry, who is dying, every bit of life being sucked away little by little as they waste time. It
feels odd not having the tall demigod next to him, who usually acts as an anchor, who is someone
that allows him to know he’s still in reality. But Harry’s not here, he’s not walking next to him,
he’s not subconsciously knocking his hand against Louis’, and his lovely voice is not there to make
the butterflies stir awake in his lower belly. It’s all wrong, really. He looks to the side, away from
Julien, to hide the tears of frustration, and starts to walk faster until they’re out of the forest and
back to the volcano.

He can’t believe he thought the golden fleece was in the castle when in the books he’s read, all of
them said a grove. But it’s natural for him to search for loopholes, to think that everything has to
be more difficult than they actually are, but really, the thing they’ve come to get is in a grove, as
simple as that, and they’ve wasted time at the castle for nothing. It bugs him to no end, but he puts
on a strong face and tries not to panic when he sees Peleus flying above the clouds until he’s
hovering over the volcano and lowering himself inside of it.

He’s glad they left Harry in safety; there’s no way he would have been able to climb the volcano,
which they need to do in order to get to the grove. Peleus has gone back to his den, sensing that
there are invaders about to arrive to snatch the golden fleece away. They’re looking up to the tip of
the volcano, and Louis can’t quite prevent himself from grimacing, because there’s so much to
climb, and his arms are still slightly sore from the canyon. Julien is shaking his head, muttering
‘no’ over and over again, and Hamlet finally catches up to them. There’s some blood on him, and
twigs are stuck in his black hair, but he looks fine. He whistles when he takes in the size of the
volcano, then looks around then at Julien, frowning.

“Where’s Harry?” he wonders, and the unsure, worried lump comes back, pressing down in
Louis’ lower belly. It’s Julien who answers.

“He’s got burnt badly by Peleus, and there’s something abnormal in the fire, which acts as a
poison. It’s most likely sulfur. As a consequence Harry has lost way too much blood, and he might
go into hypovolemic shock if we don’t hurry up. The fleece can cure him, though, we just have to…
hurry.”

Julien falters, seeing that Louis’ face has drained of colour, and he is slightly panicking because
he might not be a medical expert but he knows that Harry’s life is threatened. Everything’s a
matter of time. It’s always time, isn’t it? He gulps and lets Hamlet cuddle him.

“He’s gonna be ok, Louis. Harry’s a touch cookie. Let’s get that fleece, alright?”

Louis nods and takes a deep breath. He won’t let down Leyla and Harry. He’s making it a
promise.

-
Louis’ muscles are singing in agony. His fingers shake around the piece of rock that’s jutting out of
the volcano, and he knows for a fact that if he’s to look down, he’ll be faced with a thousand meter
high void, enough to kill him if his grip is to loosen and his hold to let go. It’s the adrenaline
pumping through his veins, and the will to live that gets him going at this point. There are tears in
his eyes, and he wants to rest and never climb ever again, but he’s doomed to make it to the top of
the volcano, whether he likes it or not. There’s no other way into the grove.

Hamlet is panting and trembling next to him, but he’s holding on. His power doesn’t work here, so
he couldn’t shadow-travel them to the top. Louis takes a deep breath and tries to put his foot up,
but the rock crumbles under his weight and he slips.

“Louis!” Hamlet screams, the demigod almost falling down in the process as he looks down at
him.

His heart stops beating. A thousand meter down. He’s going to die.

He closes his eyes and focuses as hard as possible, trying not to let the harsh wind slapping against
his skin prevent him from calling out for the flowers. He’s never thought the little authority he’s
got over the roses would come in handy, but he pictures them growing off the side of the volcano
and curling up. It must work, because one moment he’s falling rapidly through empty air and the
next he feels himself hit something soft, slightly wet and sweet-smelling. He doesn’t dare open his
eyes for several minutes, but when he does, gigantic rose petals surround him, and he smiles to
himself, letting out a wet chuckle and letting the tears fall down. His body sinks into the softest part
of the flower, and he channels his whole energy into making that rose grow even more until he’s
going up the volcano.

When he reaches Hamlet’s level, he catches the demigod’s disbelieving eyes as Louis helps him
into the rose.

“Couldn’t you do that at the beginning?” he says, half-complaining and half-sighing in absolute
bliss as he leans against a petal and allows his muscles to relax.

“The flowers were too far away, I wasn’t sure it would work. And I’m pretty sure the roses
responded to me so fast only because I was in imminent danger.”

Hamlet hums and waves his hand, and Louis glances down one last time before once again making
the rose grow. It works a bit like a lift at this point, and he wishes Julien were there, but the satyr,
seeing as he’s afraid of height, proposed to stay by Harry’s side, which made him fret a bit less.
He knows the only reason Julien is even there is because there is another way out of the island
than the canyon, which Hamlet is to thanks for finding it. That’s the only consolation Louis has
about making it out there alive.

The rose’s petals lean down against the blunt edge of the volcano top, and Hamlet is the first one
to jump off, and he follows closely behind. He doesn’t make the rose shrink back to its original
size, in case they need it afterwards, and instead he allows himself to look around and appreciates
the view. The island is stunning, with its white sand beach that contrasts with the canyon, its
mysterious and dark forest that’s opposite to the white castle, even if the palace is falling apart at
the seams. It’s like four different worlds all at once. The sun is slowly going down, too, and soon
they’ll be greeted by the sunset.

Hamlet groans somewhere behind him.

“Some more fucking climbing,” he says, which gets Louis moving. He comes to a stop next to
Hamlet and looks down, and surely there, in the volcano, is a huge hole that’s obviously the grove.
The golden fleece’s magic is so powerful there that Louis can taste it. It’s marvellous, and the only
thing that gets him motivated enough to agree to climbing down inside the volcano, even though at
its very bottom there’s bubbling, bright green molten lava.

“I’m no volcanologist, but that shit doesn’t look normal,” Hamlet remarks, frowning down at the
lava. Louis has to agree it’s got a weird thing going on; the lava is just there, like a pond of water.
One false step and they will fall straight into it.

“Let’s go,” he gulps, sitting on the edge of the hole and slowly lowering his body down until his
feet are each on a foothold. It’s madness, it’s complete madness and he wants to puke, but he
imagines he’s back at camp climbing down the climbing wall and not a volcano whose lava is
waiting for him at the bottom of its pit. It partially works as he makes his way down, and he doesn’t
allow his eyes to look away from the volcano’s charcoal black wall, except to make sure his feet
go in the right place. Hamlet is above him, sometimes making pebbles fall on his face as the
volcanic rocks shake under Hamlet’s weight.

It’s definitely hotter inside the volcano than anywhere else. The volcano’s walls are also heating
up the more they descend, and more than once he almost slips because of his clammy hands. He
almost loses it when he tries to put his feet somewhere but can’t, but a quick look down is enough
for him to get his panicked breathing under control. Miraculously, he makes it to the entrance of
the den. It’s incredibly painful to climb down using only his arms, but then he’s pushing his body
forward and landing inside the grove, the sound of his body hitting the rocky ground echoing
around the long, empty corridor. He freezes, expecting for the dragon to roar or for a jet of green
fire to be thrown his way, but nothing happens. Hamlet jumps a few minutes later, and his eyes
widen when he takes in the darkness waiting ahead of them.

“On a scale of one to then, how likely is it that Peleus is hiding in there?” Hamlet whispers,
glancing nervously into the gloom.

“I’m pretty sure he’s at the very bottom, inside the grove, with the golden fleece,” Louis answers,
biting his lips in anticipation. “Let’s do this. The faster we get to the golden fleece, the faster we
get out of here.”

Hamlet nods and makes a gesture for Louis to go ahead, making the blue-eyed demigod roll his
eyes. They keep close to the walls, so as to not lose themselves on the way, and the further within
the grove they progress, the darker it becomes. They can’t see a single thing at one point, and
Louis can only rely on his sense of touch and smell to guide himself through the dark. His heart is
beating so fast he can hear it drum inside his ears. The only comfort he has is Hamlet’s soft
breathing from behind him, a welcomed reminder that he’s not alone. He wishes he had Harry’s
hands around him, to ground him or something, but the demigod is not here, and he only has the
memory of Harry’s touch to bring him some familiarity.

Just as he’s about to lose hope about ever finding the end of the nightmare, a soft light appears.
It’s yellowish. It looks a lot like shiny gold. He hears Hamlet’s breath catch in his throat and Louis
can relate, because here the golden fleece’s presence is overwhelming, and he feels the pain in his
muscles subdue as his heartbeat slows down to a regular speed.

There’s also the heavy panting of the dragon, but even that doesn’t make him panic.

Instead, he blinks as he spots a puddle of water near the den’s entrance. Drops of water slide from
the roof and into it, and the sound echoes all around them. He thinks back to what Medea told him,
just as he had been ready to step out of her house. Peleus can be put to sleep with a strong enough
potion, or with a strong enough charmspeak, and if the dragon sleeps, he’ll eventually die.

Louis can charmspeak. He hasn’t done it before, but it’s one of the most powerful abilities he’d
been born with.

The glow of the golden fleece illuminates his face, so he turns around and puts a finger on his lips
to signal Hamlet to stay quiet. After Hamlet nods, he closes his eyes and tries to bring out his
power to the surface. He opens his mouth and his voice comes out, more sultry, more hypnotizing,
and thanks to the grove it jumps against the walls so that his voice is omnipresent. He hears the
dragon roar as he hears Louis’ voice, but it slowly turns into a whimper as he keeps speaking. He
channels everything into making Peleus go to sleep, and it seems to work against all odds.

“Sleep, my sweet dragon, drifts into the world of dreams,” he whispers, his voice magnified, and
he takes a step forward tentatively, peering into the den and grinning to himself when he sees the
dragon’s whole body on the ground, his wings tugged against himself, his eyes closed. He is
breathing rhythmically, a sure sign that the dragon is deeply and undoubtedly asleep. Louis stops
charmspeaking and tentatively bends down, grabbing a piece of rock, and throws it against
Peleus’ scaled body.

He braces himself, expecting for the creature to wake up, except he doesn’t. Instead, Louis’ eyes
widen as he sees the dragon’s scales dry up, their vibrant blue and green colours turning into ash
grey, and just like that Peleus stops breathing and goes completely still.

He’s dead. Peleus is dead.

“Oh my god Hamlet,” Louis chokes out, turning around to smile at the demigod, except Hamlet is
also asleep, slumped against the wall, his mouth opened with a thin trail of drool shining on his
chin. Louis shakes his head and chuckles in disbelief, then quickly makes his way to Hamlet,
grabbing the demigod by his shoulders and shaking him roughly. When he doesn’t rouse, Louis
does the only thing he can think of; he slaps Hamlet across the face. Hard.

Hamlet’s eyes snap open and he quickly straightens up, blinking and looking around frantically.

“What did I miss? What’s happened? Where’s Peleus? What.”

Louis holds his hand up and makes a sign for Hamlet to follow him. The demigod does, rubbing his
eyes to make the remainder of sleep go away, but his steps falter as they approach the den’s
entrance. But when he sees Louis standing inside of it, without the dragon roaring or spitting green
fire, does he step forward until he has a perfect view of the inside of the den. Louis hears Hamlet
gasps, his eyes focused on the dead dragon.

“How?” he asks, bewildered. Louis can’t help himself from grinning, because he was so unsure
about his ability to make his charmspeak powerful enough to make a creature of Peleus’ size
succumb, that there’s a part of him that’s filled with pride.

“I used my charmspeak to get him to sleep, and sleeping is the only way to kill Peleus. You fell
asleep too, sorry about that,” Louis tells Hamlet, patting him on the back, but then Hamlet holds
his fist up and Louis fist-bumps him, smiling even wider when his eyes fall on the golden fleece
hanging from a tree branch.

The tree is prominent and is, without a doubt, one of the biggest he’s even seen in his entire life. It
takes almost half of the gigantic den, but the fleece is just there, not even out of reach, and he takes
a step forward towards it, his fingers closing around the soft material. He doesn’t care about the
strong scent of sulfur that’s polluting the air, or that there’s the corpse of a dragon next to him. All
he can focus on is how magnificent the fleece is, and how they’ll get to save Leyla and Harry. How
he won’t let her down a second time.

He closes his eyes and ties the fleece around his hips, feeling its energy course through him. He
feels stronger than ever, ready to brace anything that’s going to be thrown into his path. He
glances to the side to see Hamlet crouched down next to the dragon’s head, pushing open his jaw
with difficulty.

“We owe the witch some teeth,” he grits out. “Help me out?”

Louis swallows his disgust down and joins Hamlet on the ground. The dragon’s mouth smells
strongly of sulfur, and his teeth are sharp and big, encrusted in black gum. He fishes out of his boot
his knife, and silently apologizing to the dragon, digs out a few of his teeth until his hand is full.

“Gross, ew,” Hamlet grimaces, letting Peleus’ jaw fall closed as Louis dumps the teeth on
Hamlet’s lap.

“You keep them safe,” Louis tells him, putting his knife back into his boot.

“Why do I get to keep these?” Hamlet sighs, picking the teeth up and throwing them into his
jacket’s pocket. The tip of one of the teeth is already making a hole through the leather.

“Because you have the jacket,” he answers easily, then he stands up and takes a look around the
den, taking in the sheep and cow bones piled up against the wall, or the mess of hay and flowers
that’s on the ground next to Peleus’ belly.

Louis freezes.

“Hamlet,” he says quietly, his mouth dropped open. Hamlet hums and looks at where Louis is
staring.

“What the bloody fuck,” Hamlet baffles out, sounding hysterical, and Louis has already begun
shaking.

Because there, among the nest of dried straws, is a dragon egg.

“Peleus is female?” Hamlet asks, rubbing his temples and looking helplessly at Louis, who
doesn’t even know what to say.

“I don’t know, I-” Louis snaps his mouth shut, takes a deep breath and walks around Peleus’ body
until he is towering over the egg.

It’s as big as Louis’ chest, and pristine white except for a few night blue freckles. It looks fragile
and so innocent that his heart ache. He has just killed the father, possibly the mother of this baby
dragon and as much as he’s aware it was a matter of survival, he still feels incredibly bad.

“Don’t blame yourself, Lou,” Hamlet says softly, putting a hand over his shoulder and squeezing
reassuringly. “We had no way to know.”

“A baby is in there,” Louis whispers brokenly. “It’s going to die all alone on its own.”

Hamlet doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

“Whoever poisoned Leyla, I’ll kill them and put a word in with father to have them be roommates
with some of the worst monsters in Tartarus, ” Hamlet sighs, but then he bends down and carefully
scoops up the egg, grunting under its weight. “Damn, that thing’s heavier than it looks.”

Louis huffs and smiles, glancing again around the den, trying to find something that might help
them out of the volcano, and it’s then that he spots a part of the den that seems brighter than the
rest. He walks to it and laughs in relief when he comes across a set of large leaves stuck to the
roof, and a thin trail of light is filtering through the gap, the evidence that there’s an opening for
them. It’s too high for him to reach it, but then he remembers the tree and how its branches are
curling against the ceiling.

“Ham,” he calls out, getting a quick ‘what’ back. “We have to climb the tree. There’s a hole in the
ceiling, it might lead to the outside.”

Hamlet appears a few seconds later, the egg cuddled against his chest. He’s rocking it
unconsciously. “The egg might break as I climb the tree, though.”

He’s right. Louis casts a look at Hamlet’s jacket.

“You can make a sling with your jacket.”

Hamlet looks like that’s the last thing he wants to do, but then he sighs and gives the egg over to
Louis. The egg’s warm to the touch, and it’s so obviously alive that Louis’ heart throb. Hamlet
takes his jacket off and ties its sleeves in a way that one goes over his shoulder and the other one
crosses his back. Then slowly, Louis places the egg inside the most prominent part, and realizes
with relief that he can zip the jacket closed over the egg, securing it.

“I look pregnant,” Hamlet snorts, caressing the clothed egg. He looks at Louis. “You lead the
way.”

And he does. He’s no stranger to tree-climbing. Living at Camp Half-Blood for as long as he did, it
means that often he would get bored. So the forest was his safe place, away from other demigods,
and he loved the wood nymphs. He would often climb trees and sleep under the stars or braid a
nymph’s hair while they sang. Even if the tree is as tall as the distance they had to climb down to
reach the grove, it’s still easier for him to navigate his way through all of its branches than
climbing the volcano. He slaps a few leaves out of the way and glances back down at Hamlet, who
is careful to not push the egg against the wood and risk breaking the shell apart. Louis makes sure
each branch is strong enough to hold their weight, using his magic to render them steady, and then
he makes his way up, and up, and up, Hamlet closes behind him until they reach a thick branch
that’s growing parallel to the roof and leading to the hole.

“Wait for me,” he tells Hamlet, then he’s standing up, his head almost grazing the roof, and
putting a foot in front of him. The branch doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move or crack under his weight,
which is a good sign. He has to stretch his arms on either side of his body, trying to steady his
balance, and he slowly but surely makes his way to the hole. Once there he uses his hands to grab
the leaves and pulls them, letting them fall to the ground, and he closes his eyes as sunlight
caresses his skin and the stuffy air of the grove is replaced by the pure air of the outside. He grabs
the edge of the hole and heaves his body up until his head is out and he can see around.

The hole opens on the top of the volcano’s crater, and Louis can see the giant rose he’s grown,
waiting for them. He swallows down a smile and ducks his head until he can see Hamlet, who’s
leaning against the thick trunk of the tree, his arms around the egg protectively.

“You can come,” he shouts, waving his hand. “It opens on the rose!”

Even from where he is he can hear Hamlet’s relieved sigh.

The black-haired demigod puts one foot on the branch, testing its strength, and when he sees it’s
not dangerous he starts to make his way towards Louis, slightly struggling because of the egg.
Louis makes sure he’s less than a meter away from him before he heaves his whole boy up,
kneeling at the edge of the hole and holding out his hand for Hamlet to take. But Hamlet shakes his
head.

“Take the egg.”

Louis nods, and watches as Hamlet loosens the jacket’s sleeves and passes over the egg, which
Louis takes with great care. Then Hamlet grabs the edge of the hole and uses his arms to get
himself up, crawling forward until he’s kneeling next to Louis.

They did it. They have the golden fleece, which is still tied around Louis’ waist. There’s no dragon
to chase after them, trying to kill them. They actually have a shot. Louis laughs happily, muffling
the sound against his shoulder and then Hamlet joins in. There’s so much relief and happiness in
their laughter, and they don’t stop even when they stand up and get their legs moving to their
awaiting ride. The rose shifts as it feels Louis’ and the golden fleece’s presences, and Louis pets
one of its petals lovingly, letting Hamlet get inside before him.

Once he’s sat down, Hamlet makes grabby hands for the egg, and Louis smirks.

“What?” Hamlet says defensively as he ties his jacket back around himself, his fingers caressing
the leather that’s stretched across the dragon egg. He looks like a mother protecting her child. It’s
amusing.

“Nothing,” he says innocently, adopting a faux-tone, and he knows Hamlet is narrowing his eyes
at him, but he doesn’t say anything otherwise.

The flower starts to shrink, getting them closer and closer to the ground until they’re both able to
jump off it, their feet digging into the grass. Louis instantly takes off towards the forest, ignoring
Hamlet’s calls, and he runs through the trees with his heart racing. He manages to trip on a few
tree roots, but he doesn’t slow down once, eager to get to Harry. He only starts to jog once he sees
the big rock that hides Harry from view, and when he can hear the water of the pond nearby. He
makes his way around the rock and stops short when he finds Harry.

Harry’s eyes are closed, and he’s sweating a lot, his clothes drenched. His complexion is too fair
to be normal, and with his lips devoid of colours, and his barely moving chest, he looks dead.
Louis starts to shake. Julien stumbles through the trees with a big leaf in his hands, and doesn’t
even spare Louis a glance as he crouches down and tilts the leaf towards Harry’s mouth, water
sliding down into Harry’s slightly parted lips. His eyes start to well with tears but he doesn’t allow
them to fall, not yet, not when Harry is still breathing. He can still be saved. So he quickly walks to
Harry and unties the golden fleece from around his waist. It has been folded in two, so he unfolds it
and gently lays it down over Harry, the fleece covering the entire of Harry’s body except for his
head and feet.

“He’s been unresponsive for a while,” Julien admits, his voice heavy. Louis doesn’t listen to it. It
doesn’t mean anything, surely? He can’t lose Harry so fast, not when they still have so much to tell
each other, not when there’s still too many things for them to do. He lets his trembling fingers push
away Harry’s sweat-wet hair, caressing his lovely face, wishing more than anything else that
Harry’s dimples were on display right now so he could poke them and laugh.

Hamlet arrives, too, and he feels him still when he takes in the state Harry is in.

“He’s going to be alright,” he says with conviction, bending down as best as he’s able to to pat
Louis on the shoulder. “The golden fleece will heal him.”

It takes a few more minutes before Harry gasps, his eyes flying open, his mouth parting. He relaxes
back down among the detritus, his chest moving rapidly up and down, and Harry looks around,
blinking against the sunlight. There’s confusion written all over his face as he takes in Julien’s
worried face and Louis’ tears that have started to leak. He looks past Louis at Hamlet, and frowns.

“What’s up with your jacket?” Harry croaks out, his throat slightly dry, and Louis…

Louis laughs and ducks down to kiss him.

Harry’s not sure what’s going on, but Louis’ soft lips against his own is nice even though his
mouth feels weird, as if he had just woken up from a long night of sleep. The kiss is short and
sweet, with no tongue to spice it up, but if before he’s never seen the purpose of a kiss without
tongues, ever since he’s been kissing Louis his opinion has changed. Those loving, gentle kisses
are his favourites.

He’s so distracted by Louis’ flowery scent, and Louis’ warm hands cupping his cheeks that he
doesn’t even notice the golden fleece on his body, or that Julien is covering his eyes, looking
traumatised by the display of affection. It’s when Louis finally detaches their lips with a soft smile
on his face, and leans back even though Harry wants to tell him to stay as close to him as possible,
that he’s able to sit up and frown at the soft fleece covering him. It takes him a few seconds too
long to remember where they are, but when he does, his eyes snap to Louis so fast his neck almost
breaks in the process.

“You did it,” he breathes out, completely in awe, and he loves the way Louis blushes slightly,
shrugging.

“Hamlet was there, too,” he dismisses, but then Hamlet is opening his mouth, grunting as he
attempts to sit down but instead lands on his arse, his legs in the air. Harry focuses on… whatever
is in Hamlet’s jacket, taking in its size.

“Louis did most of the job, though,” Hamlet says, letting his head fall back, closing his eyes as the
sunlight shines over his face. “Do you know he charmspoke Peleus into sleeping? That was
magnificent.”

Louis rolls his eyes, smiling. “You fell asleep, too, so I doubt you can testify about whether it was
magnificent or not.”

Hamlet scowls, but there’s amusement dancing in his eyes. “I officially declare untrue this false
accusation against my person. Hey, by the way, does anyone know whether Peleus is really male,
or have we been misgendering the poor thing this whole time?”

Julien blinks and frowns. “Why are you asking that?” he wonders, and Hamlet scratches the back
of his neck before reaching down to slowly unzip his jacket.

“Well,” he grimaces, pulling the jacket apart to reveal what’s hidden inside of it. “We might have
found a dragon egg in Peleus’ den?”

Louis flinches.

The only answer Hamlet and Louis get is shocked, disbelieving silence.

Getting out of Kolkhis without having to go through the canyon again is much easier, Harry finds
out bitterly. The second passageway is not far away from the volcano, a little bit off the side,
behind a large rock that’s leaning among trees and wild plants. There’s a stair that’s been created
with time, carefully carved once by a man, but then shaped by bugs and the mud that’s been mixed
up with rain water and hardened by the humid air. It’s slippery, and more than once Harry has to
flail around to regain his balance, but they manage to make their way down. There must be at least
a thousand steps, which in the end make Harry wonder whether going up those stairs wouldn’t
have been just as hard as climbing up the canyon wall. He looks to the side at Hamlet, who is
cradling the egg to his chest, and Julien who’s shooting nervous glances towards said egg, as if he
expected it to hatch and for a baby dragon to roast him alive.

Then there’s Louis, who’s unusually quiet, and who’s walking spectacularly close to him, not that
he minds. He finds comfort in Louis’ presence, in the strong scent of rose that he never finds
himself getting tired of. So he blindly searches for Louis’ hand, and takes it once he finds it.

The golden fleece is glowing in the dark, illuminating their path. It’s tied around Harry’s neck, and
it’s been fueling him with more and more strength, until now he can’t even feel the pain in his
burnt leg, and his muscles are not sore anymore. He feels amazing, frankly said, and it’s such a
wonder because he now has the confirmation that it will heal Leyla.

He doesn’t remember much from when he practically passed out. He still remembers how it felt
being dragged through the forest, how the leaves caressed the sweaty fabric of his tee-shirt as his
jacket bunched up. He remembers being laid down under the shadow, with a bit of sun filtering
through the canopy straight onto his face, but he couldn’t feel it. Instead his body’s temperature
kept dropping, and it didn’t help that the detritus was cold, barely providing any warmth. He
remembers something being dropped over his body, and the strong perfume of rose replacing the
raw smell of the forest, of the damp mud and of his own sweaty state.

After that, it’s a blur. It’s as if he blacked out, until he felt his strength coming back into him
thanks to the golden fleece. When he came back to himself, he didn’t even realize he had missed
anything until he found the fleece draped over him, with Louis’ coat underneath it, providing
warmth.

Louis’ coat is back on him now, but he can still feel the soft fabric and how much comfort it
provided without him even properly realizing it. He feels a bit upset he couldn’t be of much use,
and couldn’t help get the golden fleece, but he’s glad they’re here now, and even closer to saving
the camp than they thought possible at the very beginning of this trip.

But as usual, every good thing knows an end. The happiness and everything that’s come to be
defined as the pros of life slip into a series of unfortunate events, until one is not even sure
anymore if they’ll get out of whatever deep shit they got themselves into.

When Harry steps out of the island and into the mortal world, there’s pain in the back of his skull,
and he loses consciousness before he can even comprehend what’s happening.

It’s warm, is the first thing Harry registers when he comes back to himself, and then he smells the
air; it’s a mixture of burnt wood and static magic, but it’s dark, for some reasons, and he is
confused because he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be able to tell between dark magic and good
magic, seeing as he’s never actually been in the presence of the two. But somehow, he can, he can
feel the dark aura that’s surrounding him, can tell the blood and the sweat that’s gone into fueling it
to make it powerful until it's able to press down onto his entire being, making it hard to even
breathe.

“You’re awake,” a voice says close to his ear, warm air heating up the skin there. That voice
sounds vaguely familiar. “Welcome back to the boring mortal world we live in.”

Harry snaps his eyes open, blinking them shut again at the sudden source of light, but it doesn’t
take long for him to properly adjust to the contrasts between darkness and light. The spots dancing
underneath his eyelids disappear, leaving in their wake the sight of a huge, bright fire going, its
flames following the movement of the soft breeze. They’re still in the Caucasus Mountains, and at
any other time he would have appreciated the beauty in the sun as it wakes up slowly behind the
tall mountains, casting its glow over the uneven rocky surfaces, sunlights filtering through thin,
clear clouds, but he can’t do that, not when he can’t move because his hands are tied behind his
back and not when his equally tied feet are hidden underneath a long, silky chiton, its black colour
oddly mixing up with the ground that’s still partially hidden in the gloom, except for the shine of
the fire.

Harry looks up.

And looking back is Maia, a smirk on her gorgeous face.

Her curly dark hair frames her face, darkening her dangerous, wicked expression. Her gold tattoos
glow in the dawn, and Harry can’t even fucking understand why she’s here, refuses to link the
situation to her in any way. He quickly glances around, gulping when he spots Julien, Hamlet and
Louis, all sitting down, all tied up and left powerless. He focuses on Louis and relaxes slightly
when he doesn’t find any blood on him, and when Louis catches his eyes, he finds fear in them.

They’re not alone, he quickly realizes. There’s a crowd of demigods that Harry has seen in passing
at the camp, but there’s also cyclops, giants, several creatures with heads full of snakes and thick
sunglasses over their eyes, and other monsters that he can’t make out through the gloom, but the
thick smell of sulfur is enough for him to know they’re completely surrounded.

His heart skips a beat when he spots the golden fleece, held by a woman that he’s seen before; he
thinks her name might be Dove, but he can’t be sure, he can’t even think as the back of his head
starts throbbing once again.
“What’s going on?” he croaks out, frowning as Maia crouches down so she’s at the same level as
him. There’s a fire in her eyes that he has never seen before, and a twist to her lips that’s so unlike
her. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“Let me tell you a story, alright?” She smiles, reaching up to pass her hand through Harry’s sweat-
damp hair, and he jerks his head away, his eyes fixed on her. She sighs, resting her hands on her
thighs, and tilts her head to the side. She starts talking again. “Once upon a time, there was this girl
who was born among weeds and forest animals. She was a silent baby, who barely cried after her
mother gave birth to her.”

She stops, smiling mischievously. She licks her lips, her fingers playing with the fabric of her
chiton.

“You see, she grew up with her father, who wasn’t exactly the best father in the world. Her mother
was nowhere in sight. Anyway, her father, you see, he loved drinking, and sometimes he would be
very mean to his daughter until she was a sobbing mess on the ground. He blamed her for so many
things, and she was powerless at such a young age, and all she could do was to wait for the years to
go by and pray that one day, her father would stop hating her so much, and start providing her with
the love she so much yearned for. Of course, it was too much to ask for,” Maia stops talking,
twisting a strand of hair around her index finger, her eyes clouding over. “One day, after yet
another row, after being told that she’s worthless and a burden, and that she’s better off dead, the
little girl decided that enough was enough. Filled with rage, she made several knives fly in the air.
They ended up stabbing her father in all the right places, until he was at her feet, his large, empty
eyes gazing up at her, his heart unmoving. Faced with the realization that what she did was very,
very wrong, the little girl did the only thing she could think of.”

Maia leans forward. “Can you tell me what she did, Harry?”

Harry can’t even open his mouth. She chuckles.

“She ran away,” she whispers, a manic smile on her face. “She ran all alone through the cold
streets of New York, under the rain. She only wore a thin, too big tee-shirt on her, with a pair of
leggings that had ripped at the knees with time. She had at her feet red socks, and they started to
fall apart as she met the hard cement. She didn’t know where to go. She didn’t have any family
anywhere, and if she did, her father never bothered to introduce her. So she ran, and stopped only
when she found a taxi parked to the side, the taxi-man smoking underneath the shade of a shop. As
he wasn’t looking, she slipped into the opened car, and hid herself in the space between the driver
seat and the backseats. She was tiny, so it was quite easy to do it, and since the man blasted music
through the car, it was even easier for her to hold back her labored breathing.

The taxi drove for so long, she almost fell asleep, except when the car jerked violently, and the
little girl let out a rather loud shout, the taxi-man threw her out. She didn’t know where she ended
up, you see. There were tall trees all around her, and the road was empty, and the only good thing
about everything is that the rain had let up.”

She’s about to continue when Hamlet interrupts her, annoyed. “Are you done? We’re wasting time
right now, and we frankly do not care about your story. I am so sorry you’ve had such a shitty
childhood, but practically all of us here have gone through hell, so if you don’t mind untying us
and giving us the golden fleece back so we can, you know, get back to business, thay will be very
much appreciated.”

Maia reddens in anger, and she glares at Hamlet, who only glares back.

“You shut up, punk,” she snarls, her eyes flashing purple for a second. “Or I will make you, and
that won’t be pleasant, hm?”

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asks, moving his wrists around and wincing as the rope cuts
into his flesh.

Maia swiftly stands up and throws her head back, laughing bitterly. “Why? Why? Because the gods
are all a bunch of undeserving cunts that enjoy the suffering of those who are weaker than them.
They play with everyone. They sire children they can’t even take care of, and they throw them into
a life of misery and filled with insecurities. All I’ve done in my life, like every other demigod on
this earth, is to run away from creatures that have been trying to kill me, and that without the help
of my mother, the great goddess Hecate.”

“But didn’t she give you those magical tattoos? To help you?” Julien asks, hesitant.

“Oh, she gave them to me alright,” Maia spits out bitterly. “But she did it after I was on the brink of
death! And after I got to camp, she never bothered to contact me again, never even cared for me.
She never answered when I asked her help. What kind of mother is that?”

Hamlet snorts. “My dad ignored my existence for years and only interacted with me again after the
claiming when I pissed on his statue outside the cabins. So many people are unlucky and can’t
have a perfect, caring family, but that doesn’t mean we must make a big deal out of it. It’s up to us
to be stronger than the need to hate and resent the world for the shit it has thrown our way. Maia,
you don’t have to do… whatever the fuck you’re planning to do, not because your parents are
rotten and left you. You’re a bright girl, you are clever, you don’t have to act out of revenge.”

Maia rolls her eyes and takes a few steps back, the fire shaping out the curves of her body. She puts
her hand palm up, silently asking for the fleece, which is put into her hand. She brings it close to
her face, caressing her cheek with it lovingly.

“This is not about revenge,” she says, her voice low. “This is about freedom. We don’t have to live
in fear, trapped behind the four walls of that camp. We can be out and about. And for that we must
overthrow the gods. They’re selfish, corrupt and unworthy of worship.”

“Overthrowing the gods? That’s impossible,” Louis says, straightening up and wincing as the rope
restrains his movement.

“Is it?” Maia muses in a faux-sweet tone, twirling around, her chiton flying around her, her tattoos
shining. She passes the fleece back to Dove, being extremely gentle with it. He’s never seen her
like this, the evil expression on her face contrasting with the welcoming and happy ones she used to
have whenever he saw her. It’s such a shock to his system that he can’t associate the Maia he
knows to the Maia standing before him. He stays quiet then, letting Louis, Hamlet and Julien try to
talk some senses into her, and he allows himself to look around, taking in the crowd of monsters
and demigods. He shivers. He has a hard time believing there are demigods that are willing to stand
so close to a monster, when most of them have one single goal: kill demigods.

His eyes are flying over the fire when he spots something standing off the side. It’s completely
made of gold, with carvings that depict a story that even from afar seems terrifying. It’s at least ten-
foot-long, and from it radiates an aura of deep sorrow, of coldness and chaos. Even without
knowing what it is, it’s obvious it’s bad.

Maia sees him watching it, and she claps her hands, giggling.

“I see you’ve spotted the life of the party,” she says, pointing at the monstrous casket. “This, my
dear Louis, is how we are going to put an end to the Olympian gods’ reign. This—”
She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, for Hamlet interrupts her, his eyes wide with terror. “Kronos’
sarcophagus,” he says, his voice cracking in fright. “How? It was in the deepest part of Tartarus.”

Maia gives him an irritated look, which is quickly replaced by delight as she sees Hamlet
completely speechless.

“Well, yes, you see, I do have my ways,” she hums, glancing at the sarcophagus with respect. “This
is our one-way ticket to peace.”

“More like a one-way ticket to destruction,” Louis says, shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t
believe you’re doing this, Maia. You can’t possibly think Kronos of all beings is going to give you
the freedom you long for. There is a reason the gods had to overthrow him. His reign was chaos in
its purest form. Human beings were food for the titans. You’re going to doom us all.”

Harry sees a bit of uncertainty twists the expression of her face, but it’s gone as fast as it came, and
she fixes Louis with a hard look. For a fourteen year old, she looks terrifying.

“He’s my master, and he only wants to destroy the gods, not bring chaos back.”

Hamlet scoffs.

Harry takes a deep breath, fidgeting with the rope until his hands are in a good position for him to
touch his ring. It’s not going to change, seeing as he has to kiss it for the sword to actually appear,
but out of the corner of his eyes he sees Louis trying to reach for the knife that he keeps in one of
his coat’s many pockets. If Louis tries hard enough, he might succeed. So as to distract Maia, and
buys them some times, he starts to speak too, and deep down he wants to know the answers to all
the whys that are echoing around his brain.

“Why did you stop us?” He wonders aloud, never faltering as his eyes meet Maia’s. “You do
realize we need to get going to save—.”

He stops himself, momentarily freezing. He feels like someone has just slapped him across the
face.

“Burnt myself trying a spell that was too hard for me,” were the words Maia told him the first time
they met in the infirmary. He remembers the bandage around her arm, and how dismissive of the
subject she had been.

“You poisoned Leyla?” he mutters, trembling with something that feels a lot like rage. He sees
Maia flinch, but she recovers quickly.

“I did, and I am so very sorry Harry, but I had to, you see, so that you can get the golden fleece for
me.”

“You’re mad,” Harry spits, his nails digging into his palms. He wants to break free and wraps his
hands around her throat. “You could have gotten it without risking the lives of everyone.”

“I couldn’t,” she tells him, daring to walk closer to him until her delicate perfume fills Harry’s
nostrils. There was a time when said perfume would have filled him with joy, making him aware
that his friend was nearby, but right now it only adds fuel to the burning fire in his lower belly. “I
wanted you all to come together to the cause. I want you three to join me. Together we will be
powerful,” she says with so much conviction that Harry feels a pang of pity for her. But it quickly
fades into anger, because the longer they’re trapped here, the closer to her death Leyla is.

Maia glances at Julien, looking him up and down. “You will do, too, I guess.”
Julien blinks in disbelief but doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway!” She exclaims, spinning around. “Today you’ll get to witness a turning point in our
life!”

She smirks at them as the fire grows in intensity, crackling and sending glowing sparks in the air.

“This is a mistake,” Harry sighs, pleading with his eyes for her to stop. Her expression hardens.

“You could have been so great, Harry Styles. I’ve seen the potential in you the moment I met you.”

Harry snorts. “You should have seen where my allegiance lies as well, but I guess you failed that
part.”

“Why, hm? Why would you protect the gods when your own father, who is the Lord of them, is a
piece of shit, Harry? When your father doesn’t give a fucking damn about your existence? Don’t
you find it unfair that he’s never even bothered telling you about your sister? Your sister, Harry?
Someone of your flesh and blood!” Maia explodes then, screaming in his face. Her hands are
shaking where they’re fisting her chiton, lifting it off the ground, revealing her bare feet.

Harry doesn’t answer her. At least, not for a while. He’s left thinking about what she said, about
how he felt when he found out his mother lied to him about who his real father is, and how ground-
breaking it had been that his father turned out to be a Greek god. Zeus, who he has no memory of,
and who seems to only exist through the bit of power Harry has acquired thanks to Zeus’ blood
pumping through his veins. He remembers, as if the wound had been gaping open, when he felt as
if his world had been flipped upside down. Who has he become? Is he still Harry Styles, one of the
seven billion unimportant souls that inhabit the earth and that orbit around the cycle of life, hoping
to make it past fifty years old? It’s a tough challenge that he’s faced with, when he’s asking
himself who he is and he’s not exactly sure of how to answer.

Perhaps that’s exactly what life is, in the end. It’s a broadcasted live TV-shows that you’re forced
to experience, and when it goes to shit you can’t do anything about it. You just have to keep your
head above the water until a boat comes into sight to save you from drowning, but in the end, if
there’s no boat, what is left to do? What are the options, assuming life is giving you choices? If it
were up to Harry, he’d fight for his survival. He would swim until a shore would come into view,
and if he were unable to make it there, then at least he’d die trying.

He’s not going to fuck up everthing just because his father is a massive jerk. He’s better than that,
and it doesn’t take him long to come up with the perfect answer, an answer he hopes will make
Maia see that she’s wrong in releasing Kronos, and to allow the hatred she’s kept bottled up inside
of her be the fuel of her actions.

Harry isn’t a scholar by any means, but he remembers a quote he’s read a while ago, that has struck
him deeply, leaving something of a scar. He’s found it in a random book at camp, that has been left
among the grass while its owner went to play with the children, and Harry has picked it up and
opened it, until his eyes fell on the words that were muttered thousand of years ago.

“Happiness,” he begins, catching Maia’s attention. He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking in
Ancient Greek. She shifts until her brown irises are on him, and Harry sees them flash purple. “
and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: some things are within our control,
and some things are not. It is only after you have faced up to this fundamental rule and learned to
distinguish between what you can and can’t control that inner tranquility and outer effectiveness
become possible.”
-

Maia takes a moment to answer, but when she does, she’s sporting a smile that could be both
uncomfortable or mocking, Harry can’t tell.

“Epictetus?” She tries the name, humming. “An interesting choice.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, his eyes never faltering from her. “It’s truly a wonder, how a man who has
begun his life as a slave, then went on living in poverty and on his own, without a family by his
side, was able to utter such wise words despite the conditions he had been unlucky to live through.”

Maia flinches, but no one seems to notice it, except for Harry. When he glances to the side, he
spots Louis, his hand in his pocket. Hamlet is staring in disgust at a cyclop that has got his fingers
deep inside its nose, and Julien is glaring at several demigods that he must recognize from camp.
When he catches Louis’ eyes, the blue-eyed boy imperceptibly nods at him, urging him to keep
talking, and he does so, wracking his brain for a topic.

“What are you going to do with the golden fleece?” he finally settles on, and he sees her eyes light
up at the prospect of being able to tell her plan.

“You see,” she starts, gesturing towards the sarcophagus. “Everytime a demigod renounces the
gods to follow Kronos, a piece of our Master reappears in the sarcophagus. But for him to resurrect,
I need the golden fleece to heal him and put the pieces back together.”

She smiles, excitement written all over her features. Harry can’t recognize her anymore.

“Today,” she says, louder this time so everyone can hear her. “You will witness the rise of the
Great Titan Kronos!”

Everyone around them cheers. The cyclops and giants slap their big hands together, whistling. The
furies and gorgons whistle while the demigods let out loud noises, all of them chanting the name of
Kronos.

“Who would have thought Hecate would sire such an idiot?” Hamlet sneers, loud enough for Harry
to hear, but Maia is too caught up in the exhilaration that surrounds her to take any notice of them.
It’s the distraction all around them that allows Louis to slip unnoticed in the darkness, and soon
enough he feels the sharp tip of a blade against his hand, then he has to sigh in relief when the tight
grip of the rope loosens, disappearing as Louis pulls on them. No one is looking at them, so Harry
brings his ring to his lips and kisses it, making his sword appear and with it he cuts his feet free.

“Kronos,” Maia shouts, and something glows among the crowd, but Harry can’t tell what it is. He
can’t see anything seeing as the crowd covers Maia, the golden fleece and the sarcophagus, and the
only thing that’s peeking out from the mass is the fire, bright and tall and dangerous. “Today you
shall come back from the prison you were thrown into.”

A light, brighter than anything else Harry’s ever witnessed, momentarily blinds them all, and he
hears Hamlet shouting, but the words won’t make any sense, not when the ground starts to shake,
not when his ears start to ring. He loses balance and only avoids falling to the ground when Louis’
arms circle his waist and help him stay upright.
Through the chaos, he makes out the golden fleece. It’s laying on the sarcophagus, healing Kronos.

The carvings light up like crystals, revealing all the Greek cities in flames, the gods being trodden
under the strength of the titans, as well as chaos and destruction. Pieces of burning charcoals shoot
out of the sarcophagus, slowly coming together to form a foot that’s as big as half a mountain. He
sees Maia looking up at her work, calling out for her master, and he spares a glance at Louis, and
when their eyes meet, they know what to do.

Harry will distract Maia while Louis gets the golden fleece.

They don’t need to say anything to Hamlet or Julien; he sees Hamlet nod and knock out the nearest
demigod, taking his sword and brandishing it. They need to distract the crowd away, or else it will
be next to impossible to get to the golden fleece.

Faster than Harry would have liked, the second foot of Kronos begins to form.

“A distraction, right?” Julien asks, frowning and gulping. Harry nods.

“Alright, I got this,” Julien grins, then he shouts and runs straight towards the cyclops.

“Hey!” Julien screams, waving his arms in the air in front of their faces. “Aren’t you hungry?” He
turns around and shakes his tail. “Don’t you want some satyr? Premium quality, I promise!”

The cyclops look at each other, saliva dripping down their chins and over their torso. Then, they
roar and start to chase after Julien, making the crowd disperse, afraid of being trampled by the
prominent monsters.

“What the fuck are you doing, you absolutely imbeciles?” Dove yells, her eyes widening as she
ducks to the side, nearly being hit by one of the cyclop’s big hands. Hamlet laughs in disbelief and
charges, quickly disarming a demigod and progressing further through the crowd. Louis joins the
fight, and soon enough the Caucasus Mountains turn into a battlefield, while the cause of the
world’s doom is nursing back to health a few feet away. Harry grabs his sword tighter, and
charges.

Maia has just the time to turn around before he’s jumping on her, making them crumble to the
ground. He raises his fist, ready to hit her, but when his eyes find hers he just… can’t. The
hesitation that overpowers him is enough time for her to ram her forehead into Harry’s nose,
making warm blood gush out of his nostrils. Harry manages to grab her fist before it makes contact
with his face once again, his fingers slippery with the velvet-coloured liquid. He knocks her with
the pommel of his sword, and she groans under the pain.

“You owe me so much,” she spits, her eyes turning purple as her hands glow the same colour.
Harry is sent flying backwards, his back hitting a piece of rock painfully. He groans as his lower
back blossoms in pain, and it takes him a few tries to get back on his feet.

He is holding back, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to hurt her too much, or worse, kill her.
There’s still the Maia he knows in there, or at least he hopes. What stands before him is only the
broken version of a fourteen year old girl who has been torn apart and beaten into silence. Who
wasn’t given a choice and, as a result, is trying to make herself heard.

“You don’t have to do this,” he pleads, ducking as a piece of rock is thrown at him magically. It
breaks inches away from his face, making his ears ring. He doesn’t let up, though, and instead tries
to convey what he means through his eyes. He wants her to know that he’s sincere. “We can forget
all of this, Maia. We just have to go back to camp and save Leyla. Kronos will not give you the
freedom you long for, you have to find it in yourself to let go of your past so as to move forward
towards the freedom you seek.”

She is listening, he knows this, but through tears of anger or hatred, Harry can’t tell, she screams
and makes pieces of rock fall from the mountains, heading straight for him. He runs to the side but
a large piece lands on his legs, and he feels a bone crack, the pain so unbearable he’s left with his
mouth wide open in a silent scream. With her eyes darkening, Maia stalks towards him and
crouches down.

“Do you know who has been trying to kill you, Haz?” She asks him, combing her fingers through
his hair. He moves his head away, gritting his teeth in panic as he realizes he can’t feel his legs. He
looks into her face. It’s enough of an answer for her. “Hera, wife of Zeus, is who has been trying to
get your head delivered to your father on a silver plate. She wanted to calm down the all consuming
jealousy she feels about her husband siring a bastard with a meek, insignificant human. And she
nearly succeeded, until I managed to trap her using a powerful, long-forgotten weapon; the
necklace of Andromeda — not the queen, mind you — which strips a god of all of its power, until
all is left is only a weak body, until they’re as strong as a mortal. She’s here with us, kept in a cage.
To say she nearly succeeded in taking you away from me.”

The last part is only a whisper, as Maia caresses his cheek tenderly.

“You’ve defied me since the very beginning,” she adds sadly. “I’ve tried to see in you the
beginning of a hatred for your parents who so deserve it; but it never came. I knew deep down you
were too weak to be by my side.”

Harry coughs, spitting out frosting saliva. “And yet here we are,” he chuckles ironically. “What
was the use?”

She smiles cryptically. “Empathy,” she answers.

She lifts the rock off him, probably not wanting for him to die, but expecting for his body to be too
tired to even move. It’s her single and greatest mistake. Harry channels all of the adrenaline in his
body into making him get up, the magic in his veins making his legs feel normal, and he runs at
full speed towards Kronos as his mouths begin to mend back together. He spots Louis nearing the
sarcophagus.

It’s then that Kronos’ gigantic hand dives into the crowd, grabbing a giant and a demigod, and
tilting his head back with his mouth wide open, he throws them into it, the screams of the victims
hanging in the air long after they’re gone. All hell breaks loose, and every single demigod and
creature that sided with Kronos start to run away, fearing for their life.

Maia stands paralyzed, her eyes boring into Kronos as he looks at her.

“You smell delicious,” his deep, cruel voice mutters, echoing all around them and sounding so
loud Harry fears the entire world can hear him. Harry thinks Kronos is about to grab Maia, but at
the last moment, just as most people have left, he turns around, sniffing the air.

“Hera,” he says, grinning, or so Harry thinks is a grin. It’s hard to tell through the molten lava that
makes up the titan’s body. “Dear daughter.”

Harry spots her just as Kronos’ arms swings in the air, his fingers spread open, ready to grab his
next meal. Hera is looking up into the eyes of her father with so much fear that Harry’s getting the
impression that she will pass out in the next few seconds. From afar, she’s a stunning woman with
blond, curly hair and freckles all over her cheeks. Her blues eyes shine with distress as Kronos’
hand comes closer and closer to her. Around her neck is clasped a thick collar made of gold, the
jewel shining as it catches the blood red glow of the lava making up Kronos’ body, evidently
rendering the goddess powerless and vulnerable.

This is the woman who has sent all those monsters after him. This is the woman who has made it
her mission to kill him, all because her husband couldn’t keep it in his pants. She has tried to use
him as a way to get back to Zeus, without ever stopping to think whether it’s right or wrong.

Kronos is going to kill her. Harry could let it happen. Could watch as her soul is consumed, as she
disappears, never to be seen again. No one will ever try to kill him again, then, and he’ll get to live
a normal life by Louis’ side.

Kronos’ hand is seconds away from scooping the cage, and Hera with it, up.

Harry sighs and runs.

His sword dives into the titan’s hand, and as it makes contact with the burning flesh of the titan, it
glistens in the dark. Pieces of Kronos go back into the sarcophagus, and Kronos roars, staggering
back, the ground shaking and dust flying up and into their faces. He stands in front of Hera, his
eyes never leaving Kronos who is now focusing his attention on him.

He is probably going to die doing this. He internally sighs, again, because what has become of his
life?, and starts to shout at the big, slow body of the titan.

“Come get me!” he yells, and he runs away from Hera, pulling the titan’s attention away from him.
As he does so, he has to push Maia out of the way, who is frozen speechless, her whole body
trembling. Harry doesn’t think of her. Not when something, as if on instinct, makes him jump up
until he’s hanging off one of Kronos’ fingers. He heaves his body up until he’s in Kronos’ palm,
and by the time the titan has started to close his digits into a fist, he is already running up the
length of Kronos’ arm.

He feels the sole of his shoes slowly melt away under the high temperature of the lava, but Harry
pushes forward. He knows Louis is next to the sarcophagus, that Julien is trying to set Hera free,
and that Hamlet is fighting the last few creatures who have decided to remain until the very end,
foolishly expecting a fantasy from the subject of their chaos. Harry thinks, they can do this.

Kronos roars as he moves, threatening to send him flying to the other side of the world, but Harry,
with a shout, then jumps, his body floating in the air for a few, terrifying seconds. He’s
brandishing his sword above his head, with both of his hands wrapped around its handle, and as he
starts falling the sword pierces through Kronos’ chest, and creates a large dash as Harry goes down.
Around him it’s a mess of bright light and golden powder as Kronos is cut open, and pieces of his
body fly back into the sarcophagus.

Kronos might have been put back together, but he’s weak. He moves slowly, and something that
Maia didn’t think of is so obviously missing. It makes it easier to stop Kronos’ slow progression
towards his unique goal: wreak chaos and enroll his revenge over the Olympian gods. When Harry
gets to the end of Kronos’ stomach, he falls, and time seems to stop.

Kronos’ molten lava eyes are watching him. It’s a deep abyss of hatred, of terror, even though the
titan doesn’t have irises, even though it’s just two pools of lava, Harry can see the wretchedness
that lies within Kronos’ eyes. Kronos dismantles faster than when he was put back together, and
when every single part of him has gone back into the sarcophagus, Louis snatches the golden
fleece away, effectively sealing the coffin for good. The echoes of Kronos’ roars are still following
them, and the temperature drops as the sarcophagus goes back to being a prison, with the
tormented soul of Kronos doomed to suffer for as long as he’s being held within the golden walls
of his tomb.

Harry is prepared for the deadly impact of his body against the hard ground, but instead something
catches him mid-air. Wings prevent him from falling, and he sinks into the mess of feathers,
closing his eyes and willing his heart to go back to beating normally. He flies higher in the sky,
among the clouds, and laughs as the breeze ruffles his sweat-wet hair. He isn’t scared of what has
caught him. Instead of fretting over it, he kisses the tip of his sword and watches as it curls around
his hand until it’s only a lightning bolt-shaped ring on his middle finger. He rolls over and moves
his body so that he’s straddling the creature, and a loud screech from the bird has him know he’s
on an eagle that’s the size of a horse. He laughs in disbelief and bends his body forward until he
can put his cheek on the soft feather.

“Thanks, dad,” he mumbles, tears filling his eyes as the wind slaps at his face. His lower belly
turns as the eagle makes a fast descent. But before that, Harry can still marvel at the dawn, and at
the sun as it slowly goes up above the horizon line. It’s a marvellous sight, with the sky turning
into various hues of colours, from golden to candy pink.

The eagle uses its wings to gently land, and Harry breathes out, adrenaline making him feel more
alive than ever. He jumps off and walks around, until the large head of the eagle comes into view.
He should be scared, especially at the sight of its large, sharp and hooked beak and powerful
talons, but he doesn’t; he feels a tug in his body that lets him know he’s not in danger. The eagle is
absolutely stunning with its mane of white feathers that fades away into ash grey feathers. Its eyes
are the colour of honey, and it’s looking at Harry not in hunger but rather in respect.

He slowly puts his hand up and when the eagle doesn’t move, or flinch, he lets it caress the eagle’s
head, and to his surprise the bird leans into the touch, its big head almost causing Harry to fall
down.

“Thanks buddy,” he tells the eagle, which nods, and before Harry can make sense of the fact that
the eagle can apparently understand him, someone jumps on him. The smell of rose fills his nose,
and Harry instantly tightens his arms around Louis, burying his nose into Louis’ neck.

“I got so scared,” Louis says, voice breaking. “I saw you falling and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.”

“It’s ok, baby,” he tells him, trying to sooth Louis. He gently caresses the back of Louis’ head, and
trails kisses down Louis’ temple. When they detach, he cups Louis’ face and kisses him. He can
taste Louis’ tears.

“Don’t scare me like that ever again, asshole,” Louis chokes out through his tears, his face pink
and damp, and he has never, ever seen a more beautiful person, despite the snot and the tears and
the dirt that has gotten stuck on Louis’ skin.

“I won’t,” he answers as he uses his sleeve to wipe Louis’ face. Louis laughs and tries to lean
away, but he won’t let him.

“I’m sorry, this is disgusting, oh god,” Louis says, embarrassed, but Harry shakes his head.

“None of that,” he tells him, and then after thinking, and as he gazes into Louis’ blue eyes that
have turned the colour of shimmering gold as the sunrise casts its glow over them, he thinks, he’s
ready.

He doesn’t just like Louis. He loves him. A pure, unconditional love that wants to break free, that
refuses to be wasted away and reduced to a secret.
Harry is about to open his mouth when a shout interrupts him. He glances to the side just in time to
see Maia jump on Hamlet, who has been opening up a hole into the ground to send the sarcophagus
back to the underworld. Hamlet tries to shake her off, but she won’t let go, so at last he punches
her, hard, until she’s on the ground and cupping her cheek.

“You fucker,” she snaps, spitting blood next to her. “What have you done? What have you done?”

She sobs as Kronos’ sarcophagus disappears into bright green flames. Louis slips his hand into
Harry’s, and together they walk towards where Maia is kneeling, her body spamming under the
strength of her sobs. A pang of pain twists Harry’s heart, and he crouches down next to her, putting
his hand up and hesitating as to whether he should comfort her or not. He’s about to spread his
fingers over her shoulder, and tells her it’s alright, that she can still come back and all will be
forgiven, but her eyes snap to him, burning with fury.

“Don’t touch me,” she snaps, swallowing down her pain. “You are all puppets,” she says in
disgust.

Before any of them can do anything else, she disappears, leaving in her wake a purple mist of
shame and despair.

Louis puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders, his expression incredibly sad. “I’m sorry, I know you
two were friends.”

Harry shrugs and stands up, rubbing his temples. “She made her choice,” he says, his heart heavy,
but instead of lingering on Maia’s plagued expression, Harry walks to the golden fleece, which is
draped over Julien’s arms.

“Time to go home,” Hamlet sing-songs, stroking the fleece delicately.

“Huh,” Julien grimaces, glancing to the side. “What do we do about Hera?”

Harry almost forgot her, and frowning he turns around until he sees her. She’s still where she’s
been trapped behind the iron bars of the cage, and she looks murderous, but also so out of place
that it's almost funny.

“What about her?” Hamlet frowns, moving his hand carelessly towards the goddess. “She tried to
kill us. I say we leave her here, or offer her up to a cyclop.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“No, we are not doing that. She’s a goddess, we can’t disrespect her in any way, or else we’ll
attract Zeus’ wrath. We have to get her out of here.”

Hamlet scoffs at Louis. “You ain’t the one who almost got a Minotaur’s horn stuck up his arse, so I
don’t think you can say anything on the matter.”

Harry sighs and starts to walk towards Hera. “I agree with Louis,” he says loudly. He hears behind
him Hamlet asking Julien his opinion, and the satyr only gulps saying it’s Hera, the goddess, if we
don’t help her she’s going to find a way to get back at us.

The closer he gets to her, the bigger the scorn on her face grows. Her hands are around two of the
bars, her knuckles almost white from how hard she’s holding them.

“Harry Styles,” she says, her voice soft and melodious, though there’s an edge to it. “Never thought
I’d get to meet you in such an… unfortunate circumstance.”
Harry stops a few centimeters away from her. He doesn’t know how to feel. He’s standing in front
of his father’s wife, who has been trying to kill him. Wordlessly he kisses his ring, and he sees
Hera’s eyes widen, either in fear or fascination, he can’t tell, but it’s quickly soothed out into a
neutral expression.

“I see he’s already lavishly gifted you,” she says bitterly, eyeing the sword and never taking her
eyes off it as Harry moves it around. “You’re holding a powerful weapon, boy.”

He ignores what she just told him, and instead looks at her in the eyes as he speaks. “Are you going
to pull anything if I get you out?”

She hums, looking up as if she were thinking a great deal about the question.

“No,” she settles on finally, a smirk on her face. “I’ll even be quite glad if you get me out of here.”

Hera takes a few steps back, and Harry does the same, except he also raises his sword.

“What does that mean?” He asks before striking, his sword coming down over the bars, sliding
through them like butter, breaking them in the process. Hera slowly walks forward, stepping over
the broken fragments of her prison.

“It means that in exchange of my freedom, I will stop trying to kill you.”

“How very nice of you,” Harry says sarcastically, and he sees her narrow her eyes, but she doesn’t
comment on his impertinence.

It’s quite hard to picture the woman in front of him as a goddess, as a being that used to be
worshiped by everyone. She tilts her head to the side, silently asking Harry to cut the collar, and he
does just that, though his heart thumps hard because what if he kills her in the process? In the end
Hera is unarmed, and the golden collar falls to the ground. It’s then that her skin starts to glow, her
magic filling up the air, and just then, as an ethereal aura cocoons her, she looks just like a
goddess.

He’s joined by Louis, Hamlet and Julien, and the golden fleece attracts Hera’s attention.

“You have to hurry,” is all she says.

Hamlet mutters a no shit Sherlock, which she hears but doesn’t comment. She signs for them to
come closer, which they do although Hamlet is eyeing her in suspicion. When they’re standing in a
circle, Hera’s eyes become completely golden, shining so bright Harry has to look down, then the
glow swallows them whole and, in only a matter of seconds, they’re gone.

In the distance, there’s the honk of a car.

The road cuts through the meadow, separating the rolling hills and offering a contrast between
nature and what mankind is able to do. A few birds fly over their heads, chirping and screeching,
eager to join the forest that borders the other side of the landscape.
Harry glances over his shoulder, and slowly, a smile spreads on his face.

Leyla’s pine tree is waiting for them, at the top of the Half-Blood hill.

“I guess this is goodbye,” Hera sighs, reaching out to caress Harry’s cheek except he jerks his head
away, frowning. She rolls her eyes but smiles gently. “At least I’m glad my husband can sire
children that are worthy.”

Before Harry can ask her what that means, she’s gone, the only evidence of her existence being a
thin trail of smoke and the burnt grass at their feet.

There’s no cheers or confetti when they reach Leyla. There’s no crowd of excited demigods, wood
nymphs, satyrs or centaurs to welcome them back after all the struggles they went through to get
the fleece. There’s only the silent anticipation and the loud beating of their hearts as Harry
crouches down, his knees digging into a pile of dead leaves, which belong to Leyla. There’s only
the subtle tremble of their fingers as he lays the golden fleece over the human shaped tree roots, all
four of them hoping that it’s not too late, that in the end, they’ll get to save his sister.

The pine tree moves along the breeze, as if it were breathing for the first time in a while. Harry
himself can barely breathe as the fear he feels takes the shape of two unforgiving fists. They
squeeze his heart, uncaring of the consequences. It’s only when Leyla’s ash grey trunk colours up
into a warm shade of brown, that he allows the tears to fall down.
 Chapter 4

6 months later.

Harry doesn’t have time to dodge to the side before something collides with his face, making him
lose his balance on the footholds. He falls several meters down but manages to stop himself from
meeting his death (he’s not exaggerating) by grabbing a rope that’s flopping next to him. When he
glances up, Louis is looking back down with a smirk on his gorgeous face.

There’s also a knife in his hand.

He throws his body to the right of the wall just as, with acuteness, Louis cuts the rope.

“I feel like you want to kill me,” he pants out, using his right arm to hold himself up while his other
hand comes up to rub at his burning cheek and nose, where Louis had hit him with the sole of his
shoe.

“Before our date? No, never,” Louis blinks sweetly, chuckling and climbing up as Harry smiles to
himself.

He loves Louis so much, even if his boyfriend is trying to kill him (he’s definitely exaggerating).

Harry is hot on Louis’ heels when the climbing wall trembles, and a loud boom echoes above their
heads. Here we fucking go, he thinks, just as lava pools to the side of the wall, rapidly sliding down
towards them. A few demigods that are climbing with them yelp, burnt by the steaming hot liquid,
and after sharing a look, Louis kicks up until he can grab a rope and climb the rest of the way with
more ease and less chance to get roasted alive.

For Harry, it’s a whole different story. The only other available rope is already taken, and he
loathes what he’s about to do, but the need to win out-powers his want to be nice. When he’s at the
same level as the sweating demigod, a blond boy with large grey eyes, he kicks him in the rib, hard
enough for the demigod to yelp and let go of the rope, falling rapidly down the climbing wall.

“Sorry buddy,” he grimaces, but then he’s fisting the rope and heaving himself up. Since the first
time he’s climbed the wall, he’s learnt how to actually climb a rope, so it doesn’t take long for him
to get to the top and find a corner of the wall that’s not burning up with lava. He puts his hands on
the platform, the one that will lead him to the red totem, and kneels on it, straightening up once
he’s sure he’s not going to fall down. His thin black tee-shirt sticks to his body with sweat, and the
fingerless gloves he’s got on does a good job at preventing his skin from coming off his body after
putting his entire weight onto them for so long.

He stands up and smirks as he sees Louis waiting for him.

“What is the smirk for?” Louis rolls his eyes, moving his shoulders as if preparing for a fight,
which… he probably is. “You took too long to get there, oh Great Son of Zeus.”

He groans. “Stop calling me that.”

“Does it piss you off?” Louis wonders, taking a step back as he takes one forward.

“Very.”

Louis smiles sweetly. “Then I won’t stop.”

Harry charges for Louis, but the blue-eyed demigod manages to slip through his fingers, spinning
around and kicking him in the back. He stumbles forward and feels Louis’ weight on his back as an
arm comes around his throat, blocking the flow of air to his lungs for a few seconds, before he falls
forward, rolling over himself and sending Louis flying several meters away.

“Not bad,” Louis pants, sweat pearling over his forehead. “But could do better.”

Harry scoffs in disbelief, and dodges Louis’ fist. He has an opening, he knows it, he knows he can
punch Louis back and maybe buy himself some time. But, well, he’d rather cut his hand than
actually punch Louis, and his hesitation is enough for Louis to knee him in the crotch. He doubles
over, his hands flying to his sobbing cock, and his mouth opens in a silent scream.

Louis bends down until his eyes meet Harry's. “Oops, now that’s unfortunate.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a girl creeping up towards the totem. Louis hasn’t noticed her.
He gets an idea, and he knows Louis is going to kill him for it, but, well… if he is not going to win
neither is Louis.

He lunches forward and kisses Louis hungrily. Louis writhes in his hold, but when he slips his
tongue inside of Louis’ mouth, the demigod goes lax and lets himself be kissed, humming against
Harry’s lips.

It’s only when the silence around them is disturbed by loud cheers that Louis’ eyes fly open and he
pushes Harry away.

The girl Harry has seen earlier is brandishing the totem, the thing glimmerng into the sunlight. She
glances over her shoulder, winks at them, and promptly starts to make her way back down.

Louis sputters. “Our date is cancelled.”

Harry bites his lips and slides his arm around Louis’ waist. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. I hate you.”

“And I really, really, really like you.”

Louis rolls his eyes and tries to hide his smile, though he fails.

“I’m going to knee you again if you don’t get your big paw off me,” Louis tells him, voice light,
and he doesn’t want to risk it, so he lets his arm drop away from Louis’ body and pouts. He drops a
kiss to Louis’ earlobe.

“If you hurt mini me again I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you babies.”

This time, when Louis pinches his arm, hard, he figures he deserves it.

Julien is head deep into the basket Harry prepared, examining each and every single thing, each
time making a comment about how they look and how they will probably taste. He begins with the
tuna sandwiches, holding the bread to his eyes, and saying, the bread looks crusty enough, though
it could have been a bit more golden. Wait, is that baguette? Good choice. About the tuna, I feel
like you didn’t put enough mayo? It’s three tablespoons for a can of tuna, believe me. And where’s
the pepper? Oh my god Harry, please tell me you put pepper in this!

Julien’s staring at the homemade macarons when Harry comes over and closes the white box,
giving Julien a pointed look.

“What?” the satyr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You need an expert in the domain. It’s
your first date with Louis, we want it to be perfect!”

“Damn,” Hamlet says in a bored voice, twirling a knife in between his fingers. “Paul Bocuse is
shaking in his grave.”

Julien points an accusing finger at Hamlet. “You, of all people, should be more respectful of the
dead. Rest in peace, Paul Bocuse.”

Harry rolls his eyes and closes the basket, feeling his heart speed up in anticipation. He walks to the
mirror and tugs on his smart black shirt, which Julien had all naturally and oddly described as
‘bland’ and ‘sexy’. It’s slightly sheer, not enough to be provocative but it gives an effect in the
dark. He has dark jeans on and a pair of Gucci boots that belong to Hamlet. Hamlet doesn’t wear
them anymore because he ‘grew tired of seeing them’ so he decided to give them to him. They’re
comfortable and the right size, so he was more than glad for them, as they are much better than his
worn-out, tough combat boots. He feels Julien stand next to him.

“You look dashing, Haz, don’t worry,” Julien says, patting Harry’s shoulder blade.

“He’s right,” Hamlet says with a small smile. “You look great, Louis will not resist you.”

He ducks his head, a blush making its way up to his cheeks, and glances one last time into the
mirror. Despite the fact his hair has been combed back, several curls are falling around, some over
his forehead and others around his ears. He doesn’t mind them, on the contrary they give him some
kind of charm. His earring catches the light every once in a while. It’s black like the rest of his
outfit, and discrete, but it’s there and he knows Louis loves it.

Especially when they fall among the sheets of his bed and Louis’ tongue finds the earring, making
goosebumps rise all over his skin.

Julien snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Hey, you horny bastard, focus.”

“Wha-” he blinks, seeing Hamlet smoking next to the window while Julien smooths out the non-
existent creases of his shirt.

Julien takes a few steps back and looks him up and down. Then, he puts his hands over his heart,
his whole face scrunching up as if he were about to cry.

“Look at our child,” Julien sobs, a tear rolling down his cheek. “All handsome and ready for his
first date.”

“He’s your child, not mine,” Hamlet scoffs, taking a long drag from his cigarette and making round
patterns with the smoke.

What the actual fuck. He walks around Julien and grabs the basket, itching it up on his forearm. He
feels Julien dust off the back of his pants, even though it’s a clean pair fresh out of the laundry. He
tries not to laugh and raises an eyebrow when Julien hums in satisfaction.
“Happy, mom?” he teases.

“Very,” Julien nods, clapping his hands. “Now off you go, and please, no knock knock jokes.”

Harry makes an affronted face. His jokes are great, actually, it’s just that not everyone can
appreciate the amount of genius behind them. He sighs and pats Julien’s shoulder.

“See you folks tomorrow… maybe,” he sing-songs while walking to the door.

And if he smacks Hamlet upside the head as he goes, it’s totally justified. He’s a wonderful child,
thank you very much.

When he sees Louis, it’s like seeing an angel descend from the sky. He has to stop several meters
away to just drink in the way the moonlight shines over Louis’ soft-looking hair, making his
eyelashes cast shadow over his cheeks. When he does get his feet to work, and when he gets closer,
he literally stops breathing.

Because Louis is wearing his long green coat, unbuttoned. Underneath it there’s a short, pastel
purple chiton that shows off his strong, smooth legs. Several necklaces are clasped around Louis’
neck, shining under the glow of the night, and he can’t believe he gets to call Louis his.

Louis spots him, then, turning his head to the side to reveal the delicious, exposed column of his
neck. Harry wants to jump on the skin and lavish kisses and bites there.

“Hi,” Louis says softly, going on his tip-toes to drop a soft kiss on Harry’s lips. Harry smiles like a
goof, making Louis chuckle and leans his forehead on Harry’s chest. “Don’t look at me like that!”

Harry hasn’t realised he’s been staring at Louis hungrily. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling like
a deer in headlights, but then Louis cups his cheeks and kisses him. This time, it’s deeper and with
tongue, and it makes butterflies go berserk in his belly.

“You look dashing, too,” Louis tells him, smiling so wide the skin by his eyes crinkle. He wants to
kiss them, which he does, bending down and kissing the corner of Louis’ eye. Louis laughs and
shakes his head.

“If you don’t stop we’re never going on that date. Now woo me, Styles.”

Harry bows, sending Louis in another fit of giggles, and then takes Louis’ hand in his own to guide
them along the river, and towards the bridge. They’re silent for a moment, until Louis draws closer
to him to rest his temple against Harry’s biceps, since he is too small to be able to put his head on
Harry’s shoulder.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he tells him, and he can see without looking Louis’ pout, and before Louis can say
anything to express just how much he doesn’t like surprises, he continues. “But, what I can tell
you, is that we’re going to have to sneak out.”
At that, Louis perks up. “We’re going out of camp?” he whispers, looking at Harry through his
long and thick eyelashes with the purest, most adorable smile. Harry only hums and bends down to
kiss Louis’ lip.

They cross the little bridge, and once they’re standing next to the Big House, he passes the basket
over to Louis and raises an authoritative finger.

“No peeking, babe,” he tells Louis, who rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out. Harry really wants
to bite it, but holds himself back. “I’ll be quick, wait for me here.”

He makes his way to the Big House with light feet. He barely makes any noise as he climbs the
deck and twists the house’s door handle. One thing he learnt since he arrived at camp, is that
Chiron sleeps like the dead. Unless a nuclear bomb lands next to him, it’s impossible to wake him
up. He doesn’t bother being discrete as he makes his way to Chiron’s office. The wood creaks
underneath his feet, giving the air a creepy, almost ethereal atmosphere, but he doesn’t let it bother
him.

He reaches Chiron’s office quickly and slips inside without bothering closing the door behind him.
He has got nothing to hide. He just doesn’t want to give Chiron a heart attack if they’re gone and
no one knows where they are, and he’s pretty sure the centaur is capable of sending the entire
camp after them. So he takes a blank sheet of paper, one of Chiron’s fancy fountain pens, and starts
to write.

‘Louis and I are going to spend the night out of camp. I know for a fact we are safe, don’t worry.
We’ll be back tomorrow, the hour remains uncertain.

— Harry’

He leaves the note on top of the mess on the desk, putting the pen over it so that it doesn’t fly away
in case the wind picks up and filters into the room through the in-between open window. Then,
with a smile, he makes his way out of the Big House, jogging towards Louis who is looking at the
horizon, beyond the pine tree which glows slightly golden because of the fleece.

Harry takes the basket back and reaches down for Louis’ hand. They start to make their way
towards the Half-Blood hill.

“How are we getting past Efrosyni?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

And right. Efrosyni is a recent addition to the camp, and a welcome one at that. A month after
Louis and Hamlet found Peleus’ egg (turns out Peleus is neither male or female, and dragons do not
need a mate to reproduce; through the moonlight, they can magically reproduce on their own using
the energy that comes from the full moon), the egg hatched, and from it was born the most
adorable, joyful and mischievous little dragon, Efrosyni, which in Ancient Greek means joy and
mirth. Although several demigods were unsure about the presence of such a powerful and fast-
growing creature, once it’s been proven that Efrosyni is the reptile equivalent of a dog, absolutely
everyone started to fall in love with the white and purple scaled dragon. Several months later,
Efrosyni is basically a teenager, and even though he’s often distracted, he’s surprisingly the perfect
protector for the golden fleece.

Like Peleus, Efrosyni never sleeps, and instead Efrosyni will spend the days lying next to Leyla,
keeping an eye out on her while playing with a big birthing ball that Hamlet found unused and
collecting dust in one of the cabins.

Wordlessly, he fishes out of the basket a piece of tin foil, and slowly opens it to reveal two shiny,
bloody thick strips of lamb. He winks at Louis, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“He’s going to jump on you,” Louis warns him, which is why Harry gives him the basket once
again as they reach Leyla. As expected, Efrosyni is sitting next to the tree, its body big enough to
circle around the tree's trunk. The moment Harry takes a step on top of the hill, Efrosyni’s head
snaps up, big, unblinking red eyes gazing at him. It’s quite terrifying, especially since they’re
surrounded by gloom and the fleece is the only thing providing a bit of light. It’s just enough to
cast a glow over Efrosyni’s scaled head.

“Hi love,” he whispers, and Efrosyni breathes a wave of smoke and bows its head in greeting.
Without hesitation Harry draws closer until he can caress between Efrosyni’s nostrils.

He takes a piece of meat and waves it gently in front of the dragon, putting it just out of reach
whenever Efrosyni tries to have a bite.

He raises a finger.

“You have to promise me to be silent.”

He knows Efrosyni doesn’t speak their language, but still it’s like the dragon understands, because
Harry tosses the lamb in the air and Efrosyni catches it mid-air, and doesn’t mutter a single sound
as they round the tree and start to walk down the slope.

“Good dragon,” Harry says fondly, then he feeds Efrosyni the other piece of meat and balls the tin
foil, putting it in the back of his trousers’ pocket. “Bye!”

He grabs Louis’ hand and the basket, and they run down the hill, Louis having a hard time hiding
his laughter while Harry just guffaws, which in turns makes Louis laugh even more. Louis trips and
he is there to hold him from falling, and he pulls Louis back into his chest. He kisses the back of
Louis’ neck, savouring the soft fragrance of rose there that’s strongest underneath Louis’ ears.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and when he glances behind him, he’s met with the grinning
face of Argus. Styx, it never gets any easier to see all the eyes that make up Argus’ whole body,
and it’s such a queer sight when one eye blinks after the other.

“Oh, hi, Argus,” Louis says, sounding nervous. Harry tightens his grip on Louis’ waist, just a way
to tell him a 'don’t worry’. Louis has no idea of what Harry has in store for him, so after kissing
Louis’ forehead, he turns to Argus.

He doesn’t even have to say anything; Argus dangles a car key in front of him, and raises an
eyebrow. He grabs it and gives Argus a look full of gratitude.

“Let’s go,” he tells Louis, and further away from them is Argus’ car, parked neatly along the edge
of the road.

Louis shakes his head in disbelief. “How?”

“Two weeks of extra fudge brownies.”

“Idiot,” Louis chuckles, and his lips twitch as Louis tucks himself under Harry’s arm and kisses
him on the cheek.

Louis is the first one to the car, and he tries not to be upset that he doesn’t get to open the door for
Louis, but he also figures that Louis is past all those pleasantries, so he simply goes to the driver
seat and jumps in. He twists his body to put the basket on the backseats, but stops when he spots a
large bouquet of roses. It lies innocently on the clean-smelling leather, and Harry has to hold back a
laugh. Out of the window, he sees Argus winking at him. He subtly gives him a thumbs-up and
grabs the bouquet, sitting back down and offering it to Louis, who has by then a lovely blush on
the apples of his cheeks.

“A bouquet of roses for my rose,” he says with a cheeky smile, and he’s convinced the only reason
Louis doesn’t slap him is because both of his hands are busy holding the large bouquet of white,
pink, black, orange and red roses. Where exactly Argus found so many varieties of roses, Harry has
no idea, but he’s incredibly grateful especially when Louis looks down at the flowers with such a
soft expression on his face. Louis touches the petals with reverence, as if he were greeting old
friends.

It’s a breathtaking sight to behold, especially when the roses seem to seek out Louis’ touch.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice low and soft. He sees Louis nodding, and on that he boots the engine
up, and starts to drive away from the place he’s come to call home.

The night progresses as Harry drives towards their destination. The landscape can be seen only
through the lights of the car, and they barely meet anyone else on the way. The weather is nice,
and there aren’t any worrying clouds in the sky. It makes Harry relax, because at least it means his
plans will be carried through the way he’s planned. Louis is silent next to him, and he’s looking
out through the window and into the gloom. It’s like he wants to tattoo everything around him
inside his brain, as if he can find wonder in the tiniest things, such as the few stray dogs walking
among the coarse grass and cowering away from their car, or in the squirrels that speed back into
the tree trunks the moment they catch sight of them. Not for the first time, Harry wonders exactly
how long Louis has gone without seeing the mortal world again.

It’s not that the camp is a prison, but sometimes, it can feel that way. Camp is a constant reminder
that their life is perpetually at risks, only because they were born different. Everyday they are
aware that living among mortals is not an option, and there are so many little things that contribute
to it, such as whenever they train, or whenever they take some time to think back to the last time a
monster went after them. Louis might not be the oldest at camp, but he’s been there the longest
than most demigods, and Harry can see the melancholy among Louis’ blue irises, even if the
demigod tries to hide it. Harry knows, deep down, that all Louis wants is to be granted a bit more
freedom.

Despite himself, Harry thinks about Maia. She’s like them all, in the end. She’s been sheltered
away from the outside world, because the dangers are too great. Destroying Olympus, though, is
not the solution.

Taking a chance is, though. And that’s what Harry is doing as he drives them deeper into the veil
of darkness. He’s taking a chance, and great risks, by bringing them out of camp. But something
inside of him tells him it’s alright. Hera isn’t trying to kill him anymore. He’s made sure the area is
swept clean, so that he’s sure they’re no creatures waiting for them in the shadows. But it’s not
even the precautions he had to undergo to make the date possible that reassures him, it’s the gut-
deep feeling he has that everything will be alright.
Wordlessly, Harry reaches over the console and takes Louis’ hand in his own. It makes a beautiful,
soft little smile blossom on Louis’ face.

They’re almost at their final destination when Harry asks Louis to close his eyes, which he does
albeit without failing to complain about it. It only makes Harry chuckle as he parks the car into an
opening, on a path that’s been hand-made. Their bodies jump and shake as Harry drives over
pebbles, but once they’re here he turns the engine off.

“Don’t open your eyes,” he tells Louis, then he’s stepping out of the car and grabbing the basket.
He walks around the car and opens the door for Louis, who only frowns and reaches out for Harry,
unsure of where to put his feet.

Harry helps him out of the car and, using his foot, he closes the door. He doesn’t let go of Louis’
hand, not even once, as he walks Louis to the little, warm cottage that’s waiting for them among
rose bushes and hydrangeas.

It’s made of rustic wood, and it is shining in the night thanks to all the lights that are coming from
the windows. Flowers are delicately carved into the door, and next to them, a few meters away,
there’s a little potager with growing tomatoes, zucchinis and other vegetables. Harry comes to stand
up right behind Louis, and he allows himself to bath in the warmth that comes from Louis’ body.
He rubs the back of Louis’ head with his nose, breathing in the delicious smell here, then when his
lips are at Louis’ ear, he whispers, and he feels Louis shiver against him.

“You can open them.”

When Louis does, Harry sees the way his eyes widen and his mouth drops open in awe. Without
realising it, Louis leans against Harry’s body, and his hand seeks Harry’s. Harry’s long fingers
interlace with Louis’ shorter ones, then Harry kisses Louis’ cheek, marvelling at the rosy colour
there.

“Do you like it?”

Louis can’t even answer; instead he nods frantically and whirls around to kiss Harry deeply.

Harry understands how Louis feels. Even if the cottage isn’t all that different from their cabins
back at camp, here there’s no one but them. There’s silence except for their breathing and the
words they mutter in the safety of their arms. It’s a place for them, a moment they can enjoy
without anyone else bothering them. That’s what makes everything even more special.

Louis is already running to the cottage, and Harry follows, walking confidently to the door. He
unlocks it and opens it, letting Louis enter first, and once they’re inside he closes the door.
Instantly a gush of warm air touches his face, and there’s the delicate smell of burning wood in the
air. The cottage opens on a square room with soft looking midnight blue couches, a little kitchen
that has a lot of plants all over it. There’s a door that leads to the back, where another, bigger
garden waits for them. It opens on a clearing, with several rolling hills peeking out further away,
and one of the major reasons Harry picked up this cottage is that the sunrise is gorgeous from that
garden. And also from the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling window, but that’s still a surprise for later in
the night.

There was a dining table, but Harry asked to have it taken out and in its place is a mess of cotton
tablecloths and pillows. Candles are burning in the middle of it all, there are two wine glasses, and
a tall glass with several roses in it. Harry has never before taken anyone out on a date, instead
preferring to stick to one-night stands that he knows won’t require from him any effort besides in
the bed. And he was content, until he met Louis and realised he wanted more. He’s not sure there’s
a code for rules to follow to properly date someone, but his anxiety flies out of his brain when he
sees how charmed Louis is.

“This is…” Louis shakes his head, bites his lips in a fond, loving smile, and settles with hugging
Harry tight.

They eat while Gloria Gaynor croons softly in the back. Harry will never trade this moment for
anything else in the world. He loves everything about it, from when mayo drips down Louis’
mouth and Harry wipes it away with his thumb to when Louis makes him laugh so much that wine
spills from his nostrils. They’re in their own bubble, bathing in joy and love, and Harry’s heart is
so full. Once they’re done eating, Harry pushes everything to the side and leans against one of the
couches, straightening his legs so Louis can leans against him easily. Louis is munching on a
strawberry flavoured macaron, crumbs of meringue stuck to his lips which Harry can’t wait to kiss.

Louis looks up, tilting his head back. “Thank you for today,” he says, smiling. “I loved it.”

Harry kisses Louis’ forehead and tightens his hold on him.

Halfway through their little indoor picnic, Louis got rid of his coat, staying only in his short, soft
chiton. Harry has spent way too long staring hungrily at the smooth skin there, and now that Louis
is so close to him, he allows himself to reach down and caress Louis’ thigh. He feels goosebumps
rise over Louis’ skin, and he feels drunk on the fact that he’s the cause for them. It’s not the wine,
he’s sure of it, it’s just… it’s Louis, and the effect the demigod has on him. Harry’s fingers have
travelled up to the edge of Louis’ chiton when Louis moves and turns around, straddling Harry’s
hips. Louis’ ass his right on top of Harry’s cock, and when Louis bends down to kiss him, bits of
macarons falling onto Harry’s tongue, blood rushes to Harry’s length straight away. Louis is warm
and so soft on top of him, and Harry can’t help but think, that’s where Louis belongs. As cliché as
it sounds.

With a smirk, Louis grinds down, and Harry moans as Louis starts to roll his hips around. It doesn’t
take long for Harry to be completely hard, and Harry grabs Louis’ thighs, hard, and pulls the
demigod into a searing kiss.

There’s tongue and spit, and Harry bites gently on Louis’ bottom lip then ducks down to trail
kisses along the curve of Louis’ neck. He lavishes the unblemished skin there with lovebites,
taking his time to suck and create purple-coloured bruises, and he doesn’t stop or quicken his pace
even when Louis begs for him to hurry up.

Tonight he wants Louis on top of him. He wants to be able to look into Louis’ beautiful eyes as he
reaches his climax. He wants their love making to be special, he wants it all. He’s like a starved
man as he unclips Louis’ chiton. The fabric pools around Louis’ soft belly, and Harry instantly
takes one of Louis’ nipples into his mouth, licking the little hard bud and biting down, rolling it
around his lips until Louis is crying out. He does the same with the other nipple, and he takes his
sweet, sweet time, even when Louis pulls on his curls impatiently.

“Harry,” Louis whines, voice high, and goes as far as biting down on Harry’s earlobe. In
punishment Harry slaps his left cheek, making Louis jerks and lets out a throaty moan.

“Be patient,” Harry whispers in Louis’ ear, then he starts to unbutton his shirt. Louis’ trembling
fingers join his, until it’s Louis who is doing the work. With a flourish, Louis opens the shirt and
stares hungrily at Harry’s defined chest. Harry does the same with Louis’ curvy body, and he grabs
Louis’ thin wrist and starts to kiss his way up Louis’ arm. Louis puts his cheek against Harry’s
head and giggles as Harry ends up pressing kisses into his neck, somewhere Harry knows is
sensitive.

“So pretty,” Harry keeps muttering, and he’s spewing all kinds of random things at this point, from
‘so lovely’ to ‘all mine’ and sometimes he’s just calling Louis all kinds of pet names that his
aroused mind can manage, such as ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ and he’s not even aware he’s doing it, is
the thing, but his mouth talks on its own. He doesn’t mind, because Louis deserves to be told how
flawless and gorgeous he is, and shots of arousal slide down his body to his erection whenever he
tells Louis ‘you’re mine’ and Louis answers with a ‘I’m yours’.

Sometimes, it’s Harry who mumbles that he’s Louis’. He wants the demigod to know he owns
Harry’s heart, that every single vein and heartbeat all belong to Louis, and to no one else.

Once Harry has leaned back, he lets Louis unbutton his jeans and pulls down the zipper. With cold,
gentle fingers Louis takes Harry’s dick out, and strokes it, using the precum to make the slide
easier. It’s on the right side of dry and wet, exactly how Harry likes it, and he doesn’t hold back
from moaning and groaning whenever Louis bends down, spreading his flowery scent everywhere,
making Harry’s eyes roll back into his skull.

Harry most likely has a Louis-scent kink, at this point, but he doesn’t mind. Louis is everything
Harry’s ever desired and wanted.

Harry manages to grab the bottle of lube, which is in his pants’ tight pocket, and he pours some
onto his fingers, rubbing them to warm the jelly liquid up. Louis bites his lips in anticipation and
excitement as Harry reaches behind him and slowly starts to caress Louis’ hole, while Louis holds
his panties to the side. Harry can see it from where the chiton has ridden up, and it’s a powdery
pink, and it’s so pretty. The thought of making it all wet with his cum drives him insane. Louis’
small prick barely peeks out from the fabric, but it’s wetting it, making a part of it darker than the
rest of the underwear. It’s so incredibly sexy that Harry has to focus on not jizzing everywhere.

He opens Louis up with three fingers, the room filling up with the filthy wet noise of his drenched
fingers fucking in and out of Louis. Their moans harmonise into a song, in which Louis is the
loudest. Louis has his eyes closed, his whole body flushed, and his lips are slightly open and as red
as blood from all the kissing they’ve done. He’s so, so gorgeous, so delicate. Louis is some kind of
god, or goddess, it doesn’t matter, but it’s like Harry is having an out-of-body experience. His
other hand creeps up to cup Louis’ cheek, and Louis cheekily turns his head until he can take
Harry’s thumb into his mouth. Then, Louis sucks, cheeks hollowing obscenely.

Harry wants to be inside of Louis. He wants it so bad, and when Louis whines and drags his nails
down Harry’s chest, leaving in their wake red, angry-looking marks, does he take his fingers out
and line himself with Louis’ hole. He drags the head of his cock over the rim several times, then
slowly, he inches himself inside of Louis.

The heat, the wetness… it’s absolutely incredible. Harry bottoms out, and the angle is making
everything much more intense. Gravity works and makes Louis’ body fall completely over his
cock, and with Harry’s thumb still in his mouth, Louis starts to move, up and down, up and down.
It’s like a dance, and then Harry takes the lead when Louis is too tired and slumps down on his
chest.
He digs his feet into the tablecloths and thrusts up. Louis’ body jerks each time he does it, and each
time he punches a moan out of Louis. It’s hot and perfect. They’re sweating now, and Harry trails
his tongue from Louis’ mouth to his cheek, and kisses there, uncaring of the salty water that falls
on his tongue. Louis comes when Harry grabs his ass and presses hard, until he’s sure the shape of
his hand is on Louis’ skin. All it takes is that idea, the fact he’s marking Louis up for everyone to
see, and the way Louis’ cum fills his panties and spills out from the edge of the fabric, sliding
down his tight and into Harry’s pubic hair, for Harry to come so hard stars appear underneath
Harry’s closed eyelids.

He comes for a while, and his dick twitches inside of Louis once he’s done. He doesn’t pull out
right away, and watches through glazed eyes as Louis’ hand reaches behind him and touches his
hole, where Harry’s cock is still buried to the hilt.

He eases himself out and cuddles Louis close to him. Louis hums and snuggles against him, and
Harry chuckles.

“Alright, baby?”

Louis only hums. So Harry tightens his hold on Louis and stands up, wincing when his back
cracks. Louis tilts his head and looks at him, his eyes sleepy and drooping against his will.

“‘M gonna give you a massage,” Louis drawls, sounding so adorable that Harry can’t help himself
but kiss him silly.

“No, you go to sleep, baby. We have to wake up early.”

Louis mumbles something incomprehensible, then promptly puts his head on Harry’s shoulder and
falls asleep.

The bedroom has been decorated with rose petals that are scattered all around the ground and onto
the king-sized bed. The sheets are pristine white and contrast with the dark hues of the room. Harry
earlier put a bottle of white wine on the table, as well as a plate of strawberry, but since Louis is so
tired he figures he might as well save them for breakfast. He gently puts Louis on the bed, and
peels off his chiton and panties. Then he goes to the bathroom and grabs a cloth that he wets with
warm water. When he steps back into the bedroom, Louis is sound asleep. He looks so vulnerable
and soft like this, that Harry can’t help but smile as he wipes Louis clean. He’s being the most
gentle he’s ever been in his life, and once he’s done, he folds the cloth and puts it on the bedside
table. He goes to the kitchen to stow the strawberries away into the fridge, and comes back,
yawning.

He slips under the quilt that he drapes over Louis, too, and after throwing his arm over Louis and
pulling the blue-eyed demigod into his chest, he closes his eyes, and lets himself be lulled into
sleep.

When Harry wakes up, it’s pitch black outside. There’s a repetitive music coming from his phone
that’s discarded somewhere on the floor, and he knows it’s the alarm o’clock he set for five in the
morning. He groans and slowly gets out of bed, using his toes to locate the device. He finds it
when his warm skin meets something sleek and cold, and he bends down to pick it up and turn it
off.

He has an hour until the sun starts to wake up, so he lets Louis sleep some more as he goes to the
bathroom and relieves himself. He takes a quick shower to get rid of the smell of sex and sweat,
and afterwards he brushes his teeth. He goes to the kitchen wearing only a towel that’s loosely tied
around his hips. A quick glance to the grandfather clock mounted on the wall has him know it’s a
quarter past five, so he quickly whisks together a banana and cinnamon batter and cooks them into
perfectly round and golden pancakes. Once done he piles them up on a plate that he decorates with
maple syrup, the strawberries of last night that he cuts in half, and a generous serving of whipped
cream.

He also pours two tall glasses of sugar-free orange juice and brings everything on a tray. He wants
to make Louis the happiest, hence the breakfast in bed, but he also secretly hopes it will soften
Louis enough for the demigod to get out of bed without murdering Harry for the ungodly hour.

He enters the bedroom and finds that Louis has moved in the meantime, and now his face is buried
into Harry’s pillow, hugging it to his chest as if he missed having Harry to cuddle. Harry puts the
tray on Louis’ empty bedside table, and gets on the bed, his knees digging into the mattress.

He bends down and starts to kiss Louis’ cheek, then his nose and his closed eyelids. It doesn’t take
long for Louis to move and hum, then his eyes blink open. The only light in the room is the soft,
warm lamp Harry turned on when he entered with breakfast, so in the end Louis doesn’t need to
squint. He simply smiles happily and reaches up to caress Harry’s cheek.

“Morning, baby,” Harry says, kissing Louis’ palm.

“Morning,” Louis smiles, stretching. He glances to the side at the breakfast and sits up, but then his
eyes move to the window and—

“Wait, why is it still dark?”

Harry gives him his best, sweetest smile.

“I kinda want us to watch the sunrise together?”

Harry knows for a fact that the only reasons Louis doesn’t throw a tantrum are because pancakes
are the key to Louis’ heart, and also because the idea of witnessing the sunrise together makes
Louis swoon with joy.

Louis is wearing two shirts and Harry’s jacket, with a headscarf around his neck that he has pulled
up over his nose. It’s not even that cold out, but for dramatic effect Louis went all out. Harry is not
complaining, though, because Louis looks adorable with his flushed cheeks that are partially
hidden by the fabric. He lets Louis walk before him, then he closes the door and puts his arm
around Louis’ waist.
The back garden is surrounded by trees, but in front of them it’s a lot like farmland. In the distance
there are rolling hills with cows grazing at the grass, but in the darkness it’s hard to see them.
Harry knows they’re here, but Louis doesn’t, so he can’t wait for the sun to rise up to pour its glow
over the landscape and illuminate all of its secrets.

“It’s bloody cold,” Louis mumbles in the headscarf, turning around and burying his head into
Harry’s chest. He brings his hands up to blow in them, but Harry takes them into his own and goes
on trying to warm Louis’ fingers up. He kisses the back of Louis’ hands and noses at Louis’ cheek,
then he kisses Louis’ lips softly.

“It’ll be worth it,” Harry tells him, and together they walk through the garden, which ends up into a
slope that goes up into another hill. Harry leads them to the top, knowing well it’s the best place to
witness the sunrise. The weather is calm and fairly clear, the dark sky showing off the glowing
stars.

When they’re where Harry wanted them to be, he takes from underneath his armpit the folded red
towel, which he spreads on the overgrown grass. He sits down and lets Louis flop down in between
his legs, Louis’ back to Harry’s chest.

Their fingers are interlaced over Louis’ clothed belly, and Harry feels without seeing as Louis
plays with his ring. They bath in the peacefulness surrounding them. At camp, even at such an
hour, it’s never silent. There are laughter and people chatting in the veil of the dark, fires cracking
and the sound of forks hitting plates, winged horses neighing to welcome each other and wood
nymphs chuckling as they disappear among the woods. But here, there’s only the chirping of the
birds warning that the sun is about to come up, the whistle of the wind as it filters through tree
branches, and the steady rhythm of their own breathing. It’s their own place, their own moment,
which cannot be stolen or disturbed by anyone or anything.

Harry feels in control of his life again. He’s come to accept that there are things he can’t be in
control of, like the fact he lost a sister when he was still a baby, like his father being a Greek god,
like monsters and creatures wanting to kill him for being a demigod. He’s come to accept that the
things he can’t change are not curses, but mishaps that he must learn to live with.

But this. This moment, away from camp, away from responsibility and the reminder that he’s not
normal, this moment? Well, it’s his, it’s within his control. He made it happen, and he will get to
cherish the memory of peace and freedom he’s currently experiencing for the rest of his life. He’ll
get to tell himself that he took the person he loves on a date that he organised.

Being in control feels good, but somehow, it doesn’t mean he resents all the times he isn’t.

He’s just happy, really. He’s the happiest he’s been in a while, and he knows that, for the most
part, it’s because he’s met someone he can be himself with. If he thinks about it, it’s because he’s
been carried away into a storm of uncontrollable events that he now has Louis in his arms.

There was a time he regretted being who he is. A few months ago, living with the constant
knowledge that he is the son of a powerful god made him nauseous. But now he accepts it. That’s
who he is, and he can’t do anything about it, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He closes his eyes
and lets the breeze ruffle his hair, and he noses at the back of Louis’ head, breathing in the
intoxicating smell of rose.

When the sun goes up, it begins with a shy glow of orange light. She’s shy, the sun, as the moon
goes to sleep and leaves some space for the ball of fire. Harry hears Louis’ breath catch in his
throat in awe as the sun begins its slow ascent into the cloudless sky. The trees and the grass turn
the colour of honey as the warm hues of the sun rays blossom onto them. They’re watching the
birth of a new day, and Harry thinks, in some ways, they’re also experiencing their own rebirth.

The sun gives a blush to Louis’ tan skin, making his already liquid gold skin shine like thousand of
stars. The sky which has been nothing more than gloom is now streaked with silvers and golds,
with magenta and purple, and all kinds of colours that remind Harry of a blooming garden as spring
comes around. He can feel Louis’ heartbeat against his digits, and he can see how Louis’ eyelashes
cast shadows over his cheeks. There’s the slightest curve of awe to his lips, and whenever a bird
flies in front of the sun, Louis’ fingers tighten around Harry’s as if to say, look, did you see that?

I love you, Harry thinks with urgency, I love you so, so much.

“Why is the sunrise here so different from the one at camp?” Louis whispers, tilting his head so
he’s looking into Harry’s eyes.

There are a bunch of answers Harry can think of. First, they’ve never watched the sunrise together,
so he likes to think having the person you love with you makes it all the more special. Second,
they’re witnessing it outside of the four walls of camp, so there’s just the feeling of freedom that
embellishes the experience. And lastly… Lastly, the sunrise today is meant to convey Harry’s
feelings, it’s meant to tell Louis that he’s being held by someone who loves and cherishes him with
all their heart.

“You know,” Louis continues and stops, and Harry gasps and looks around in wonder as Louis
closes his eyes and makes roses grow out of the grass. The roses are all around them, covering
every single inch of space, making the hills turn into a vibrant red. Louis opens his eyes. “A rose,
much like any other flower, is in need of the sun and the rain to thrive. And sometimes…” Louis
blushes. “Sometimes I feel like you’re both the sun and the rain I need.”

Harry probably has stopped breathing. He’s no poet, the gods know he’s driven his English
teachers crazy because of how awful he used to be at poetry, but he understands the metaphor, and
Harry wants to cry in ecstasy. The way Louis describes himself as a rose, it’s beautiful, and Harry’s
glad he’s even in Louis’ life at this point. Slowly, Harry brings his hand up to cup Louis’ cheek and
he bends down to lay a delicate kiss against Louis’ lips.

He’s barely a few centimeters away from Louis’ lips when he says it.

“I really, really love you,” he whispers in the space between their lips, a bit as if it were a secret.
It’s not the kind of secret that you’re ashamed to tell the others, but instead, it’s the kind of secret
you want to keep to yourself because it’s too precious to be shared. Those words are muttered only
now, but in truth, Harry has been feeling them for a while now.

It’s freeing, to finally say them.

Louis is smiling so big, and he kisses Harry’s chin softly.

“I really, really love you too.”

They stay together on the hill until the sun is at its peak in the sky, both of them unwilling to break
the moment. They only move when Louis whines and tells Harry he’s hungry. It’s with a fond
smile that Harry carries Louis to the cottage, and though he pretends he doesn’t notice them, he’s
all too aware of the roses as they shift and bend towards them as they go, as if both the sun and the
roses were already longing for their presence.
-

“What do we say?” Harry sing-songs, his eyes widening as a fist rapidly comes barreling towards
his face. He ducks, feeling a breeze ruffle his air at the speed of the fist, and he straightens up and
sends a cheeky smirk towards Dakota, one of Hephaestus’ children.

“Eat dirt and die!” She screams, charging at Harry except he manages to twist his body around until
he’s standing behind her, and with a precise, quick kick to her back, she’s stumbling forward and
falling face first into the mud.

“I was thinking of thank you, actually,” he laughs, then he’s crouching down and hitting the back
of her head, hard enough for her to pass out.

He doesn’t waste time; he starts to run across the river, twisting Alexander around and making
three demigods buckle over as he cuts several parts of their bodies. Alexander is his sword that he
decided to name as such because Alexander in Ancient Greek means ‘to defend, to help’. He
figured a name would make the weapon even more personal, and he’s felt even more connected to
it ever since he first uttered the name, in the confines of his cabin, late at night when he couldn’t
sleep. He’s been training even harder with Alexander, and now he can use it with his eyes closed.
His senses have heightened, and he easily knocks out another child of Hephaestus, David, who is
twice his size and twice stronger. He’s quicker now, though, ever since he’s started training with
Louis.

Harry puts his back to the nearest tree and glances around, making sure the coast is clear, and when
he doesn’t see any enemies, he runs for the pond, guiding himself using the soft pitter-patter of the
water as it hits the rocks. He knows the opponent’s flag is nearby. He can hear in the distance
several shouts, the clashing of swords and shields, and if he focuses hard enough, he can even hear
the birds and the squirrels in the trees as they either fly or run away. He’s silent as he makes his
way to the pond, and pushing aside a few long leaves, he finally spots the flag.

The opponent for this Capture the Flag game is Hephaestus. It’s of an angry red with sparks of
orange, and whenever the moonlight catches it, it’s as if the flag were on fire. There’s the symbol
of a hammer in the middle of it. All he has to do is cross the pond, get the flag, and run back to his
territory with it.

In his excitement, he doesn’t see the bodies on the ground. That’s his first mistake.

The second one is not spotting the shadow to his right.

“Bonsoir, mon amour,” a voice whispers in his ear, then a hand is on his face, pushing him into
the water. He chokes and turns around on his back, spitting out the ice cold water. He looks around
for Louis, and finds the demigod smirking at him with the flag in his hand. Louis is in his
trademark green coat, with heeled leather boots that are tacked with mud and dirt. His fringe is
slightly sweaty, sticking to his forehead. He looks beautiful, and Harry would usually appreciate
the sight Louis makes, but right now, with the cold water slipping into his clothes and making him
shiver, he can’t even think.

“What the fuck,” he splutters, and he tries to stand back up except… except there’s something
curling around his own boots, tying his feet together.

He sits up and looks closely; it’s the root of a rose, full of thorns. If his leather boots weren’t so
thick, he’s sure they would have gone right through his feet.

“What the fuck,” he repeats. He frowns as Louis crawls closer to him, and tries not to pout when
Louis bends down and gives him a kiss that’s too short to his liking.

“Good luck getting out,” Louis giggles, then he’s disappearing into the gloom, leaving Harry
dumbfounded. He tries to entangle himself but the thorns are sharp and big, and he ends up cutting
his hands more than anything else. Alexander is lost in the pond, and gritting his teeth, he dives his
hands into the water, feeling for its bottom that’s full of pebbles of all kinds of size. When he ends
up finding it, he hears the shouts of joy and victory, which tells him that Louis has gotten to their
territory and, therefore, made the team win.

“That’s not fair!” Harry yells, hastily using Alexander to cut the root. “We’re on the same team!”

The only answer he gets is three very angry, very mean looking demigods from the opposite team.
He gulps and grabs Alexander tighter. Damn Louis.

Harry loves him so much.

Louis’ arse is a vibrant red colour after Harry’s hand comes down onto it for the twentieth time.
Harry is holding Louis’ hands together, on his back, and he’s been spanking Louis for several
minutes now. He knows Louis can’t take it any longer, that he’s yearning for some release, but
after the stunt he pulled at the game earlier in the night, he can’t let that happen quite yet. He bends
down and blows on Louis’ burning ass cheeks, licking a broad strip where the shape of his hand is
standing out. He hears Louis’ breathing quicken, and Louis moans around the panties that’s stuffed
into his mouth, effectively making him significantly quieter.

When he finally makes love to Louis, it’s with Louis on his back so they can look at each other.
They’ve been doing it like this for several times now, cherishing how this way, it feels much more
personal, much deeper and loving. Harry never stops kissing Louis’ lips, his nose, his eyelids, the
apples of his cheeks; he wants Louis to feel adored in every way, even after he’s spanked him,
which turns both of them on, he wants Louis to feel all the tenderness he has for him.

Harry collapses next to Louis, panting, and blindly searches for his tee-shirt that he knows is
hanging at the edge of the bed. When he finds it, he grabs it and uses it to wipe Louis’ belly clean
or cum. Louis hums and moves so his back is stuck to Harry’s chest. Harry can’t help but plug
Louis up with his fingers, feeling his own come dripping out of Louis’ hole. Louis makes a little
noise and giggles when Harry kisses his neck.

“You’ll make me hard again,” Louis mumbles sleepily, turning his head and puckering his lips to
ask for a kiss that Harry is too happy to give.

Harry’s eyelids become more and more heavy, and he’s about to fall asleep when Louis jerks and
sits up.

“Wait… I wanted…” Louis frowns and stretches his body to reach the bedside table. In the
process, Harry’s fingers slip out of Louis, and Harry wipes the wetness off on his dirty and
 discarded tee-shirt. Louis comes back with an envelope and he gives it to Harry with a little, lovely
blush on his cheeks.

For a moment, Harry is left speechless as he gazes at the quaint, long envelope that’s only
decorated with a ‘ For Harry, I love you, Louis’ written in an elegant cursive writing. He can tell
Louis is nervous, that this is serious, so Harry sits up and rubs his eyes to chase the sleep away. He
leans against the bed headboard and beckons Louis closer, and Louis moves next to him until their
bodies are flush against one another.

“I love you, too,” Harry says, making Louis scrunch his nose with a smile.

“You haven’t even opened it.”

Harry shrugs and kisses Louis’ temple. “I know I will love it, whatever it is.”

Louis scrunches up his nose in fondness, a little shy smile on his face, and Harry starts to open the
envelope gently, being careful not to ripe it.

Inside of it there’s a bunch of paper, and Harry takes a random one, unfolding it and smoothing it
out. There are several digits that he can’t quite understand, but in the middle in distinct, bold
characters is written, Ronkonkoma - Penn Station; 1h20m. It’s a train ticket. Frowning, Harry grabs
another paper and on this one is spelt out, New York Penn Station - Boston South Station; 3h53m.

Harry knows his fingers are shaking.

Louis bought them tickets to Boston.

“If you don’t like it I c-”

Louis never gets to finish his sentence, because Harry pulls him into a searing kiss. There are tears
that fall on their lips, Harry’s tears, and when Harry pulls back Louis cups his cheeks to wipe the
salty drops away. There’s a beaming smile on Louis’ face, and Harry reciprocates it, laughing and
glancing back down at the tickets, not even able to believe his eyes. He’s going to see his mother
again, and he’ll get to present the love of his life to her. It feels surreal, and mostly, it’s just
magical. He’s missed her so much, and he’s been planning to go see her at some point, but the fact
Louis remembered and went ahead to offer him this…

Harry feels warm and sated. So he bends down and kisses Louis, again and again and again until
Louis falls back among the sheets, Harry on top of him, and they’re laughing into each other’s
mouth.

“I love you,” Harry keeps saying in between kisses, and Louis ends up putting both of his hands
over Harry’s mouth to get him to shut up.

It takes a while for Harry to go to sleep, elation pumping through his veins so fast that the previous
tiredness he felt has flown out of the window. But when he finally focuses on Louis’ heavened out
breathing, and when he breathes in Louis’ natural perfume that always acts as an ambrosia over
him, he manages to close his eyes, and for the first time in a while, he dreams of a future that’s
devoid of any darkness.

End Notes
 Prompt 268: A Camp Halfblood AU with Harry as the son of Apollo/Zeus and Louis as the
son of Aphrodite; enemies to lovers preferred.

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