Chapter Text
Luke Castellan is twenty—twenty-one—twenty-two and Kronos is ever creative.
His body has not changed since Kronos pulled him under, except to accumulate scars that are not always there the next day. Sometimes Luke sees other demigods. Sometimes he sees other monsters. Sometimes he goes what seems like months without seeing another being at all, with only Kronos’ whispers in his mind.
You are a perfect vessel, Kronos repeats, so often it sometimes feels like those are the only words Luke knows. His rasping voice echoes in Luke’s head no matter if Kronos is paying him any mind or not.
Luke Castellan is thirteen and his mother is insane.
He takes Thalia and Annabeth to her house because they need supplies, and the house is worse than it was when he left. There are beanie babies lining the walkway to the door. Luke thinks of the black dog still buried at the bottom of his bag. He doesn’t cry.
Annabeth is quiet in a way she rarely is, eyes wide as she watches Thalia pick at moldy sandwiches and burnt cookies, watches Luke argue with Hermes, watches May spew green smoke.
Thalia drags Luke out of his mother’s house before he can actually hit Hermes, Annabeth trailing behind them in a set of Luke’s old clothes.
Instead of the beanie-baby-lined path and wilting front yard, Luke is greeted with cold stone.
Thalia’s face ripples, lengthening and narrowing until Luke is being pulled along by a face he doesn’t recognize. Annabeth is still behind him, but she’s taller, closer to the Annabeth that Luke left behind when he betrayed Kronos.
Wait, he tries to say, but there’s something in his throat, blocking his voice.
Not-Thalia turns back to look at him. “You don’t need to speak, silly,” she says. “You’re just here to listen.”
Not-Annabeth grins, skipping up to stand next to Not-Thalia. “And scream,” she says brightly, her face morphing into one that matches Not-Thalia’s.
That, Luke does exceptionally well.
Luke Castellan is twenty and his little sister is holding up the sky.
He can feel the mist surrounding him, keeping him from Annabeth’s sight, but he knows the strain she’s under. He tries to take it back from her, tries to keep her from knowing the weight of the sky.
An empousa pulls him back, sharp nails digging into his shoulder. “Not now, little hero,” she trills mockingly into his ear. “It’s too early for you to die. Our master has use for you yet.”
Luke thinks about all the different ways heroes have killed themselves in the past.
Kronos, ever present in his mind now, laughs. Not yet, he rasps. You don’t get to leave me yet. You’re still mine.
Luke shudders at the scraping voice in his ears.
Luke Castellan might be fifteen and his face is dripping blood.
The scar on his cheek pulls, splitting open again and again. His depth perception is shot, his right eye swollen shut and the iris underneath stinging.
Tim grins at him, neck twisted the wrong way. “You should join us,” xe says, blood trickling from the corner of xer mouth. “We miss you down here.”
“I’m trying,” Luke replies, forcing the words through his raspy throat. “I’m—” he blanks, not sure how to finish the sentence.
Tim’s smile disappears. “Try harder. There’s nothing for you up here.” Xe doesn’t sound anything like xe did before xe snapped xer neck, any warmth in xer voice drained away with xer life.
“I’m trying,” Luke finally repeats.
Tim doesn’t respond, flickering out of view. Luke isn’t sure if xe was ever there to begin with.
Luke Castellan is twenty-three (probably) and his best friend is standing in front of him.
Thalia has her ratty goodwill leather jacket tossed over one shoulder and a celestial bronze sword in her other hand. “You can free yourself, y’know,” she says. Her voice sounds like Annabeth’s— Luke allows himself a moment of grief at the fact he doesn’t remember his best friend’s voice.
“How?” he spits, struggling to sit up. Kronos has afforded him a bed, though it’s little more than a deflated air mattress slightly raised from the ground. He thinks that’s because Ethan is in charge of prisoners right now.
“You’re the son of the god of thieves,” Thalia says, still with Annabeth’s voice. “What lock can hold you?”
Luke Castellan is nineteen and he failed.
Ethan’s eyes are gold when he enters Luke’s cell.
Luke isn’t sure how he’s still awake, is the thing, and he’s been hallucinating enough that he can’t be certain Ethan is really there.
Then again, his hallucinations don’t usually touch him. Ethan slams him against the wall of his cell, forearm pressed against Luke’s throat. “Hello, little traitor,” Kronos’s voice chuckles through Ethan’s mouth.
Luke thrashes involuntarily. His body hasn’t gotten the memo about giving up.
“Don’t worry, little traitor. I’m not killing you yet.” Kronos removes Ethan’s arm from Luke’s throat. “This body is only temporary. Nemesis is strong, yes, but her son is,” he pauses, sneering. The expression is ever so slightly off, Kronos clearly unused to manipulating human features. “Her son leaves much to be desired.”
“What else can you do with me?” Luke rasps, forcing the words through his ruined throat.
Kronos grins. Luke instinctively presses back further into the wall.
“Oh, little traitor,” Kronos says, “You’ve still only had a taste of what I can do.”
He reaches forward, pulling Luke’s arm away from the wall. “You’ll never escape me.”
There’s a beat, where Luke is certain that this is a hallucination, actually, and he’s imagining touch along with sight and sound now, but then Kronos squeezes and his arm is burning.
“Everyone will know you’re a traitor, little hero,” he says, the words mocking. “The only way it will disappear is if you become my host.”
Luke hisses out a breath. He refuses to scream at this, of all things.
“I know you still don’t want to be my host. That’s alright.” Kronos laughs again, releasing Luke’s arm. “We have all the time in the world.”
Luke collapses against the wall, watching Kronos disappear through the door. When he’s certain he’s finally alone, he lifts his newly-wounded arm to inspect the damage.
Burned into his flesh, still weeping blood, is the word traitor.
Luke Castellan is twenty-three or nineteen or infinitely old and his cell is left unguarded.
Luke slips into the mortal world without being seen by any of Kronos’s army, distracted as they are with their battles. He dodges an empousai and steals a sword from the hands of a dying cyclops, slitting its throat in an easy movement.
There is an army of children storming the mountain when Luke slips through a side passage, stolen sword light in his hands. The boy leading the charge is vaguely familiar, lightning sparking off the end of his sword.
Luke swallows back the memory of Thalia and turns back to the mountain. He is a traitor twice over because he refused to have more children die. He might as well make good on that.
When the demigods outside send up a cheer of victory, Luke finally leaves the mountain.
Halfway through the battle, he’d felt the last hint of Kronos fade from his mind. Now he needs to figure out who he is without a primordial being whispering in his head.
Luke Castellan is twenty-three and nineteen and infinitely old and his father guides him home.
Hermes is rarely still. The aftermath of war leaves even him with little time for himself, but when he feels a familiar soul step onto a travellers’ path, he abandons Ares’ package at the nearest temple and focuses as much of himself as possible in the space in front of his no-longer-missing son.
Zeus isn’t paying anyone much attention right now, so Hermes can interact with his son without fear of repercussions.
Luke is supposed to be twenty-three, well into manhood and standing strong. Instead, his son is hunched in on himself, looking the same as the day he was taken, the day he revealed he was twice a traitor and still believed in the children the gods had ignored.
Luke is infinitely old the way all the children of Olympus are infinitely old, one way or another. Trapped in retellings or in the stars, reweaving and returning. Hermes allows himself another moment to observe his son, to grieve, before making himself visible.
His son swears when Hermes materializes, stepping back instinctively. Hermes keeps himself from stepping forward, from reaching out, from spooking his son.
“The f*ck do you want?” Luke demands, unsheathing his sword. There’s a torn bandage wrapped around his forearm, the only evidence of his imprisonment.
Hermes raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “To offer you a path,” he says, pauses, then adds, “And apologize. I’ve failed you.” The apology stings coming out— gods do not often humble themselves to apology, not to mortals. Even if those mortals are their blood.
Especially if those mortals are their blood.
Luke scoffs. “I’m not the only one you’ve failed,” he snaps, but he lowers his sword.
“And you are not the only one to whom I’ve made amends,” Hermes agrees. “Let me guide you home.”
“I’m not going back to camp.” Luke sheaths his sword. “I can’t.”
“I didn’t say camp,” Hermes replies. “I said home. Do not disregard my Aunt’s domain.” That may have come out harsher than he meant it to— Luke takes another step back.
“I don’t want to go home—” he puts air quotes around the word—- “to a mother who can’t stop predicting my doom.”
“Hades’ curse has been dispelled,” Hermes says. “May’s mind is tormented by the Oracle no longer.”
“Oh, that’s easy for you to say,” Luke snarls. “She’s been tormented by it almost as long as I’ve been alive— it doesn’t just f*cking go away.”
“Neither does captivity,” Hermes counters, quiet. He slips a hand into his pocket, feeling the comforting weight of his snakes against his palm.
Luke rocks back a step, the words hitting him like a blow. “And did you know I was here? Did you just leave the traitor to rot, only coming to get me when it was useful for your fantasy of playing happy family?”
Hermes doesn’t react to Luke’s anger with his own. “If I had known where you were,” he says, carefully choosing his words, “there is precious little that could have stopped me from finding you.”
“And what would you have done, when you did? Hidden me away like a dirty little secret? Zeus would never have let that stand.”
“I don’t know what I would have done, Luke, but I would not have left you to be flayed apart again and again. That much I can swear.”
Luke flinches.
Hermes reaches out before he can stop himself, unable to resist trying to comfort him.
Luke evades Hermes’s touch, face shuttering. “I’ll go with you,” he says, like it takes everything in him to force the words out.
Hermes isn’t sure what his expression does, but he knows it must be telling, because Luke’s frame untenses.
“But I won’t promise to stay,” he says, stepping forward. “So—”
“I won’t force you, Luke,” Hermes says. “But I failed you before. Please let me help you now.”
“Okay. Fine.” Luke nods to himself, readjusting his tattered clothes. “Take me home.”
