𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔, heroes of olympus¹

introduction.

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someone to you!

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。

━━━Ajax Luz is an artist. For hours, he sits hunched over his sketchbook with his sharpened pencil in hand; he never has to erase, for each mark he makes is perfect. It consumes his time and fills him with a sense of peace he has never really been given in his life. His friends━if you could call them that━don't really understand, but he doesn't expect them to.

     He draws a series of things he doesn't quite understand, just wherever the pencil takes him: a mighty castle on the clouds, an odd electric cylinder that reminds him of a lightning bolt; a beautiful gold fleece; a boy holding up, what seems to be, the sky itself; a series of mazes; and, one of his proudest drawings, a picture of Manhattan, lightning striking the top of buildings and cars stuck in the street, mortals asleep on the ground. He draws his friends, Leo Valdez and Piper McLean. He draws a pair of eyes opening, as though from a deep slumber; he draws a boy with a sword, fighting what seems to be the air.

     The only weird part of his drawings is the time date: for Piper and Leo's portraits, each of the drawings were created a week before he had met each of them. And when he saw them? Not a speck of a difference. Piper's beautiful, crafted face as though she was the daughter of a goddess; Leo's curly hair and cheerful face like he's been given too much caffeine. And here's another weird thing━the boy with a sword, fighting what seems to be the air, he noticed, as he pulled away from his drawing and got a good look, the boy was Jason. His other friend. But he's already known Jason for a few months... so why does he draw him unknowingly now?

     And with all of these weird instances, Ajax Luz continues to draw. It is the only thing he is good at; the only thing he will admit that he is exceptionally extraordinary at. He can't really describe it━he could draw portraits by the time he was seven. He drew a little girl around his age that he saw at the park once with curly blonde hair, and ever since then he's enjoyed drawing portraits. He's drawn beautiful portraits of his mother and his friends (though on accident) and random people; yet none of it compares to when he draws her.

     The girl came to him late October of the year two thousand nine. Now, he still draws her two months later: a girl with silky dark hair that is put, almost always, in a braid; her eyes as black as obsidian, yet so sparkly and honey-like when she is happy; he's drawn her smiles, her soft lips raising to her cheeks and the little dimple that appears on the left side of her face. He's drawn her with a sword in a fighting stance, her limbs preparing to fight whatever is in front of her; he's drawn her on the back of a winged-horse, sword in hand; he's drawn her slumped against the headboard of a bed, hair free of a braid, sheets drawn up around her and a book in her lap; he's drawn her sitting in a throne, a crown on her head and a cloak hooked around her collar. He's drawn her beautiful face a thousand times over, his heart in awe whenever he does it; her sharp, pointy features, regal like a queen; her lips soft and plump, always in a thin line; her eyes a beautiful shape, dark and demanding; her hair in a braid that falls along her shoulder. He's drawn her face a million times and he's sure that, no matter how majestic his drawings are, they would never compare to her━if only she were real.