@samsonofapollo (sc; made it thanksgiving instead of halloween bc ye)
camp had taken on the quiet hum of preparation — laughter drifting from cabins, the smell of pine and smoke threaded through the cold air. cian stood halfway up a ladder along the main path, trying to loop a garland around one of the lampposts while samson passed him the next stretch. the thing kept slipping, pine needles catching on his jumper, and he huffed out a laugh that fogged the chill between them.
“we’ve been at this an hour and the place still looks like it survived a storm,” he said, glancing down at samson with a wry grin. “you sure this was your plan, not punishment?”
cian shook his head, still smiling as he steadied the ladder. “you’d think we were decorating a palace instead of camp,” he said, tugging at the garland to make it stay. though there was no place he'd rather be right now than right here, with samson.
"What prompted you to turn your cabin into a haunted house?" the son of Nemesis asked as he approached the son of Apollo, hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Samson had always been someone that Victor had enjoyed the presence of, even if they hadn't really spoken that often. The optimism in him, the way he saw the best in everyone, the way he tried to uplift everyone to make them better... It was something he admired and applauded, and he knew that Samson was someone good.
It seemed he had a habit of surrounding himself with people that were just generally and vehemently good.
"I would've figured after our encounter in New Hampshire, you would've had enough of the holiday. Or, at the very least, of a good scare."
That certainly seemed to be what the Pumpkin King had given them all, anyway, nearly taking out a couple of their own before they had managed to take care of him.
"I feel like I should have studied antiquity more when I was you know. A normal human being. It might come in handy now." There were countless stories and legends that would probably prove to be useful if he had taken the time to pour over them like he did with so many other subjects that had tickled his fancy as he was in college. "I'm making up for it now I guess, but it's all the more interesting with an actual connection you know? It's not just a story- probably. Some of this may become helpful." Lucian sat in the middle of a ring of books, dozens of them all stacked and half open, notes in the margins and scribbles on the loose pieces of paper they were scattered about, A little world all his own as he worked. He was half talking more to himself than the other person he was half aware was there.
the sunlight that warms samson’s dreams, waking or asleep, is absent tonight.
in it’s place, a pale gold dusk, filled with a heavy silence, blooms around him like winter fading to spring.
he finds himself in the center of an overgrown amphitheater with stone seats that spiral upward like ribs of a fossilized beast. ivy wraps the arches, vines cling to ancient stone, as if clutching them with fingers that refuse to let go. he can smell dust, vibrant green flora, the scent of the sun.
but there’s a hush so complete that it aches behind his eyes, in his sternum.
at first, he hears nothing. a complete, undiluted silence that feels stifling, heavy.
then, like a heartbeat remembering to pump blood, a single string trembles and echoes through the still air.
it’s a hum that crawls through the marrow of the world, low and mournful, not plucked by remembered. samson turns toward the sound, his instincts making it easy for him to navigate, and when he does the vision splits.
two timelines, whether past, present, or future, show themselves at once:
in one, the amphitheater is alive. lanterns glow along the archways, demigods and people laugh and sing beneath twilight stars, and a boy with olive skin plays a lyre at the center stage. the melody is simple, imperfect but filled with affection. there, sitting in the front row, with his head tilted slightly, smiling as if he’s memorizing every note, is achilles. his golden hair seems luminous beneath the lantern light and his smile stretches like the starlit sky over head.
in the other, the stage is a cracked and empty thing. the boy is gone, the laughter has rotted and wilted like the once vibrant greenery that filled the air with a lushness that echoes in memory. the wind rustles and samson sees achilles here, too, in the front row. he’s not smiling, he’s screaming. he’s alone with his fists buried in the dirt where the music once seemed to reverberate beneath sandaled feet.
the sound cuts off, everything stills. the wind is gone and the silence fills the air like a held breath, making his lungs ache with a desperation to release.
he feels like he’s suffocating and then a voice spills from the heavens all around samson.
“he sang not for the world, but for one.
where the east wind hushes and ivy devours,
find the mouth of stone and silence
beneath the bridge where three rivers meet,
the lyre lies in waiting, unstrung and unwept.”
the amphitheater trembles, the ivy wilts and whispers, a gust of wind tears across the stone and for a split second, samson sees it:
a bridge overhead, steel and concrete. a park below, sun-dappled and forgotten. and there, in the center, at it’s heart, a stage choked by shadows, something pulsing that feels both ancient and unloved.
for a second, a minute, an hour, samson feels stuck in this place and when he goes to move, the world cracks open. a golden, nearly spectral hand reaches from the broken center and offers him a lyre made of starlight and grief.
“will you play the name that no one dared to sing? will you wake the one who made even achilles kneel?”
before the son of apollo has time to answer, before he has time to think, the vision shatters into golden threads.
his eyes open and he finds himself standing in the middle of his room. the sun has set, the sky outside his window is sprinkled with stars, and he can see the last threads of his heartsong coiling back within him. his hands are held, cupped together, over his sternum, over his heart. he can feel the faint pulse of his power as something rings in his ears—a note played, the final chord in the melody that had achilles’ smiling.
he can feel a weight against his palms, the heft of an instrument that he’s never played, and he can almost memorize how the wooden instrument felt in his hands.
there’s ivy in his hair, specks of it as if it was making him a crown, and when he moves, they fall to the ground at his feet. there, when he looks, he sees a piece of paper—sheet music, perhaps, something he was working on—with words now etched in ink across the top of it like a title:
astoria park, beneath robert f. kennedy bridge. astoria, new york.
The quest unnerved Arthur, his mind had been the playground of the titaness of memory and he was almost erased from existence entirely. His physical form had slowly started to disappear, but if it wasn't for the help of the others he may cease to exist now.
So of course he was locked away in the library, Arthur wanted to find a way to combat this in the future. He needed to know everything he could about Mnemosyne. More than he already knew about her. He'd pretty much taken every book from the Titans section, how far did all of this go?
Hours must have passed before he snapped out of his own world, the lights were dimly lit and nobody else was around. Well, except for one person. Samson. His mind went back to that thought that had been shoved in the back of his head. 'He was never going to pick you when Samson is there.'
The infirmary still hummed with the ghosts of earlier chaos—scraped knees, cracked ribs, someone screaming about a dislocated shoulder like it was the end of the world. Now, though, it was quiet. Peaceful, in a way only a place that had seen pain could be. Golden evening light filtered through the slits in the canvas, catching on dust motes and casting long shadows over the cots.
Raúl ducked inside with a cloth-wrapped bundle under one arm—just some extra supplies from the stores. Nothing heroic. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come in person, only that something about the calm here called to him. Or maybe it was the feeling of shared purpose that hadn’t worn off since Thunderdome.
He spotted the other man near the back, sleeves rolled past his elbows, methodically cleaning down a table like he hadn’t just spent an entire battle dragging demigods back from the brink. Raúl had clocked him during the event—efficient, unshaken, steady. The kind of healer who didn’t hesitate when things got bloody. Raúl took a few steps in and offered a quiet, respectful smile.
“Didn’t get the chance to say it earlier,” he said, voice low and warm. “But you held the line like a champion out there. How are you holding up?”
Cian moved through the aftermath like someone checking for the living—quiet-footed, eyes sharp but worn at the edges. His shirt was still torn at the shoulder where a blow had split the seam clean open, the bruising underneath blooming angry and purple. He carried himself upright, though—out of respect, mostly, for the body that had been knocked flat too many times in too short a span.
He’d taken hits harder than he'd expected. More of them than he wanted to admit. And each time, it had been Samson who’d pulled him back. A whisper of light. A warmth at his ribs. A thread of breath that hadn’t been there a moment before.
He shoul've been on his way to the infirmary, get himself checked over. Could demigods have concussions? But something else drove him through camp right now. Duty. Do what's right. Offer gratitude when it's owed. He found the younger demigod eventually,
“Hey.” Cian’s voice was soft, but it carried. That particular kind of quiet that makes people turn. He approached with careful purpose, not rushed, but not hesitant either. There was dirt on his face and blood crusted at his knuckles—some his, some definitely alien—but his eyes were clear and steady.
“I was lookin’ for you,” he said plainly, standing just close enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice. “Figured if I waited ‘til later, I’d talk myself out of it.” A beat, then a crooked smile, small but honest. “You kept me alive back there. More than once.” He exhaled, not quite a laugh, more a release of something built up behind his ribs.
“I felt it, every time. That little pull, like someone reminding me I wasn’t done yet. Wasn’t alone either.” His gaze dropped briefly—humble, never embarrassed—and then found Samson’s again. “Just wanted you to know I’m grateful. Properly.”
His hands hovered like he wanted to reach out but hadn’t decided how yet. “So if there’s ever anything you need—just say. Doesn’t have to be dramatic. Just… if you want a fire built, or company over breakfast. Or someone to stand at your side next time.” He shrugged, the gesture small, a little lopsided. “I’ll be there. You earned that.”
"Okay, so, I'm going to need you to tell me exactly what your favourite food based treat is. I can usually at least make an educated guess at a lot of peoples but considering how much work you were putting in during that training uh. I'd rather not risk getting it wrong." Did he have his phone open so he could actually take note of it? Absolutely. While his relationship with all things cooking could be rocky at times, provoke questions of how much he actually enjoyed it versus how much was just... Forced in to his hands over the years, it didn't change a pretty simple fact.
It was probably the only way he'd figured out of showing his appreciation that even remotely leaned in to mother's domain without feeling like he was cheating somehow. Charms and seduction and all things messy were not in his wheelhouse and he was more than keen to stick to just... Hey, good job, have snack.
"And, no, there isn't an option to avoid answering. I will make the most disarmingly awkward face you've ever seen and you'll feel compelled to tell me regardless. Son of Aphrodite stuff, clearly."
Gus could at least say it now, without feeling like he was just stumbling his way through it.
