𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀𝘿; heroes of olympus

most beloved

ERITH JAY
IN ERITH'S HEAD, there had always been two versions of Calypso.

One was a many-eyed girl with a venomous tongue that lured boys in with helplessness. The other was like Luke: harsh in a pretty way, violent in touch. Lonely at the core.

The real Calypso wasn't quite like either. She was just a girl with hunched shoulders and sleek hair. She looked to be around Percy's age, nineteen, although Erith knew she was much older than that. She may have been around forever in Erith's memory, at least.

She stood on the beach. It had been flooded, and so there wasn't much there anymore except for wet sand. Her feet were bare. She wore a strapped white dress corded at the waist, and her fists kept balling and unballing; a nervous habit not fit for a girl older than a god.

It was the early hours of the morning, and the sun had just risen, but at least half of camp had gathered to watch her. Percy and Annabeth stood at the front, clutching hands like they were drowning, and suddenly Erith felt vaguely nauseous, although she couldn't quite say why.

The truth was, Erith wanted to hate Calypso. She had dreamt about her more times than she could possibly count. She had wanted to believe, even though Leo contradicted it with every story, that Calypso had kissed him and he had never wanted it. That she had manipulated him, entranced him, done something to make him waver in the way that Percy, when faced with the same choice, had chosen Annabeth when she hadn't even chosen him yet.

But she was just a girl. There was no power about her. Her shoulders were slumped. Her eyes were bruised. She fell into the sand and Erith realized there was no order to things.

She stepped forward and felt Calypso's cold hands and understood, then, that the world wasn't hers. Not anymore.

―

Erith sat alone with Calypso on the cold floor of Jason's cabin. Thunder rumbled and false lightning struck the statue of Zeus, but Erith didn't mind.

She had stolen a blanket from her own bed and draped it over Calypso's shoulders. The girl was wet and shivering and hungry, and Erith had requested that someone bring them some food.

No one had yet. It was like the whole camp was waiting, holding their breath.

Leo and Percy and Annabeth had tried to follow Erith when she led Calypso away, but she had waved them off. Calypso, in the way her footsteps quickened, seemed to agree.

Erith's cabin had her sleeping siblings inside of it. She could've taken Percy's cabin, but something about Jason's cabin, with his little sleeping pack bunched in the corner and the photos of his friends―her included―pinned above it and his pile of books warmed her heart. But everything else about the cabin was cold and unfeeling, and Erith understood why he preferred to be somewhere else.

"You're Erith," Calypso said. It was the first time Erith had heard her speak since her arrival, but she didn't ask how the girl knew her name. She just nodded.

Calypso splayed her hands as if studying them. As if she had never seen them before. Then, quietly, she said, "Thank you."

"Why?" Erith asked. Her tone was brash and harsh and unfair, but Calypso didn't flinch, didn't falter. 

She raised her chin to meet Erith's eyes with hers, and they were almond-shaped and deepest brown. Almost black, but not quite. Something in Erith thought of Reyna and she clasped her hands to keep them from trembling, because she wanted to run all the way to Camp Jupiter right now and end up dead on a highway halfway there. Roadkill.