One.      mischief and misfortune

"Tou-fucking-che, Withers."

"You know," began Atlas conversationally, leaning on the hilt of his sword and beaming at his adversary as if playing some sort of game, "I'm getting the feeling, just from the tone of your voice, you know, that you... don't like how much you're losing. Is that possible?"

Elizabeth Lennox, known around camp as a whirlwind of biting insults and fiery glares, wasted no time in sparing Atlas one of her signature outraged scowls. She was breathless and far too riled-up by then, having faced half an hour's worth of Atlas's frustratingly degrading smack talk. It was a horribly dangerous combination when it came to friendly sparring—but then again, nothing much was considered 'too dangerous' in the mind of Eli.

She whirled her sword down on Atlas without warning. He countered easily, of course, having hardly broken a sweat whilst Eli's forehead glistened even despite the bitter cold of Long Island's November. Atlas struck downward in an arcing motion, purposefully giving Eli plenty of time to react and tip her blade to her defense, grunting as their weapons collided in a sharp clash.

"Are you going easy on me now, Dicky boy?" she demanded of him between huffs of air, shoving her sword and, by proxy, him back a missed step. "Come on. I'm serious, give me all you got."

"That sounds like a horrible idea," came a voice from over Eli's shoulder. In the split second it took for Eli to glance behind herself and register that it was Luke approaching, Silas in tow, Atlas had both disarmed her and swept her to her knees in one swift move. He had the tip of his sword sinking into her collarbone before she could even blink.

"Point proven," said Luke amiably, tipping his head. He extended a hand to help Eli to her feet while Atlas flipped her sword and offered the hilt for her to take hold of.

"I would've been fine if you hadn't interrupted," she argued to Luke, clasping his hand and pulling herself up. She brushed off her knees. "Maybe I would have—"

"If that sentence ends in anything other than '–lost to Atlas again because he's simply too talented and I just can't take it,'" said Atlas, unstrapping himself from his armor, "then I don't want to hear it, Eli."

Eli bit back a curse, for the sake of Silas, and rolled her eyes. She accepted her sword back from Atlas with too much force. Losing to her brother wasn't anything she couldn't handle - she often faced the tip of his sword point and had long ago grown accustomed to his fastidious gloating—but losing in front of Luke was another story. He was the best swordsman on camp; where all the trainees went to try and become his Jedi apprentice. They were all fair and mighty attempts to prove oneself in the face of the unconquerable Luke Castellan, usually, but nobody was able to capture his attention like the scrawny, curly-headed eleven-year-old boy that had shown up at camp one day and somehow knew how to disarm Luke by the next.

Silas Whitlock may have been the son of Hermes, but he had the charm of an Aphrodite kid, wit on a battlefield that could only attribute to an Ares camper, and the dry humor that found him welcomed with open arms into the Tyche cabin. He was a national treasure to Camp Half-Blood. He could have had his pick of the litter, chosen to hang out up there with the Aphrodite kids and have all their doting popularity thrust onto him, but he chose his big brother without a second thought. Silas revered Luke like a god himself, latching onto him the moment they'd met and even doing so much as sometimes copying Luke's manner of speaking.

Now, as he stood beside Luke, appraising Eli with a matching frown of what could have been read as disappointment, even Eli had to admit—the kid looked a lot like his big brother. Luke never talked to Eli much about Silas, but she knew he had a huge soft spot for him. She didn't blame him, either—if she had a little sibling who respected her as much as Silas did Luke, she would never be able to let go of them.

But she didn't have her own Silas—she had an Atlas. Atlas, who was known around camp to use their mother's power of the Cornucopia to summon raw fish on those he found he didn't agree with. Atlas, whose long, lanky limbs and perpetual hatred of the world made for an unsurprising lack of takers in the friendship department. He practically responded to everyone and everything with a middle finger (two, if they were really unlucky (and if Atlas was around them, they definitely were)). Atlas Withers—camp's second-biggest loser.

First place, of course, went to Elizabeth Lennox—also known as Bad Luck itself. Ironic, considering her maternal parenthood, but that's low-hanging fruit, of course. Camp Half-Blood was never too creative nor inspired with their insults. But it wasn't their fault Eli was burdened with such horrible misfortune, of course. (Though how she would love to blame someone else!) She just was. Just as trees were green and the sky was blue, Elizabeth Lennox had the worst luck on the planet.

Atlas often told her, rather brashly, that her misfortune was due to her father—he wasn't of the prosperity Tyche usually searched for in lovers. It was easy for Atlas to say; his father was CFO of a technological company based in Tokyo. That was about as prosperous as Tyche's romances could get. Another of their siblings, Jack Rickman—his last name did all the explaining for what caught Tyche's interest. Felicity Pax came from a lineage that could be traced back, she claimed, to the Tower of Babel.

But Cory Lennox was no big-shot business owner, not even just an extremely lucky gambler; he was the nineteen-times back baron of some obscure nobility that to this day he never bothered to track down. Apparently, that was all Tyche needed to hear. She pounced on him like a damn cat.

And he was left, the very next morning, with a baby.  Some April Fools Day wake-up call, that was. Talk about unlucky, eh?

Seventeen years later, Eli was still swatting at the smoke cloud of misfortune that surrounded her. She just couldn't seem to get the curse to lift, no matter how hard she tried or how much she prayed to her mother; it was as though Tyche had known she'd messed up with the conception of Eli and was trying her best to avoid all contact. Eli could almost imagine the cringe on her mother's face, squeezing her eyes shut so she didn't have to actually see herself pressing the Hang-Up button on her phone.

Just the thought of it brought a grimace to Eli's face. She undid the velcro of her armor and ripped off her chest plate, ignoring the conversation Atlas and Silas had absorbed themselves into—probably on the topic of being two of the best swordsmen at camp, and how humble, too. Eli was beyond sick of hearing it. She'd known (and hated (not really)) Atlas Withers for three years, ever since she'd arrived at camp, and every hour of every day that she spent with him was pure agony, leaving her running on fumes and rage.

She loved him, though. Of course she did. The losers of the Tyche cabin had to stick together, and good ol' Dicky Boy (named so fondly for his laughable middle name of Richard) wasn't all hard ends and tight knots. He was funny—the has-you-keeling-over, wiping-your-eyes, claiming-you-didn't-pee-your-pants kind of funny—and, though he'd stab you if you ever said it out loud, he was rather kind, too. He just kept it very deep inside.

Kinder still was Luke. There was no denying that he was Eli's favorite person, nor that the feeling was reciprocated entirely. Luke and Eli—mischief and misfortune—were a dangerous duo, but an inseparable one nonetheless.

Luke always seemed to have a sixth sort of sense when it came to Elizabeth Lennox, one he used now to recognize her embarrassment running skin-deep. He pulled on her elbow, encouraging her to take a walk with him as they usually did when one of them was in the dumps (often it was Eli). She obliged, the pair of them strolling off from the swordfighting arena, leaving Atlas and Silas to their own devices. Probably they would pick up just where Eli and Atlas had left off and make for a much more entertaining duel, skill versus skill. Eli was glad to miss it.

"Did you hear Annabeth's heading this week's game?" Luke said, smiling. The sun, rare as it was during Camp Half-Blood winters, seemed to glow directly on him, like a spotlight on the starring character of a play. Eli smiled, too.

"I did hear that," she said carefully, lowering her eyes so she wouldn't get stuck ogling Luke all day (though, gods knew, she would have actually been perfectly fine with such an arrangement). "But, I wonder, who could have gotten her that gig? Surely not any other senior counselor, or anyone with a heavy hand of persuasion."

"No, yeah," agreed Luke, with a playful sort of smile, "it was obviously Chiron's idea."

"Naturally," Eli concurred, laughing. She smiled at the ground, though she felt Luke's eyes on her, that disarming gaze she hated so much. She kept her head down, then glanced up to meet his stare—rookie mistake.

Luke's eyes, Eli had always found, were the easiest part of him to get lost in. His face may have been that of a true Greek god—sculpted, heroic, flawless, always donning a smile that could either be valiant or planned—but, Eli thought, it was his eyes people needed to watch out for. They were the kind of eyes cities used to go to war for. The kind the Greeks would have worshipped.

She was lost in them again. Oops.

The pair of them slowed to a stop in the woods between the arena and main camp. Birds twittered overhead; dead leaves rustled in the wind like nature was whispering in their ears, urging them forward. Luke's smile illuminated the forest and everything around them. He was a god, Eli thought. A beautiful, exalted, Herculean god.

Eli melted.

She leaned forward in an exhausted, sword-tired stupor, the dried leaves on the forest floor crunching beneath her toes as she used them as a step-stool to reach Luke's face. He met her in the middle, their lips collided in a slow, comfortable kiss—the kind they often stole in moments like these, away from camp eyes and whispering mouths. Now all they had to listen to was the whispering of the forest.

Eli pulled her head back just slightly so she could look at him. "Hey," she said quietly, her eyes searching his face.

Luke smiled, his hand reaching up behind her neck and getting lost in her hair. "Hi," he replied, just as softly, before pulling her back to him and continuing where they'd left off.

"Time to pack it up, lovebirds," came Atlas's dry voice. He passed a still-intertwined Luke and Eli without hardly looking at them, lugging a bag of practice swords against his back. He dumped the sack at Luke's feet. "Unless you think you can give her some of your talent with a sword through osmosis. Then be my guest."

Eli pulled away from Luke to roll her eyes. She'd left the sword fighting arena without Atlas on purpose so as to avoid comments such as these.

"Atlas," she began curiously, as Luke knelt to pick up the abandoned swords, "if I were to tell you to 'shove it', would you know to where I was referring—?"

"If you're trying to stay clean for my purposes," Silas said, "it's time to let that go, Eli. I'm twelve, not six. Dick."

She shoved at his shoulder. "Whatever. I'm rubber, you're glue."

Luke laughed, slinging the bag of swords over his shoulder easily. "Wow, you really showed him there, Ellie. I'm hurt for him."

Silas and Luke shared the very brotherly laugh that made Eli's gut twist with jealousy. Her eyes trailed up to Atlas, who was, by then, a good ten yards ahead of his friends, not waiting for them to catch up. Eli watched his back recede in the distance, her lips twisting.

"Come on," Silas said before long, pulling Luke by the elbow, doing a little-kid kind of half-jog to try and catch up with Atlas. Despite his claims, Silas really was just a kid at heart—the kind that made Eli beam with fondness as she watched him. "Lux says she made Cabin Ten wait for us before they started their friendship bracelet tutoring session. I told her to save them a spool of yellow string for you, Luke—and Eli, they said they were already out of pink. Sorry."

She waved him off. "Ah, that's alright. I should get back to my cabin and pick up before cabin checks start."

Silas gave her a quick salute, like he was bidding an army general goodbye, before he rushed off to catch up with Atlas.

Luke stayed at Eli's side, watching Silas's retreating figure, an expression upon his face that Eli didn't quite recognize. She tipped her head to the side and laced her fingers into Luke's, turning him to face her.

"Hey," she said, brow furrowed, "what's wrong?"

Like a storm cloud, the dark look passed, and Luke exhaled a tight breath. He lowered his head. "I... I think I have a quest, Eli."

Her heart jumped to her throat. Three years, Luke Castellan had been at Camp Half-Blood. Three years of training, learning, devoting his life to the dangers of being a demigod. Three years that Luke sat, waiting, for one of the gods to designate him a quest—it wasn't a question of who would be the best leader, because everybody knew it would be him. Luke was the best swordsman, the best negotiator, the best leader. He'd led Annabeth and Thalia to camp at the age of fourteen. If he still needed to prove himself after all that, Eli thought, then the gods must have been out of their minds. He, above anyone else, deserved to lead a quest. He'd be the best at it.

Eli traced her thumb across the back of Luke's hand, trying to keep her heartbeat steady. She exhaled a shaky breath. "Wow," she said whispered, breathing out a light laugh. "Oh, my gods, Luke. What?"

His smile returned, like the weight bearing his shoulders down had lifted now that he'd gotten the words out. He met her eyes and she wasn't surprised to see that familiar glint of mischief dancing in them. "I know. I know, it's crazy. But my father came to me last night—"

"Woah," she said, recoiling. "Wh–"

"I know," he said again, appeasingly. "Yeah. I was surprised, too. But he told me I need to get to the Garden of Hesperides, where the nymph daughters of Atlas live. I have to get my father one of their golden apples. He didn't say what I'd get in return, but, Ellie..."

Eli swallowed. He didn't have to say it out loud, but the words still hung heavy over both of their heads. If Luke succeeded on this quest, his father would be proud of him. It was perhaps the one thing all demigods had in common: Wanting their godly parent to be satisfied with them. After all, they spend their whole lives battling with their half-siblings to try and be the best. Some of them have to live up to high standards, like Apollo kids and their legacy of Orpheus. Tyche kids were lucky (pun unintended)—they didn't have any famous half-siblings to live up to. Just each other. And most Hermes kids were pretty content with themselves, not too caught up in the glory, but Eli knew Luke had always wanted the affection of his father more than most.

Whenever Luke did anything, he would more often than not end up doing it with ten times the intensity of any other demigods. Swordplay, he became the best at within less than a week. He was appointed the senior counselor of Cabin Eleven almost immediately after arriving at camp. Where other demigods simply wished for their godly parent's approval, Luke actively sought Hermes's favor. Eli never understood how he could have so much determination at fighting something he knew was a losing battle, but she supported him anyways, unconditionally.

That was what they did, Luke and Eli: They had each other's backs, in everything.

"Have you spoken to Chiron yet?" she asked him, squeezing his hand. She couldn't wipe the shit-eating grin from her face. "Luke! This is so-"

"Lucky?" he supplied with a smile. "I know. I'm going to the Big House after this thing with Silas and Lux. By the way, you're sure you don't want to come?"

He wiggled his eyebrows. Eli laughed. "Sit around for an hour braiding string? No, thanks. You guys have fun, though."

Luke laughed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then began off in the direction Silas and Atlas had gone, walking backwards so as to keep his eyes on Eli for as long as possible. "I'll come find you after I talk to Chiron?"

"You'd better," she told him. "Luke—good luck. I mean it."

He saluted her just as Silas had done, then took off after his brother, the pack of swords clanging against his back. Eli watched him go, and for some reason, even after he was long gone, the smile on her lips remained, like it had chosen to stain her face in pride and promised to never ever leave.

She really hoped it wouldn't.

Via Chatter!

Godddd don't you guys hate infodumping chapters? Wow. I think they are such a cheap copout. Authors that fall for infodump chapters are weakkk. Lame. (sweats in 3k words of backstory and context) (this is slander to nobody but myself)

Hope you all enjoyed this LAME chapter. I hate it personally. But that doesnt matter... I must appease my hungry little readers....

Anyhow idk if it's obvious yet but this story takes place before The Lightning Thief. Percy is but a little baby (he's literally 11 here) and just fell out of a coconut tree?. doesn't exist except in the context of all in which he lives and that came before him

this chapter is dedicated to Bailey my wife because Sylvie and Eli are best friends in another universe I love you so specially my beautiful darling angel lovely and also to the 2.81% of my readers that are Australian. I see you guys.