River

So... this is a long overdue little thing, but here goes nothing. For the last five years I have gifted my sister, Laura, a story for her birthday. I usually write it in Spanish, save for one year when I decided to write her a Jaylos fanfic called "A Vouch Sealed With Blood". However, on that particular year, when I asked how she had found the story her answer was "It's good... but it isn't Solangelo." Therefore, I decided to come back to Solangelo and write a song-fic. The song I used for this story is called "River" by Emeli Sandé, please feel free to check it out, it's a lovely song.

Also, to make this possible I had the help of two beautiful people, who were nice enough to agree to beta-read this even though I asked them to do so like two days before my sister's birthday and they had to work against the clock for me to have it on time. So, please give it up for my two wonderful beta-readers, FrostedDragonHeart and Rosycat. Please feel free to check their accounts out and send them love.

Now, without further ado... I really hope you enjoy it!

River

―*―*―

If you're looking for a big adventure,
And gold is all that's on your mind...
If all you want's someone to take your picture...
Then I won't waste your time.

―*―*―

Of the number of skills that Will Solace could sincerely claim he had, the one that was perhaps the most useless was how accurately he could point out when someone was in love. That was to say, he was a demigod that had been unfortunately cursed with being a zero to the left when it came to sword-fighting or archery, yet he could identify clear as a bell the most subtle of glances a restrained lover sent in the direction of their object of desire. He had never dared to say it aloud, but he internally suspected that maybe —and it was indeed an inquisitive 'maybe'— he was better at reading the inaudible language of silent love than the children of Aphrodite.

He supposed that this was an ability he had acquired through his years as the Head Doctor of the Infirmary of Camp Half-Blood. After all, despite his —admitted— worthlessness at fighting, he was a devoted physician. At the battlefield, he was out of place, too clumsy to hold a sword properly, too easily startled to maintain his concentration and aim an arrow through the screams of pain of comrades and enemies alike, too sympathetic with his peers to carry through his planned attack, even if it were only during a Capture the Flag game.

He was not a natural-born fighter and, in all honesty, he would rather not be. He was a healer, and he was immensely proud of that title. Even as a child, he'd always been inclined to help and to alleviate the pain of others.

He was the diligent boy who kindly offered to tutor his classmates if he noticed they were falling behind. He was the kind-hearted soul who would stop to pet a stray dog on the street, leaving nearly in tears to see such gentle animals be deprived of love. He was the empathetic person who captured both spiders and bees when he found them inside his home or cabin so that he could run outside to free them. He was not a fighter, and he valued honesty far too much to allow such a statement to bother him.

It was true, however, that healers did not often receive the glory and the notoriety that their warrior counterparts did. Everyone, for example, had heard the songs about the valiant deeds of Achilles, the way his rage had been far more disastrous for Troy than any other weapon wielded by men, how his wrath penetrated more than just Troy's walls, but the hearts of the Trojans as well. Everyone remembered Heracles, with his broad shoulders and irrepressible muscles, capable of smothering massive lions with his bare hands.

The same could not be said of Asclepius or of Podalirius, who were more than just powerful demigods. These were healing gods, long forgotten in order to make room in the memory of humanity for the courageous demigod warriors.