"So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for us to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
Luke Castellan wasn't a hero.
And f*cking Tartarus and Hades, he didn't mean it in the delusional, self-pitying, f*cking insufferable ways of the doe-eyed children he met every day.
He hated it. He hated the constant feeling of swallowing bile whenever he'd hear some ten-year-old with hero-worship in his eyes and a hungry sword too big for him swearing he was going to kill Medusa, the burning knot in his chest while making himself smile encouragingly when some teenager with a brain smaller than a peanut wished for a prophecy to "test" them.
But it was the whining that got to him the most. By the time Kronos had first walked into his dreams, Luke must have heard every variation under the sun.
I'll never measure up, I can't save anyone, I'm too loyal, I'll never win a real fight in the real world. . .
Luke knew what he was. He was selfish. On a good day, he managed to be conniving instead of only competent. He was brave when it suited him, kind when it was realistic, and cowardly when he knew what was good for him.
He didn't carry around the delusion that he had some grand heroic fatal flaw to held up and pitingly admired.
More than that, Luke was angry.
Angry at being helpless as his mother went insane, his best friend was turned into a tree, living his life on the run, all while he was tossed around for some end that even his own father wouldn't tell him.
When he saw his excuse of a father, anyway.
"Do not dishonor your mother," Hermes warned, and for some reason, that warning to not say anything bad about his mother was what made Luke snap. "She has done the best possible, and I could not interfere. Our children must find their own way."
"Our own way? Our own way?" Luke repeated angrily. His entire body was humming with suppressed energy. He was in battle mode, ready to fight. Only his target was his 'father', and more annoyingly, an all-powerful god. "So it's all of our good, then. Living on the streets, fighting monsters. Trying not to die."
Hermes remained impassive, and Luke briefly considered trying to fight him anyway, despite himself.
His eyes flicked to Thalia and Annabeth in the kitchen, entertaining the crazy ramblings of his mother. Thalia was rubbing at her bandaged leg, her other hand drumming impatiently against the table. Annabeth looked ready to pull out her knife if she was offered another burned cookie.
Luke hated it here. He hated having to come back here, having to listen his mother have fits about his supposed terrible fate, how his father claimed that he loved him right before sending them into a pit of venomous snakes.
He was never coming back. Not if it would kill him.
Luke wasn't a hero, but he wasn't delusional.
When Kronos first walked into his dreams, whispering promises of Olympus burning, of power, of being able to make it all stop, to give him the ability to scream and be heard, he knew what was happening. But he didn't care.
If Kronos was going to use him, Luke was going to use him right back.
"W-W-We're almost there, I-I swear," Grover Underwood stuttered nervously. His curly hair was plastered to his head by the rain, and Luke could see the beginnings of horns sticking out. As he ran, his hooves nearly slipped on the rocky ground, slippery and gleaming darkly in the night storm. "We c-cross the boundary, and you're s-s-safe."
Luke's eyes fixed on the supposed location of the boundary by a treeless hill. It couldn't have been more than a thousand feet, but it may as well have been a mile with the monsters on their tail.
A roll of thunder boomed above their heads, making them flinch. If Luke didn't know better, he'd say it was Zeus trying to hunt them down as well.
But that would've required Zeus to care.
The distinctive howl of a hellhound sounded, followed by the familiar growls of cyclopes, and Luke cursed. He thought they'd lost them back in Brooklyn, but they had either survived electrocution, or Hades are actively resurrecting monsters to kill them now.
He slowed down to a stop, and Annabeth leaned against a tree. In the darkness, Luke could see her clutch her sides and fail to hide how just how ragged her breathing was.
He looked for Thalia, but saw no sign of her Aegis or blue eyes gleaming beneath the moon.
The hellhounds howled again, but this time it wasn't a bloodthirsty call.
It was victorious.
Luke staggered, suddenly dizzy.
No. Not Thalia. Not after everything they did, or the sh*t their parents put them through.
She couldn't be, not when he never —
A feminine scream ripped through the rain, only to be abruptly cut off. Luke heard a wet thud in the distance, like a body hitting the ground.
"THALIA!"
He made to take off when Grover held him back. Luke struggled, more out of shock that the satyr would stop him. "No —let me go, I can't leave her!"
"She's d-dying already. You need to cross the barrier, or they'll k-k-kill you too!"
"I think you and the gods already did that," Luke snapped scathingly. Grover flinched, and Luke took off, but not before yelling over his shoulder, "Get Annabeth in there!"
Grover practically dragged Annabeth over as she sobbed, but Luke didn't care. She would be fine. Thalia was out there and alone against an army of monsters.
They'd promised each other to be there until the end. Their family against the world.
Thalia wasn't going to die alone if he could help it.
Family, he had promised.
He was going to make the gods pay for everything they had ever done.
To him, to Thalia, to Annabeth, to every single demigod brainwashed into believing they could be a "hero".
And maybe, just maybe, Kronos would keep enough of his promises in the end. Luke could fix what made his blood burn as they held funeral after funeral for demigods killed trying to make their parents acknowledge that they existed.
That they existed. Not that they loved them, or cared. To just say, "Hey, I see you."
Luke didn't know any words that were strong enough, or complicated enough, to describe the mix of loathing, fear, and—dammit, he was better than this—wanting. He was just as weak as everyone else, at the end.
He tried not to think about how one day, there would be—please, please let her be there—a tearful Annabeth describing him as a hero, a solemn pair of twins taking up his mantel, describing the scarred son of Hermes who had gone on a quest and survived through stupidity and cowardice as a hero to some more wide-eyed children.
So many dead that were described as heroes. Heroes that Luke remembered struggling to learn how to properly nock an arrow, or identify the Twelve Labors, or share the proper conjugations of Greek swears.
Heroes.
No such thing. Luke knew better.
A tree. They turned her in a f*cking pine tree.
They called it mercy.
And Luke started to wrap every drop of anger over how they warped Thalia's legacy, every bit of annoyance over how he and his siblings were treated, into a cage of fire around his heart.
Thalia had been thirteen. A natural talent with a spear, and she'd wielded her powers like an extension, true, but it had never mattered to Luke outside a battle.
She had wanted to grow her hair out, but always snapped before it got two inches past her shoulders. She was terrified of heights, and had threatened Luke five different ways when he had found out. Whenever they were in a city and not being pursued by something, she had liked to raid record stores and listen to metal. By anyone's standards, she had been foul-mouthed.
Thalia still woke up screaming for her little brother to come back.
Luke had loved her as much as he'd ever loved anyone.
He hadn't gone to the memorial Chiron had insisted upon holding.
He'd instead hidden in the forest, hacking away at trees with a sword until it was over, and ignored the disapproving stares afterwards.
"She was a hero, you know. I know it's hard, but you need to honor her for what she was." Cabin Eleven's then-counselor had tsked, and Luke had instantly hated him.
When he was killed by the Lamia two years later, Luke hadn't shed a tear.
Too much of a monster to grieve, barely enough of a person to mourn another cut down on principle. That was who he was now, he supposed.
Kids.
He saw them for what they were. Kids. Half-mortal children who blushed over crushes, or worried about being kicked out of high school, or nearly cried with frustration over dyslexia, or weren't old enough to drive.
It'd started as a verbal tic, at first.
When it had become clear he was going to become counselor after a hydra had murdered two of the heirs presumptive to the title when they had snuck out of camp to the mall, Luke had tried to learn how to do it right. Gods, how he had tried. Earnestly, properly, in a way that had made Chiron's eyes gleam with approval in the beginning days. He'd been calling Travis and Connor 'kid' for months before he had them figured out for sure, so nervous to get them wrong.
When they had figured it out, the teasing had been merciless; the first and last time Luke allowed himself to prank, and it was to get his power back.
Now, it was both a reflex and a reminder. For Luke to push them to grow up fast. To just try and give them a dream of a fighting chance to see eighteen years old.
On his darker days, it was to remind everyone that there were no damned heroes.
"Another one, then, Chiron?" Luke drawled. Usually, he was smart enough to keep up the Boy Scout image around the centaur, but for whatever reason, he was feeling unusually cynical that day. "Another poor kid to be torn apart by us all, desperate for someone halfway decent to fulfill that damned prophecy? Maybe he'll get Annabeth her daydream of a quest."
Annabeth didn't appreciate it.
"It's not daydreaming to want to see the real world," Annabeth said, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, "I've been here for years, training and training and training some more. I can't be here forever, Luke."
"Children, Percy Jackson has just lost his mother, and is not currently conscious. Perhaps you could table this conversation until another time?" Chiron asked with a sigh. Apparently not up for a debate, he then took his leave, leaving Luke and Annabeth outside their mysterious arrival's room of convalescence.
He'd killed the Minotaur, apparently. Luke would've been more impressed if it weren't for the fact that this meant he had to listen to Annabeth's delusions of this one finally being her ticket out of Camp Half-Blood for the next week.
Daughter of Athena or not, she had no idea what she was asking for.
"You're talking to someone who has been in the real world, Annabeth. I actually know exactly what it's like," Luke reminded her harshly—his voice rough enough to shut her up, grey eyes wide and hurt.
He almost pitied Percy Jackson.
The boy would be luckier if his divine parent never claimed him, or was some minor god no one had ever heard of. Otherwise, the camp was about to chew him up and spit him out.
Luke had believed that there were no heroes.
Maybe there had been in ancient times, when the world was younger, the gods less apathetic to mortals, and the evils had been writ large across the sky for everyone to see and fight.
But he doubted it. There was Heracles, after all.
If the greatest hero, the son of Zeus everyone measured themselves by millennia later, was someone prone to killing his wife in a rage and threatening everyone who doubted him with death, what did that say about the lesser of them?
Homer had asked his muse to sing of the rage of Achilles. Not his honor, or his compassion, or his bravery, or his skill in battle, or his wisdom. Rage.
The greatest warrior of the so-called Age of Heroes. And Homer began with how f*cking angry he was with his boss for going back on a deal.
Luke didn't know anything but rage, and he was already planning to do things that would consign him to the Pit if he were to die tomorrow.
'Heroes' ended up dead in the myths for a reason. Even godly propaganda couldn't completely hide who they were: flawed people who had won the heritage and favor lotteries.
Luke wasn't even that. He was one of a thousand children of Hermes, and a demigod who tried to get a twelve-year-old kid killed.
He stopped by the pine tree that day, right before inviting the hellhound into the camp.
"This is for you, Thals," he promised hoarsely. "I'm going to make things right."
She didn't answer.
The day he had summoned that hellhound, Luke may not have known who it would kill, but he hadn't cared. He hadn't.
It wasn't personal. It was an operation, meant to flush the Big Three demigod out, and to begin to sow division among campers.
Then he ran out of the forest to the song of victorious cheers, and saw unsurprised green eyes on a demigod as he was torn to shreds.
Luke cared. And for one minute, he was entirely the good head counselor who wasn't plotting to help Kronos rise. One of his people had gotten hurt, and the guilt was so unexpected Luke was left gasping for breath.
The claiming changed things.
"Percy!" Everything flew out of his head as Luke launched himself off of his teammates towards the injured twelve-year-old demigod in the river. "Chiron, get over here!"
As he helped him up into a sitting position, Percy had the nerve to give him a pained grin. "Shield. . .wouldn't have helped."
Percy Jackson was an absolute little sh*t, Luke had learned.
Even, apparently, when he was bleeding to death.
"Shut up and focus on breathing," Luke ordered as he looked at the damage. His hands briefly trembled, and he reminded himself that this wasn't Thalia. Percy was going to be fine.
Percy was going to heal from the injuries that were Luke's fault.
"Di Immortales," Grover yelped as he helped Luke with Percy, "Is that a hellhound?"
Luke clenched his jaw.
His hands were covered in bits of shredded metal armor and blood, and Chiron was just standing there. For a moment, Luke wasn't seeing Percy anymore, but a younger Annabeth recovering from another hellhound trying to take a bite out of her.
"Luke, Grover, let him go." Luke's head whipped around, and he felt his jaw drop. What was Chiron talking about?
"Chiron, he's bleeding to de —"
"Luke, look at him."
"Perce, why is your side healing over?"
Luke looked down, only to find that Percy now seemed to be the picture of health.
The picture of the health, thanks to the river he was sitting in.
Luke felt all the blood drain from his face as he backed away from Percy. He waited for it to be proved a hallucination, for the injury to still be there.
He wanted it to be there.
"No, no, no, no," he muttered.
Not this. Anything was better than this.
A green hologram of a trident formed above Percy's head, and Luke felt his nightmares come true.
Percy Jackson was going to die.
"It is determined," Chiron declared. "Your father has claimed you."
Luke didn't know what he had been expecting in the prophesized Chosen One.
Heracles come again, if he had ever really thought about it. Maybe Jason, if they were lucky. But they would still be all arrogance and the stink of destiny and belief in heroes.
Percy. . .was not.
Twelve years old, and the swordfighting would have been the real surprise, if Luke hadn't been so wrapped up in his head. Then again, Percy wasn't helping.
He was a kid with a propensity for annoying questions that were making Luke think just a little too much about Kronos, and what, exactly he was doing these days.
"Well?" Percy asked, grinning, still riding the high of his victory. "Ready for your afternoon nap yet, old man?"
Percy Jackson, for all of his good qualities, was also the biggest sh*t-talker in a fight Luke had ever seen. It should not have been something he was fond of.
"Old man?" Luke scoffed. "At least I'm taller than my sword."
"You take that back, I am not," Percy demanded, squawking indignantly. Luke was never going to understand why he got so indignant over his height; it wasn't like he was even particularly short for his age —not it would ever stop him from needling the younger demigod about it.
"Lesson number one from your elders: The truth hurts."
"And was this lesson discovered before or after you invented fire?" Percy taunted in perhaps the most sarcastic voice Luke had ever heard.
"Bold strategy, Jackson." Luke swung his sword up and out, carefully telegraphing his movements to keep Percy from getting knocked off guard before the fight even began. An unnecessary gesture, as Percy's Riptide was a blur of sure movement, meeting Luke's sword in the air with a loud clang.
He was learning quickly.
Luke won the next fight, but he got some painful bruises for prizes. Things like h onor and holding back were apparently not in Percy's playbook.
"So, think I'm good enough to get Annabeth's quest yet, sir Counselor Luke sir?" Percy grinned, apparently undeterred by losing. "Or does losing knock me out of contention?"
"What, you think you can just go out there and play Superman?" Luke laughed, more to soften the bitter edge to his words than anything else. The cynicism was a bitter pill these days. "It's harder to be the big damn winner than Chiron would tell you, kid."
"I don't fly, Luke. Never have."
"How are you saving the day, then?" Luke said, rolling his eyes with something dangerously close to fondness.
Instead of continuing the banter, Percy frowned, his face thoughtful as he decided to take Luke's response as a challenge.
"Save one person," he eventually said with a shrug. "Kinda just work it out from there and do what works, I guess. I try not to think too much in the moment."
Luke almost dismissed it. Percy was twelve, and he hadn't gone on a quest yet. He'd only been claimed a few days ago.
Twelve years old, and nearly killed by a hellhound.
Twelve years old, and he just wanted his mother back from Hades.
Twelve years old, and Luke had never seen anyone give less of a sh*t over who their godly parent was in his life.
It would've been forgotten, but those three words stuck in his ears and refused to leave. Save one person.
His shoulders feeling a bit less sore, Luke rolled his neck and picked his sword up again. Still caught up in his thoughts, the son of Poseidon more than held up on the next fight, disarming him almost immediately that time with a startled laugh.
It kept repeating itself in his brain, and Luke felt the back of his neck itch at how. . .revelatory the concept almost seemed, compared to the sweeping concept of heroism. Save one person.
Percy stared at him, waiting, and Luke internally shook himself. He could think about it later.
"Alright, fun time's over," Luke warned, enjoying himself a bit too much. He'd always liked teaching swordmanship, and the groans from students over certain aspects never got old. "Time for drills. Let's start with the viper-beheading move, fifty times. Your form was pretty sloppy earlier."
"Really?" Percy whined. "Dude, I can barely feel my arms now."
Luke chuckled darkly. "You'll need the practice if you want to live."
As the old adage that co-ruled demigods' lives with Murphy's Law went, nothing was ever simple.
There were still plans, and the Great Prophecy, and a Titan who really didn't appreciate Luke dragging his feet in his millennia-old machinations bent towards the destruction of Olympus. Impatient old f*cker that he was.
Ares had not been part of the picture—mostly because he still hadn't counted on all three questers being competent enough to make it out of the Underworld alive in time.
Luke wasn't proud of himself. He hadn't tried to kill them, but he sure hadn't helped.
Strangely, as he watched the odd scene play out in front of him in front of all Santa Monica, Luke felt like the Fates themselves were watching to decide what he'd do.
For the first time, he didn't care at the thought of the gods, of them watching or not caring or any of it.
Only that the blonde girl who was his sister in every way that mattered and the satyr he'd known for years were facing a very angry god of war, and he had to keep their new friend with what looked like a death wish from getting smashed into a grease spot.
But it was bigger than him at this point, and he knew Annabeth would at least drag Percy out alive; she knew what he could mean for the Great Prophecy, and Hades wasn't the type of god to normally take his vengeance out on a satyr. Most likely.
Even if he wanted to stop—and no matter what, he didn't; the gods would pay for everything if it killed him—he couldn't. Kronos was more controlling these days, insisting on Luke leaving camp to do some errands, and working with "allies" Luke wouldn't trust as far as he could throw them.
Alabaster Torrington may have been in it for the same reasons Luke was, even if how angry he was made Luke gulp when he looked in the mirror; he'd swallow his sword if Ventura Paradizo cared at all.
It certainly didn't help that Luke was starting to question what they were doing; recruiting monsters, letting them roam free so close to Othrys on unsuspecting mortals and demigods—and why there were so many living in San Francisco, he would never know.
It was useful today, though.
Plenty of distractions allowed him to slip away when he heard about three questers on the Santa Monica pier. . .and the god that had scared all the mortals away.
Save one person.
As he stared down a mocking Ares, Percy held himself tall, despite looking like he hadn't slept in a week, and Luke was proud of the reckless idiot for everything. His words ran through Luke's head again from weeks ago.
Don't think. Save one person.
Luke drew his sword with a quiet ring, and his heart began to pound in his chest. "Ares! Why pick on a child, when you can fight someone in your own class? Leave him—I challenge you."
And here was the dilemma: Luke liked Percy. He did.
Half the time, he forgot that Percy was, in fact, seven years younger than him and hadn't seen the sh*t Luke had. He wasn't what Thalia and Annabeth had been, but no one ever would be.
Luke wasn't capable of it anymore. He'd been hurt too much, been screwed over one too many times. It was what it was.
But he liked to think that he could still find a friend somewhere.
Unsurprisingly, things had gotten worse after the quest.
Luke didn't have a clue who the di Angelos were, nor did he particularly care. But they were a pair of powder kegs in camp, and the match was named Percy Jackson, and he was making Luke uncomfortable quite a lot that summer.
Despite being twelve and barely hitting Luke's shoulder, that ineffable quality that even in the aftermath of a night terror—he wasn't stupid, for gods' sakes—was still there, had only increased with every action the son of Poseidon took. He kept insisting on doing the right thing, dancing on the graves of consequences.
Percy muttered mutinously under his breath. Luke ignored him as he stepped between Percy and Ares, his sword raised in challenge.
Luke didn't understand it.
The war god, for his part, laughed nastily. "You, son of Hermes? You, with only a failed quest to your name? The punk here'll put up a better fight."
Luke didn't bother to acknowledge the barb about the quest; what instead made him clench his jaw was the title. He was Luke, son of May Castellan, friend and grudging camp counselor of Annabeth Chase and Grover Underwood, and, gods help him, Percy Jackson.
He was done trying to be his father's son. One way or the other.
"Alright then," Ares said, continuing to chuckle as he lazily raised his sword, "I can take out two of you at once, I suppose."
He swung, and the first blow made Luke's teeth rattle as he tried to parry, but he held up long enough for Percy to join the fight. It was almost absurd how well they complimented each other; with only half a thought, Luke wondered Percy had become this good, let alone figure out how to pick up Luke's fighting style at his age.
But however he did, it worked, and the two them managed to keep even with Ares as the police rolled in. Annabeth yelled a warning, but Luke could already hear cops claiming that they were armed with shotguns.
He would never understand how the Mist made that work out.
Percy gave a significant look to the ocean right when Luke gave him cover to dodge a swipe that would've cut off Percy's left arm, and Luke took the cue, memories from fighting alongside Thalia guiding his instincts.
He knew what it looked like when a Big Three demigod was about to try something by now.
Ares then set all the police cars on fire.
"Holy sh*t," Luke muttered, fear beginning to finally trickle into his system.
"Yeah," Percy agreed, his eyes far away as he came up with something.
"What's the plan?"
"Jump," Percy said shortly.
Luke decided to roll with it. "When?"
"When I release the tide."
"Right." Luke continued to try and roll with it, even if he did give Percy a skeptical look that time.
To try and draw Ares into the ocean, Percy feigned fatigue, lowering his sword Anaklusmos. When he looked expectantly at Luke, he kept his sword up, glaring at Ares for good measure. No. No way in Tartarus.
When Percy created the tidal wave to launch them over Ares's head, Luke only kept his balance by a miracle. The fight was soon over after that, as Percy managed to actually draw ichor, stabbing Ares in the kneecap.
It was all going perfectly, then Percy opened his mouth again.
"Tis but a flesh wound, Ares," he said sagely, like Ares wasn't right there and looking for an excuse to turn them all into bats. "You'll heal."
Luke groaned. "Don't antagonize the pissed-off god, Percy, please."
Couldn't he shut up just this once?
Ares limped toward them, and Luke took a step forward, squaring his shoulders for whatever came next.
Which, apparently, was Percy once again acting like he was roughly a decade older than he actually was.
"Leave," he ordered authoritatively. Riptide hung from his hand, and gleamed in the sunlight with the golden blood of the gods.
"Why should I?" Ares asked derisively. "You had help from that blasted son of Hermes—that was not the terms we agreed to."
"I drew first blood, and neither of us swore a binding oath," Percy informed him, looking awfully smug. Ares' nostrils flared, and Luke took on some of the heat.
"You'd better listen," Luke added warningly, Ares whipped his head, glaring at him with impotent rage; Luke had seen worse in the mirror. "I'd still rather like a try."
Terrifyingly, he was almost enjoying himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Annabeth already sweet-talking the cops out of doing anything relevant as Grover seemed to be calming down the two dark-haired children he didn't know—demigods, definitely.
It was. . .good. Good being part of a—team again. People he trusted.
Then Kronos made his presence known to them all.
It was months later, as Luke felt his head burn and his mouth yell things in Greek without his permission, he prayed. For the first time, he called out to Hermes.
Uselessly, he prayed to the god of travelers, despite everything.
He prayed for Percy Jackson and Hazel Levesque to be delivered to New York—their last, best chance.
Gods, he believed in them, and he had never believed in anything.
Memories poured into his head that weren't his, tinged with a golden fire that paralyzed Luke.
And finally, for the first time, Luke gathered his rage, refusing to let it be doused by the parasite in his head who had no need for it anymore. Luke felt the spot left vulnerable by the River Styx tingle, and let Kronos shove him down into a dark cranny, full of dim memories and half-forgotten dreams.
For now.
He would need his mental strength for the long battle. Hazel and Percy would need him. Anyone they gathered by their side to fight would need it.
And maybe, just maybe, a hint of something different replaced the rage Luke had caged his heart with.
The Age of Heroes would arrive at long last; it had to, or they were all lost.
Kronos or no, things could not stand.
And if they were not? It would be a better world, with a hero or two recklessly challenging them all.
Luke hoped.
