Chapter Text
sing, o muse, of god-sires without warmth,
of fathers who love sons too much
to love sons like people. of sons thus
fated for disaster since birth.
tell the tale so it may be renewed:
what’s the use of stories if not
to be changed, to destroy themselves in
the sun’s fire for sugar and sap?
calliope, your silence—is it leave
for us to sing? you won’t. may we?
July 2021
The hour Pio Tanglao enters his fourth year in Camp Half-Blood, he falls out of the side of his canoe and nearly drowns in the lake.
Before this, he’d been no one. Children of Apollo, like him, were a dime a dozen; and he’d done nothing to shine in the cabin. He’s an older camper, but his younger half-siblings easily outdo him in things like archery and healing, the more heroics-oriented of their father’s domains and thus the more valued ones in camp. He helps the younger kids revise their poetry and is a talented speechwriter, but that’s it. Perhaps he would have been destined for a career in ghostwriting, or published a chapbook or two.
Then he falls.
His half-siblings scramble to fish his limp body out of the water, carry him to shore, and are relieved to see he’s breathing. Back in their cabin, they determine that he’d gone unconscious before falling in. Acting counselor Tamika Myers, Cabin 7’s best healer, determines that there’s no neurological cause, or any medical cause as far as she can tell.
“It might be a demigod powers thing,” she suggests, uncertain. Poetry wasn’t exactly a domain that manifested this dramatically.
There’s nothing to do but wait for him to wake.
When he does , it’s two days later. Pio rolls over and immediately throws up over the side of his medical cot. Thankfully, he’d known where they usually placed the bucket, so there wasn’t much of a mess.
His watcher, Lee, is simultaneously glad to see him wake and excited to spread the news—Camp’s generally a peaceful place, so Pio getting knocked out for no apparent reason is subject to curiosity and gossip.
Then Pio blinks blearily at him, and says, “Shit. Sorry about that. Uh. Who, who are you?”
Lee deflates. Pio should know who he is; he’d taught Lee how to play guitar. This question means Pio’s disoriented, and that’s a bad, bad sign. “I’m… your brother?”
Pio knits his eyebrows together, but there’s still no recognition on his face.
Lee sighs, and tries again. “Lee Fletcher?”
Immediately, Pio’s eyes widen, and he throws up again.
August 2021
Luke Castellan returns from his quest empty-handed.
He drags his feet over the grass of Half-Blood Hill, stomach churning with shame. He can’t even bear to look at Thalia’s tree. He’s glad that at least Hermes won’t be there to see him—he wouldn’t be able to stand his father’s disappointment on top of it all.
What he finds when he arrives at the mess hall is just as awful.
He hears the campers before he sees them. The clink of utensils against plates, the laughter, the bickering. For a moment, his mouth goes sour.
They’re all just kids . They know, in theory, how few of their kind survive, but they don’t know how bad things could go. They don’t know how little the gods care. The lightness of camp is artificial, Luke knows now. His wounds will remind him forever.
He climbs to the mess hall, and he hears the moment they begin to spot him: the tables hush, one by one.
And then he’s standing there empty-handed, clumsy bandaging over half his face, in front of the summer population of camp. Under everyone’s shocked gaze, his heart roils with shame, and not a little anger.
Chiron stands from the head table, and says, “We welcome Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, returning from his quest.”
That just makes the following silence worse.
The Apollo counselor, Tamika, stands. She says, “We’ll attend to his wounds,” and the campers snap out of their shock. They turn to each other, away from him, and slowly return to their meals and conversations.
Luke really ought to be grateful, but he can’t help but cringe as Tamika approaches. Her expression is concerned, but there’s pity in her eyes, soft and cloyingly sweet. He finds it’s worse than disappointment.
Then a guy stands from the Apollo table and rushes to catch Tamika’s arm, making her pause. He has soft Southeast Asian features and is around Luke’s own age, but strangely, Luke can’t place him.
“I’ll take it from here,” he says.
Tamika turns to give him a sharp look, and Luke can’t help but be relieved that her pity isn’t focused on him anymore.
“You sure?” she says. “Pio, you’re practically a patient yourself.”
“I’ll call you over if the wound is more complicated than it looks,” says the guy, Pio. “But he hasn’t bled out. It’s stitches at most, and I could use the experience.”
His half-sister’s expression transforms into one of understanding and, oddly, amusement.
“Alright,” she says. “Knock yourself out.”
A beat.
“Not literally,” she adds, stern.
Pio grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
When Tamika returns to their table, Pio glances at Luke and says, “I’m Pio, Cabin 7. Luke, right? Cabin 11?”
“That’s me,” he says, resigned.
Pio smiles. It makes him look a little more familiar as he jokes, “Come with me if you want to live.”
Luke fully expects to be grilled about his failed quest as they head to the cabins: he can’t think of any other reason this guy would volunteer. But Pio just gives him an assessing look, and says, “You got any other injuries?”
He stares, suspicious. “A few,” says Luke slowly. “Some scratches and bruises. But the ambrosia healed them, mostly.”
Pio hums. “Let’s take a look anyway, see if there’s anything we can do for them. Did you do first aid?” Luke nods, and Pio smiles, seemingly pleased. “That’s great. It’s good you made it here safely, but I wish you’d gone to a mortal clinic, gotten treated earlier.”
“And told them I was scratched by a dragon?” says Luke, more harshly than he’d meant to.
The other guy snorts. His smile doesn’t even go away; Luke can’t help but be annoyed. “Point taken. Does your wound have special dragon-caused problems? Like poison? Any unusual sensations, maybe numbing or burning?”
Luke glares at the ground. “Not as far as I can tell.”
“Noted,” says Pio. “Your other injuries, can you tell me about them?”
Luke answers shortly, and it continues this way until they get to the Apollo cabin. Pio asks if he has any other symptoms, asks him to rate his pain, and doesn’t ask anything else about the quest.
Pio opens the cabin door, and nods towards the medical cot. “Please, sit. I’ll get the materials.”
Luke sits, as he’d done so many times after training accidents or Capture the Flag. Despite himself, he feels tension begin to ebb from his body. He’d associated the Apollo cabin, with its yellow flowers and cedar beams, with safety. His stints here had meant breaks from responsibility, had meant the danger was over.
Pio returns with a bottle of water and a tray of medical supplies. Luke notices his camp necklace—there are four clay beads on it, one more than Luke’s own, which means he’s been here longer. Luke definitely should know him.
“Sorry,” says Luke. “Have we met before?”
Pio gives him an awkward smile. “Yeah. Um. I went by a different name when you left on your quest. And had longer hair.”
It doesn’t click.
“I figured out I was trans in the last few weeks,” Pio clarifies.
Luke’s eyes widen. “Ah,” he says, finally placing the face: an older Apollo kid, who wasn’t particularly good at their father’s more useful domains.
Pio coughs. “Yeah. So, new name, he/him pronouns.”
“That’s, that’s fine,” stammers Luke. “I mean, that’s great. I’m not. Judging. Congratulations. Uh, welcome to the boys’ club?”
Pio laughs, and the awkwardness goes away. “Thanks.” He sets the tray down beside the cot. “I’ll take a look at your wounds now, okay? Tell me if you want me to stop, or if anything hurts.”
He looks at the injuries Luke points out first, washing and dabbing something onto the open wounds. He attends to one on Luke’s hairline with a determined frown. This close, Luke can smell something orangey and floral on him, which is confusing.
Pio gives Luke a pill for the pain, makes him wash it down with the whole bottle of water, then cuts away Luke’s clumsy head bandaging.
Luke knows the wound doesn’t look pretty, ragged and bloody as it is; and he realizes, now, that it mars his face. He’s never thought of himself as vain, but the thought of seeing the marks of his failure every time he looks in the mirror fills him with resentment.
Pio doesn’t react at all, turning Luke’s head clinically to get a better look. “You cleaned it pretty well,” he says, which is about the last thing Luke expected. “That’s impressive—looks like it hurts like a bitch.”
“Feels like it too,” says Luke, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Pio frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that. But it makes sense—this needs stitches.”
Luke groans.
The other guy chuckles. “That’s good, actually. Means it’ll heal faster and leave less of a scar. I’m surprised you got to camp quickly enough for this to be fresh enough to stitch, but it was a smart move.”
“I’m a permanent camper at Cabin 11,” Luke points out. “I got speed from my dad, for all the good it does.”
“Oh, I know a little about that ,” says Pio, in a tone dark enough to convince and surprise Luke, who doesn’t think a gift of poetry or whatever it is deserves that kind of vehemence. “But speaking of godly gifts, I’m not the best healer in the cabin, and this wound is bigger than I expected. I can get Tamika to sew you up if you like. She’ll be faster and neater.”
Luke thinks of the pity again, and shudders. “No, you do it,” he says, almost immediately.
Pio gives him a skeptical look. “Really?”
“I’m sure.”
He hums. “Okay,” he says, still sounding dubious. “You want anesthesia?”
“No,” says Luke.
Pio gives him an even more skeptical look. “It’ll hurt. I won’t judge.”
He hesitates.
“No one will know besides us,” adds Pio.
Somehow, Luke believes him.
“Fine.”
December 2021
Percy thinks the college-aged guy who’s trying to befriend him is weird at first. Obviously.
It doesn’t help that when he first sees the guy, it looks like he’d made Percy’s Mom cry . When he arrives from boarding school, he sees them sitting across each other at Smelly Gabe’s dinner table, and the guy’s smiling as Mom blows into a tissue.
“Mom?” says Percy.
She looks up, and her smile is trembling . “Oh, Percy,” she says in a falsely light voice. “You’re home early.”
“I took a taxi,” he says, setting down his luggage.
Percy’s weighing the pros and cons of attacking the stranger, when she gestures at the guy. “Percy, meet… um, Pio. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your full name.”
“That’s alright, Aunt Sally,” says the guy. He directs his smile towards Percy, who’s alarmed by how disarming it is. “My name is Orpeo Tanglao, but you’re welcome to call me Pio.” He hesitates, then adds, “I’d also be really pleased if you called me Kuya .”
Percy shoots his mother a questioning look, but Mom just nods. “Pio, meet my son Percy. Pio is a relative from your father’s side.”
A beat.
“What,” says Percy flatly.
“I’m pretty sure I’m your first cousin once removed,” says Pio. “I think that’s how the family tree works.”
Percy’s not even sure what that means. “I just. Why are you here?” He’s never even met his dad. Percy doesn’t know his name, let alone any of his relatives.
Pio shrugs, his expression shifting into one of embarrassment. “I heard about you, and I was in town, and I was like ‘Huh, this kid sounds a lot like me, maybe I can lend a hand.’”
That doesn’t sound right. People don’t work that way, in Percy’s experience.
He focuses on something else instead. “I didn’t know we had Filipino relatives.”
“You and I don’t actually share any DNA,” says Pio, which just makes the situation more confusing.
He crosses his arms. “So why are you here?”
“Percy,” says his Mom.
“What do you want ?” Percy presses.
Pio spreads his hands. “I honestly just thought you could use someone who kinda gets your situation,” he says—which, again, is not how people work. “And I came to bring some news to your Mom.”
Percy frowns, his mind jumping to the most extreme conclusion. “Did my dad die? Is that why Mom was crying?”
“What? No,” says Pio, looking a little amused. “No, your dad’s plenty healthy.”
His Mom sighs. “No, sweetheart, Pio just told me some news from your dad’s side of the family. It might make things more complicated than I’d thought.” She must spot Percy’s anger brewing on his face, because she hurries to add, “It’s not because of your dad, or Pio for that matter.”
“I found some things out that I thought Aunt Sally should know,” says Pio, almost flippant.
“Am I allowed to know?” says Percy, annoyed. “Or is this adults-only?”
Mom and Pio exchange a look, which tells Percy everything he needs to know.
“I think you should tell him some of it,” says Pio.
“Is it safe?” says Mom worriedly.
“Just… cut out the weird parts.” He gives Percy an apologetic look. “Sorry, Percy. It’d be dangerous for you, if you knew the whole picture.”
Percy stands his ground. A link to his father is sitting in their kitchen. He’s going to get some answers whether they like it or not. “You said there are weird parts.” He thinks of the strange creatures he sees, the winged horses and the multi-headed monsters. “Weird how?”
Pio looks way too knowing for this to be unrelated. “Probably close to what you’re thinking,” he admits.
“Pio…” says Mom.
He glances at her and softens. “You shelter him well, Aunt Sally, but you can’t protect him forever.” Pio reaches out and squeezes her wrist. “You gotta let him dip his toes.”
“But don’t push him in right now,” she says. “Let him stay innocent a little longer.”
“I’m ten, not a baby,” says Percy, indignant. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”
Pio covers his mouth in a move that annoys Percy, because Percy knows it means he’s trying not to laugh.
Mom frowns and says, “Honey, we mean well. If we tell you all of the truth, it’ll mean you’d be stressed out about it for the rest of your life.” Percy opens his mouth to insist, but she barrels on: “It also means you’d have to be away from me for a few months, and I’d rather put that off for another year if possible.”
Percy closes his mouth. “Away from you? Where?”
“There’s a camp on Long Island that members of our family attend when we, um, get plunged into the deep end,” Pio explains, snickering like he’d made a joke Percy doesn’t get. “It’s a year-round camp, but most people only stay through summer.”
“A camp,” repeats Percy, getting a bad feeling about this. “Like a boot camp?”
“Oh, no!” says Pio immediately. Then he pauses. “Or, well, kinda?”
Percy looks at his Mom, who says, “They’re not going to drill you, Percy, I wouldn’t allow that.” She shoots Pio a quelling look which, funnily enough, makes the guy look chastened even though Mom can’t be more than fifteen years older.
“We’re a fun outdoorsy type of camp,” assures Pio. “We sing campfire songs and do canoeing and horseback riding and everything. Just, you’ll also learn certain skills you’ll end up needing, because you’re one of us.”
“I’m not one of you,” says Percy firmly. “I don’t want anything to do with my dad’s side of the family. He’s never been there for us.”
Pio studies him. “Sorry, kiddo,” he says after a few moments. “You don’t really have a choice in whether you are or not.” Percy glares, and he backtracks. “It’s not up to us, Percy, it’s just the way of the world.”
“It can be good for you, honey,” says Mom, smoothing Percy’s hair.
“Camp is awesome,” says Pio. “I’ve never felt so understood anywhere. Most kids there are like us, you know, neurodivergent—it’s nice, there’s a sense of solidarity.”
Percy thinks about it. He’s never had a community of people like him. “You said you were a camper too?”
Pio smiles self-deprecatingly. “I was a year-rounder. I work there now.”
“You didn’t want to go home?” says Percy, surprised. He can’t imagine his dad’s side of the family being nicer than whatever other family Pio had.
“Percy,” says Mom warningly. “You don’t have to explain, Orpeo.”
“It’s okay, Aunt Sally. It’s simple, really. My dad was like yours, absent, and my mom was never chill with the ADHD,” explains Pio. “She and I fought a lot, and I couldn’t stay at home any longer. Camp’s safer than being unhoused.”
Percy opens his mouth, then closes it. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I prefer camp anyway. You’ll meet the best friends of your life there,” Pio promises.
“So this camp, it’s um—accepting?”
He lights up. “It’s kind of part of the package. Neurodivergent people are more often queer, did you know that? And we’ve got people of all colors and ethnicities, even kids from other countries. Most of us aren’t from traditional family structures either. It’s not always sunshine and rainbows, but it was like a miracle for me, Percy, being among that many kids my age who understood . I’m hoping it’ll be that way for you too.”
“That’s… cool.”
His Mom reads his face way too well: “You like the idea,” she observes.
“Okay, yeah, I’m interested,” Percy admits reluctantly.
She laughs. “I originally wanted you to go the summer you’re twelve, but well, Pio advised me you might want to go earlier. I was thinking about you going next winter break?”
“Wouldn’t summer make more sense?”
“It’s too early,” says Mom. “I’d like to have my little boy for one last summer, thank you.”
Percy blushes. “Mom,” he complains.
Pio clears his throat. Percy looks at him, a little embarrassed.
“Uh, I was hoping,” he says, “that you wouldn’t be opposed to me paying you visits before then? Just, checking on you and stuff. Take you for ice cream, stuff like that.”
“And you’ll, what, report back to my dad?”
Pio shakes his head. “Percy, I’ve never even met your dad. This is just… cousin to cousin.”
Percy stares at him thoughtfully, then says, “What do you think, Mom?”
Mom’s also measuring Pio up, looking the guy up and down. He’s short for his age, smiling nervously, and bundled in bright clothing. There are woven friendship bracelets on his wrist and he’s wearing at least two layers of shirts and jackets over a turtleneck, like he can’t stand to be cold. Percy can’t help but think that it makes him look scruffy but soft.
“I’m not against it,” says Mom slowly. “It’s up to you, hon.”
Percy nods, making a decision.
“Blue raspberry sherbet.”
Pio blinks. “Sorry?”
“Take me for blue raspberry sherbet and you have a deal.”
His cousin’s eyes brighten, and the smile that takes over his face is wide and sunny. “Deal.”
March 2022
One week before the month’s Capture the Flag, the new Apollo head counselor slips Annabeth a note in the arena.
He tries to be sneaky about it, slipping it into her pocket as he walks past, but he isn’t very subtle—Apollo kids never are. As he leaves with his half-siblings, he’s elbowed and teased, which Annabeth thinks doesn’t bode well.
Still, she unfolds it as her cabinmates start with their sword forms.
Please meet me at the armory before dinner. Will exchange important info —Pio Cabin 7
She does recognize that name. Pio Tanglao had been the subject of the rumor mill a year ago, having fallen unconscious into the sea just weeks after he’d come out as a trans guy. She’d just never connected his name with the quiet guy who replaced Tamika at counselor meetings.
More personally, he’d been rumored to like like Luke the year before that. That was probably what his siblings’ elbowing was about; everyone knows Annabeth and Luke are close. That tidbit about the crush had faded from gossip when Pio had done nothing about it, but it had made Annabeth take a dislike to him. He wasn’t good enough for Luke—he wasn’t even good at being an Apollo kid.
Still, Apollo kids have a reputation for sussing things out, and the note does say Pio has information. Annabeth goes to the little shed they call the armory at twilight, expecting something good.
Pio’s already arrived, which is unsurprising. He has his back to her and is waving an Ancient Bronze javelin around in a way that’s so far off form it’s ridiculous. That weapon isn’t going to be missed if he screws up, but it will be embarrassing if he injures himself, so she takes pity.
“Stick to the bow,” Annabeth advises, leaning against the doorway.
He jolts and turns to her, smiling like he’d been caught out. “Oh! Hi, Annabeth. Uh, I’m not abandoning the bow, I just need a close-combat option.”
“Javelins aren’t swords.” Is he stupid? “They’re for long range too.”
“I wasn’t thinking of using it as a javelin.” He takes one and reaches towards the blade at the end, untying it from the shaft and pulling.
“You’re definitely not supposed to do that,” she says, frowning. “What are you meant to do with a stick?”
He brandishes it in a way that looks like a form. “It’s an escrima stick,” he tells her. “Well—it will be two sticks when I reforge it.”
“That’s not a Greek weapon,” she points out.
He sets the blades down on a table. “Well, I can have this blade reforged a little bit, and then I can use it as a dagger, which is a Greek weapon.”
Annabeth scowls. “Is that what you called me here for? Weapon advice?”
“No,” he says sheepishly. “You know, you’re way more intimidating than I’d expect a twelve-year-old to be.”
“I’m eleven,” she tells him.
“More to the point.” He sets the weapon down and holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I wanted to talk to you, man to man. Or camper to camper, as it were.”
She nods, satisfied with the change of topic. “You said you have information,” she says. “I presume it’s about Capture the Flag.”
“No,” he says. Then, “Well, sort of. That’s my excuse, and it is relevant.”
She frowns again. “What is it about, then?”
He scratches his cheek, still with that sheepish smile. “Mainly, I’m approaching you as Luke’s sister,” he says.
“I’m not his sister,” she says reflexively, not liking this one bit.
“If it makes you more comfortable, you can think of it as me approaching my Capture the Flag general about her other commander.” He crosses his arms. “I don’t think Luke’s been sleeping well.”
Annabeth thinks back to the last time she’d spoken to Luke: breakfast this morning. There hadn’t been bags under his eyes, but some people could stay awake without developing those, so that didn’t rule it out. He’d shown no other signs of fatigue, though.
“I need you to back up that claim,” she tells Pio.
He shakes his head. “I just have a source.”
“I don’t usually go around believing people without evidence,” she says, annoyed.
He huffs. “What reason do I have to lie to you?”
Anything. Annabeth can’t think of specifics right now, but she’s pretty sure there’s some reason. You couldn’t trust adults without evidence or prior goodwill.
Neither of them say anything for a long moment, then he sighs. “Annabeth, you’re my general. If you won’t trust me as a camper, then trust me as your third-in-command.”
“Fine,” she bites out. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow. Our cabins have archery together, and you can skip out on strawberry field duty.”
“ We’ll talk to him?” the Apollo counselor says in a high voice. “I think he’ll trust you more if you’re alone.”
“If you’re lying to me, then you’ll face Luke yourself.”
Pio reddens. “Fine.”
She half-expects him not to turn up the next day, which would be nice. Luke’s the busiest counselor in camp, so archery is one of the few times he and Annabeth are in the same space together.
Still, she’s a woman of her word.
“You’ll have to hang back from classes,” she tells Luke that morning, when they’re at the archery range. “Let someone else take charge. I’m waiting for someone to arrive; he wants us to talk to you about something.”
“Sure.” Luke smiles at her, a real smile. It’s as affectionate as ever. Annabeth basks in it, even as she searches for signs of tiredness. She comes away uncertain—was it less wide than usual? More crooked?
“Let the new kid lead,” she suggests after a moment.
“Michael?” Luke glances over at the East Asian kid who’s already shooting bulls-eyes only two months since he first held a bow. He was about Annabeth’s age, and clearly an Apollo kid. Everyone could see it—but he was still unclaimed, so what could they do? “I think he already is leading.”
“Good. I’ll go give Malcolm some instructions.”
She’s about to come back to Luke’s side when Pio bursts into the arena. He heads straight to her, his harried face smeared with dirt, still holding a trowel.
“Sorry, Annabeth, got a little held up by the kids, I didn’t mean to be late.”
“It’s okay,” she says, a little confused. She appreciates the usual Apollo kid promptness, but this level of stress isn’t warranted.
Luke plucks the trowel from his hands, and Pio seems to notice he’s there for the first time. “Oh, shit! Hi. Hello, Luke. Thanks, shouldn’t have been running around with that.” He looks appropriately embarrassed.
“I get it. The ADHD, right?” Pio nods. “I thought so.” Luke turns to Annabeth. “Is this who wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes. Luke, meet Pio Tanglao, head counselor of the Apollo cabin.”
“We’ve met,” says Luke, giving Pio a small smile. “You didn’t have to go through Annabeth to talk to me, Pio.”
Luke sounds more subdued than usual, Annabeth notes; he’s not his usual friendly, grinning self. She’s never seen him like this, even when he’s mad at someone; she isn’t quite sure what it means. She doesn’t like the feeling.
Pio, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice. He laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. I just thought it would be, um. Less weird.”
Annabeth rolls her eyes. “He asked me to ask you something, and I said ‘Talk to him yourself.’”
“Good call, Annabeth.” Luke looks back at Pio. “What’s up? My kids pranked yours again?”
Pio groans. The glitter prank must’ve been before he was counselor, but he clearly remembers it. “Ugh. No, nothing like that. I, um, I was worried about you, actually.”
Luke’s hand goes up to his scar. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“He said you haven’t been sleeping well,” says Annabeth. “Is that true, Luke?”
Luke’s hand stills, a subtle tell Annabeth had picked up on—it means he’s about to lie to her, but doesn’t particularly want to. “No, how’d you get that idea?”
“I have my sources,” says Pio vaguely.
“Well, they’re wrong, or lying. I’ve been sleeping like a baby.”
Annabeth isn’t sure why he’s lying about this. She trusts he has a good reason, but she can’t think of one, so she presses: “Are you sure? If you need help with your counselor duties, I can take some on.”
Pio beams at Annabeth, but she isn’t looking at him, so she spots when Luke gives him a glare she’s pretty sure she wasn’t meant to see.
“No. I’m fine, Annabeth, really,” he says gently as he turns back to her, not a trace of the glare on his face.
“No, no,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m worried now. You should get rest, if only for Capture the Flag.”
Luke points at Pio. “Then you should be more worried about your other commander. He wakes up before dawn to practice his archery.”
Annabeth raises an eyebrow at Pio, who shrugs. “I need practice. I suck,” he says shamelessly. “But! You wouldn’t know about that if you didn’t wake up at least as early as me!”
“He’s right. Luke, don’t change the subject,” says Annabeth.
Pio looks honestly delighted. “You are the best ally ever, and I’m glad I came to you,” he says to Annabeth. “Listen to the Athena kid, golden boy!”
Luke actually growls , jabbing a finger into Pio’s chest. “You are insufferable, and I don’t know why I thought we might become friends,” he says. It’s so uncharacteristic that Annabeth becomes fully convinced that he’s sleep-deprived.
The other boy raises his eyebrows, but he just grins. Apollo kids are usually pretty cheerful, but Annabeth thought that was enough for any normal person to stop being so upbeat. She wonders again if he’s stupid, aware that it isn’t a very kind thought to have.
“You thought we might become friends?” says Pio. “I’m flattered.”
Luke reddens and glares, like he wants to say something. But what does someone say to that?
Annabeth sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re the Apollo counselor,” she says to Pio, “how do you fix his sleep patterns?”
Pio tilts his head. “We’ll have to monitor him for a couple nights, see what’s the root cause, but it’s usually a sleep hygiene thing. Earlier lights out, less tiring activities.”
“That’s impossible,” says Luke frustratedly. “I have twice as many campers as you, and they’re only getting manier .”
Pio shrugs. “I can take over your after-dinner duties until we figure your thing out.”
Annabeth scoffs. “That’s stupid, you can’t handle both the biggest cabins in camp on your own.”
Luke spreads his hands. “Yes, Annabeth, thank you. I’ll be fine, there’s no need for this… all this.”
She ignores him. “I’ll help,” she says to Pio.
Pio directs that bright grin at her again, and she shifts uncomfortably. “Great! Thanks, Annabeth. It’s all sorted out.”
“You can’t do that forever,” Luke points out. “I’ll have to go back to Cabin 11 eventually. If you really wanna help, get your kids out of my cabin.” He jabs a thumb towards Michael, who’s started doing arrow tricks for the younger kids, shooting things they throw into the air.
Pio looks, and his eyebrows rise. “Yeah, okay, that’s definitely one of mine. What’s his name? When did he arrive?”
“That’s Michael Yew,” says Luke, a little more calmly. “He arrived two months ago.”
Suddenly, Pio looks sick to his stomach, which Annabeth thinks is a bit of an extreme reaction.
“Michael,” he repeats. “And he hasn’t been claimed by dad?”
Luke gives Annabeth a questioning look. She shrugs. Sure, Apollo claimed his children pretty consistently, but two months was hardly a lot of time to wait to be claimed—some kids died waiting.
“Don’t look so freaked out,” Luke tells Pio. “He has a sleeping bag, I’ve been taking care of him.”
“You shouldn’t have had to. Two months ,” repeats Pio. “He taught himself archery without even meeting his siblings, gods.”
“Most kids are like that,” says Annabeth. “I don’t know why you’re shocked.”
“No, I know, it’s just—it’s Michael Yew ,” he says, which explains nothing. “This isn’t right.”
“It’s not a simple fix,” says Luke. “It’s been like this forever. You’d have to change the gods .”
Pio’s mouth settles into a line. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Annabeth echoes, watching as Pio steps out of the shade of the clouds, into a beam of sunlight.
Luke’s frowning. “What is he—oh no ,” he says, as Pio cups his hands around his mouth and looks towards the sun.
“Dad!” he shouts. “Hey, dad! Claim your kid!”
“Are you seeing this?” says Luke, disbelieving.
“He’s not stupid. He’s insane,” says Annabeth, with a little reluctant admiration.
“Apollo!”
“Gods. Pio, stop,” says Luke, pulling him out of the sunbeam.
“Apollo, I got a haiku for you!” Pio continues yelling. “ Green grass breaks through snow/Your car is right above us/Claim your fucking kid .”
Luke puts a hand over his mouth. “Stop it. Stop, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”
Pio drags it away. “Have a little faith,” he says to Luke. Annabeth barely has time to process how ridiculous that is right now before he’s yelling again: “Dad, come on!”
Then the impossible happens: the clouds part, just over Michael Yew as he’s nocking an arrow into his bow. It gets into his eyes, and the arrow should have gone wildly off course. Instead it redirects itself midair, and hits its target right into the bull’s-eye.
To cap it off, a shining sunburst appears over Michael’s head.
The following silence is clearly stunned.
“What the fuck ,” Luke whispers.
Annabeth gets herself together before everyone else, which is only natural.
“The sign of Phoebus Apollo,” she announces. “The Great Physician. Far-Shooter, City-Founder, Rouser of Armies. Hail, Michael Yew, Son of the Sun God.”
As everyone lowers themself to bow, Annabeth glances at Pio’s face. She can’t help but think that his victorious grin looks a little terrified, too.
Good. Then her new ally isn’t completely insane.
June 2022
When Apollo comes calling, he calls the wrong name.
Pio comes anyway, on the hill where the sun rises on Camp Half-Blood. He’s somber in the way he’s been since that fateful birthday, when he’d become hyper-aware of how bad things could get for more reasons than just a near-death experience.
It’s dawn when his father arrives, quite literally blinding. He resists the temptation to look at Apollo’s godly form until he resolves into his mortal shape: a man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, blond and lithe with the shoulders of an archer. The air around him crackles with the scent of citrus and something metallic but sweet, like welding fumes.
Pio goes down on one knee and bows, only because it’s customary. “My lord.”
Apollo snorts. “You certainly didn’t have that much respect for your dad when you bandied my name around your camp,” he scoffs. “Rise, kid. Tell me about this new form you’ve taken.”
That’s certainly a poetic way to describe Pio’s new haircut and binder. “I’m transgender,” he says for the hundredth time as he stands. “I’m a boy, actually.”
His father claps once. “Oh, sick,” he says. Pio isn’t sure what he expected, but that wasn’t it. “Did you change your name? What are you called now?”
Suddenly embarrassed, Pio shifts his weight between his feet. “Um. Orpeo,” he says. “Pio for short.”
Apollo grins. “Classy, naming yourself after my apprentice. He was a good kid. I like it.”
It has nothing to do with Apollo, but Pio keeps his mouth shut. “Thank you.”
“Pity what happened to him and Eurydice,” sighs his father. “I’m not sure why you’d link yourself with that tragedy. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.”
“What is?” says Pio, cautious.
Apollo points at him. “Well, you pressuring me into claiming your brother, for one,” he says, as stern as he gets. “The haiku was a nice touch, but don’t do that again. I was gonna get to it!”
Pio’s head twinges with annoyance.
“Michael was in the Hermes cabin for two months,” he says, more snappily than he’d meant to. “It was obvious to everyone that he was our brother, but he couldn’t move in. And it sucks to stay in Cabin 11!”
Apollo raises an eyebrow, and Pio snaps his mouth shut, suddenly afraid.
But then he says, “It does?”
Pio wonders if the sharp expression on his father’s face is interest.
“Yeah,” he says, more carefully. “It’s overcrowded, you can’t step anywhere without tripping over a sleeping bag. There are so many people that the counselor can’t give you enough attention during training or if you’re stressed. And…” He hesitates. “It just sucks. To feel like you’re not even worth your dad’s acknowledgement.”
Apollo frowns. “Huh. I didn’t realize that.”
Pio looks back at him, mildly surprised. But it makes sense, given what he knows of his dad, and what he knows of his dad.
“I guess you were busy,” he mumbles.
“I would’ve made time if I’d known it was like that,” says Apollo. There’s displeasure on his divine face, but Pio isn’t sure what it’s directed towards.
“…It’s an easy fix,” says Pio hesitantly. “Just. You know. Claim your kids when they arrive.”
Apollo fixes his eyes on his son’s, and Pio is struck by his gaze. His father’s eyes are quite literally the color of the sky on a clear day: so blue they’re blinding.
Gods, he can’t help but think, Dad needs contacts.
“You think so?” says Apollo. Pio can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.
“I just. I don’t get why you have to wait,” he says, scratching his cheek. “There’s no rule against it.”
Apollo tilts his head in a gesture that reminds Pio startlingly of himself. “Well. I figured it would mean more if you, you know—felt like you earned it,” he says.
He’s so incredibly wrong. “I think it hurts my siblings, actually. It makes them feel like they have to earn your acknowledgement,” says Pio slowly.
His father nods, seeming to process it. He finds a large, smooth rock on the ground and seats himself, for the first time looking like he might actually stay long enough to have a proper conversation. He still looks like a classical statue, but his pose makes him look so human .
“Gotcha,” he says. “Anything else I can do?”
Pio stares, genuinely shocked. “Pardon?”
“Is there anything else I can do?” Apollo repeats, not seeming annoyed at all.
His son scrambles mentally, not having expected this question at all. “Uh, you could come visit every couple weeks?” he says, unsure if this is even on the table. “Some of your kids are really young, they’d be ecstatic to see you.”
Apollo actually smiles . “Well, it would be nice to see you kids more often,” he says. “And you’ve already given me the perfect excuse.”
Pio has no clue what he’s talking about. “I have?”
“You need to be monitored, or you’ll mess things up and end up like Hal. No one wants that, not even my father,” says Apollo. “Hell, you’ve gone and meddled already. That’s actually the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”
He has a bad feeling about this. “I’m not sure what you mean,” says Pio. “Is this about… what happened on my eighteenth birthday?”
“Duh. You went and had the longest vision anyone’s had since the Oracle of Delphi had a living host,” says Apollo, point-blank.
Pio flinches. It sounds so heavy when said out loud.
“You know about that?” he says. Then, “Sorry, right. God of prophecy.” He laughs nervously.
Apollo hums. “That wasn’t a prophecy, son. Not a true one, anyway,” he says.
It certainly seemed like one. “But… I saw things that haven’t happened yet. The future.”
“Not the future,” corrects Apollo. “More like, different tellings of it, yeah? There must’ve been clear differences.”
Pio nods. “I wasn’t there in those… tellings . It was like I didn’t exist, as far as I could tell.”
“Weird, but not impossible,” says his father, shrugging.
“In one of them a demigod slayed a gorgon using an iPod,” Pio recalls. “That can’t happen in the future, they stopped selling iPods since… I don’t even know.”
Apollo looks wistful. “Ah, iPods. Streaming just isn’t the same. But yes. I don’t know the specifics, but the broad strokes should be similar.”
Pio’s heart sinks.
“No.”
“Yes,” says Apollo gently. “That’s how the story goes, and as an Oracle, it’s your responsibility to let it be told.”
“I can’t accept that,” says Pio stiffly. Those futures he’s seen were bloody, full of the suffering of innocents and the deaths of siblings and friends. Even his father suffers in those futures, and even if he’s absent most of the time, Pio’s starting to find he actually likes Apollo. “It—I can’t just do nothing.”
“You have a gift even I don’t have,” says his father. “But it’s one that other gods will punish you for misusing. Fate and destiny—those aren’t our purview, kiddo. We just take peeks.”
Pio shudders. He turns on his heel, and paces. “You said that happened to Hal. The punishment. Do you mean Halcyon Green? I saw him too. He was punished for using his visions to meddle with fate, right?”
“Yes. He was my last child to see the future,” says Apollo, knitting his eyebrows together.
He inhales. “But you said— Dad , you said I didn’t see the future. Just… tellings of it.”
Apollo tilts his head again. “Where are you going with this?” he says, curious.
“Fate and destiny aren’t our purview, but stories are. Right? Poetry, song. Oral histories, passed from fire to fire in the old way. The hero’s journey, katabasis , nostos . Those are yours .”
His father seems to puff up with pride. “Right.”
Pio nods jerkily. “I wasn’t in those visions, I wasn’t an actor . That, that means this isn’t the same telling. And stories, when they’re retold, they change.”
He sees the moment Apollo understands what he means, because his father’s face slowly splits into a grin. “You’re saying,” Apollo says, “that you think maybe your vision wasn’t from my prophetic domain, but the poetic one.”
Pio sinks to his knees, simultaneously hopeful and desperate. “Dad,” he says. “Lord Apollo. Please, tell me I’m not an Oracle.”
Tell me I don’t have to watch him fall.
“Maybe not,” says Apollo, his face bright with excitement. “Maybe you’re what I intended you to be all along.”
It feels like the very earth is swaying under Pio’s knees. It feels like he’s about to do something embarrassing, like throw up on his godly father’s feet or burst into tears.
His voice cracks as he says, “Please.”
“You aren’t an Oracle, Orpeo.” His father smiles, and it’s beatific the way Pio’s youngest siblings must imagine it to be. “You’re a poet.”