Forgotten memories

Our lives in his hands

Christine and I were sprawled out on opposite ends of a hammock strung up just outside the Artemis cabin. After everything that had happened yesterday, I figured we both deserved at least one day to just... breathe. To unwind. Christine was dozing lightly on her side, her chest rising and falling in that slow, peaceful rhythm of someone caught between sleep and wakefulness. I just lay there, staring up at the sky through the gaps in the pine branches, listening to the sounds of camp life drifting all around us.

Voices carried across the clearing—kids laughing, talking, training. The rhythmic thunk of arrows striking targets, the distant clash of swords. And then, of course, there was the howl. That obnoxious, off-key chorus from the Apollo cabin practicing music, echoing through the trees like nails on a chalkboard. It was so bad I could practically feel the Ares cabin grinding their teeth all the way from here.

Sure enough, it didn't take long for things to blow up—literally. A fight broke out between the Ares and Apollo kids. Typical. A couple of Apollo campers were swooping overhead in a golden chariot pulled by two pegasi, dropping firebombs like some kind of ancient Greek bomber squadron. I'd never even seen that chariot before, but man, it looked sweet—polished bronze, sunlight glinting off the wheels, reins glowing with runes.

Within seconds, the roof of the Ares cabin was up in flames, and naiads from the canoe lake were scrambling to douse the fire with massive sheets of water. But Ares' kids weren't going down without a fight—they called down some nasty curse, and suddenly every single arrow the Apollo kids shot turned into rubber. No joke—rubber. They were bouncing harmlessly off shields, walls, and occasionally other campers.

Two archers tore past us, sprinting for their lives, with a furious Ares kid charging after them—except he was cursing in rhymes. Actual poetry.
"Curse me, eh? I'll make you pay! / I don't want to rhyme all day!"

Christine groaned, still half-asleep, and cracked one eye open. "Not this again... Last time Apollo cursed somebody, they were stuck speaking in couplets for a whole week."

I shivered at the memory. Apollo might be the god of archery, but he was also the god of poetry—and let me tell you, I'd heard him recite in person. I'd almost rather get hit by an arrow than listen to that again.

My eyes wandered back to Christine. I don't know why. I'd seen her a million times before. But right then, lying there in the hammock with the sunlight catching in her hair, she looked... different. Smaller than me now—she used to be about my height, but I'd shot up recently. And yet, somehow, she seemed so much more... grown-up. It was intimidating, honestly. She'd always been cute, sure, but now? Now she was starting to look... beautiful. Like, really beautiful.

Michael Yew's chariot dive-bombed an Ares camper, snapping me out of my thoughts. The camper swung a sword and yelled out a rhyming string of insults that honestly sounded way too creative for someone that angry. I snorted. "We're supposed to be fighting for our lives, and they're over here arguing about a stupid chariot."

"They'll get over it," Christine murmured, stretching lazily. "Clarisse will come to her senses... eventually."

I wasn't so sure. Clarisse and "calm" weren't exactly best friends.

For the record, we weren't breaking any rules being here. Camp has a strict no boys and girls alone in cabins policy, but we were out in the open. So, totally fine. Still, being here reminded me of when Silena and Beckendorf were together. People used to whisper the same questions every time a couple got close: Isn't that, like, weird? Aren't all demigods related? The answer? No. Gods don't have DNA, so genetically speaking, that whole side of the family tree doesn't count. Still, nobody would ever date someone from the same cabin. Like, two kids from Athena's cabin? Gross. But a daughter of Aphrodite and a son of Hephaestus? Totally fine.