❝ Does being a Child of Hermes automatically make you good at flirting? Or was that just a skill you picked up? ❞
Andromeda Jackson knew she was not cut out for the demigod life, and that was before she heard about her death from the creepy oracle i...
─── betrayal is just the thing i need for a healthy lifestyle
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𝔖urviving a quest and coming back alive was apparently a big deal, so all four of us not dying was nothing short of impressive. We had a feast prepared in our honour, where we had to wear laurel wreaths, and then we had a large bonfire to burn the burial shrouds our cabins had made for us whilst we were away.
Annabeth's shroud was beautiful - grey silk, embroidered with owls. I told her it seemed a shame not to bury her in it. She had laughed, but punched me all the same. I like to think that we were now getting along (hopefully).
Luke's was also stunning; metallic white and emerald green with snakes curling around the hem of it all. Mine was more humorous. It was sea green, emblazoned with a trident and a plethora of spray painted smiley faces courtesy of Five.
Burning them was fun.
Seven led the sing-along, passing out treats. I was surrounded by Luke, and my old Eleven cabin mates, Annabeth's friends and Grover's satyr buddies, all of whom were admiring the brand-new searcher's licence he'd received. The council had called Grover's performance on the quest "Brave to the point of indigestion."
Even Dionysus's welcome-home speech wasn't enough to dampen my spirits.
I moved back to Three, but it wasn't as lonely. I had friends to train with, and hang out with and at night, I lay awake and listened to the sea. My father was out there. Maybe he wasn't quite sure about me yet, maybe he hadn't even wanted me born, but he was watching. And so far, he was proud of what I'd done.
My mother had a chance at a new life. Her letter arrived after about of week of being back at camp. She told me Gabe left mysteriously, disappearing off the face of the earth. She'd reported him missing to the police, but she and I knew that they'd never find him.
On a completely unrelated subject, she'd sold her first life-size concrete sculpture, entitled The Poker Player, to a collector, through an art gallery in Soho. She'd gotten so much money for it, she'd put a deposit down on a new apartment and made a payment on her first semester's tuition at NYU. The Soho gallery was clamouring for more of her work, which they called 'a huge step forward in ugly neorealism.'
But, my mum had told me that she was done with sculptures. The box of tools I'd gifted her, had been disposed of, and she was going back to writing.
At the bottom, she wrote a P.S : Dree, I've found a good private school here in the city. I've put a deposit down to hold you a spot, in case you want to enrol for your final year. You could live at home. But if you want to go year-round at Camp, I'll understand.
