𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀𝘿; heroes of olympus

a good giant

ERITH JAY
HER FIRST THOUGHT WHEN SHE WALKED INTO THE HUT: it was cozy. Which was rather ironic, considering it was the size of a planetarium and constructed of bones, mud, and drakon skin.

In the center blazed a bonfire made of pitch and bone; yet the smoke was white and odorless, rising through the hole in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with dry marsh grass and gray wool rugs. At one end lay a massive bed of sheepskins and drakon leather. At the other end, freestanding racks were hung with drying plants, cured leather, and what looked like strips of drakon jerky. There was a pen of sheep huddled in the back of the hut, and the whole place smelled of stew, smoke, basil, and thyme.

Erith's stomach clenched painfully. Her mouth watered. It took most of her focus not to beg Damasen for some food.

Bob placed Percy in the giant's bed, where he nearly disappeared in the wool and leather. Small Bob hopped off Percy and kneaded the blankets, purring so strongly the bed rattled like a Thousand-Finger Massage.

Erith would've died happy right then and there if she could have some warm food and curl up in the bed with Percy.

Damasen plodded to the bonfire. He tossed his drakon meat into a hanging pot that seemed to be made from an old monster skull, then picked up a ladle and began to stir.

Erith swallowed painfully, tearing her eyes away from whatever he was making. She glanced at Percy. He let out a wheezing, painful groan, and Erith remembered what was important.

She stomped over to Damasen. "Hey, uh, giant. If you're not going to eat me, could you cure my friend?" She pointed at Percy.

Damasen looked down at her, glowering under his bushy red eyebrows. He was unsettling in a way different from the giants Erith had met―not so hostile, just bitter and sorrowful, like he was so wrapped up in his own misery he resented Erith for trying to make him focus on anything else.

"I don't hear words like those in Tartarus," the giant grumbled. "Friend. Promise."

"That's great," Erith snapped, impatience getting the better of her. "And I don't typically get to see Tartarus, but there's a first time for everything. Are you going to cure him, or not?" She crossed her arms, standing straight.

Damasen rumbled, a sound deep in his chest. "Get to see Tartarus. That's a new one." He studied her, his eyes piercing and not necessarily friendly. "You are a half-dead mortal that struggled into my swamp and I would like to guess that you are only alive because of Iapetus here." He gestured at Bob, who didn't look too happy about the use of his old name.

Erith nodded. "That's right. I've really enjoyed the tour, but my friend is dying. Can you heal him, or not? Because I know I can't."

"Hmph." Damasen turned away from her and handed Bob the ladle. "Stir."

As Bob tended the stew, Damasen perused his drying racks, plucking various leaves and roots. He popped a fistful of plant material into his mouth, chewed it up, then spat it into a clump of wool.

"Cup of broth," Damasen ordered.

Bob ladled some stew juice into a hollow gourd. He handed it to Damasen, who dunked the chewed-up gunk ball and stirred it with his finger.

"That," Erith said, "looks disgusting."

Damasen ignored her, muttering something about gorgon's blood. Then he lumbered to the bedside and propped up Percy with one hand. Small Bob sniffed the broth and hissed. He snatched the sheets with his paws like he wanted to bury it.