Sweetheart

Two

Rosabella Haven did not like Percy Jackson. 

Yeah, sure, that first day when he rolled in with a Minotaur horn in his hands before passing out, he seemed pretty cool. But now, after he got claimed after barely knowing anything, by Poseidon, of all the gods, she didn’t think so. And she’d made it fairly clear that she didn’t like Percy, or Perseus as the newspaper called him. 

It was all ‘Percy Jackson this, Percy Jackson that, he’s so cool!’ Honestly, it made Rosabella sick. Sure, Percy probably wasn’t a bad kid, but he could at least enjoy the attention he was being given. All the attention Rosabella had ever gotten was when Limia had chased her to camp, and for the two weeks after Aphrodite claimed her. But you blow up one camp toilet you’re suddenly so important. It was disgusting, really. 

Not only did he get toilet water everywhere, but the area still smelled like the sewer.  Honestly, Rosabella just needed a break. So, that’s why she was kneeling in the grass in the center of the cabin ring. Her head was bowed and her hands were contently folded as she sat and prayed to Hestia. Percy had moved from the Hermes Cabin into the Poseidon Cabin that morning, and Rosabella was not having it. He got to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, however he wanted to do it. For once, she wished she had that type of freedom. 

It’s not that she didn’t love her siblings. She did love her siblings; they were just a bit much sometimes. There was always that hovering shadow telling her she needed to be perfect. Whether that was the inner Aphrodite or her fatal flaw (vanity, as most of the Aphrodite kids), Rosabella wasn’t actually sure. Silena said it was just a feeling of inferiority because ‘she was young and undeveloped’, but Rosabella doubted that. 

So, she sat and talked to Hestia. Rosabella knew ‌Hestia would typically listen to prayers and if they were reasonable, she would answer them. Maybe that came with being known as a peaceful maiden goddess. She would answer to those who deserved it. 

So maybe that’s why Rosabella spent so much time praying to Hestia. Maybe Rosabella thought that if she was nice enough to a goddess, they would grant her a quest. The quest she needed to prove that she was not just another doll. If she got a quest, she could prove herself. That was every demigods dream, though; to get the quest that would prove them worthy of their godly parents' attention. So the odds of her getting the quest were pretty low. Like, how often would a quest just be randomly given to some kid who sat by a fire every day?

But Hestia was a kind goddess, so Rosabella had a small flicker of hope that maybe it would happen. Maybe Hestia would be kind enough to grant the quest. People who had been on quests had told her she didn’t want one, or that it would traumatize her, or that it was just a downright terrible idea. But did Rosabella care? Not really. She just wanted to prove herself, and what better way to do it than with a quest? 

She’d tried getting Hestia’s favor for nearly two years. At breakfast she would pray to Hestia as she burned a cinnamon roll (she’d explained to her siblings nearly a million times that she prays to their mom at other meals). She always made sure the area around Hestia’s Hearth was clean. She prayed to her daily. Anything that might make Hestia notice her, Rosabella was doing it. Some campers would probably describe her as obsessive, but she didn’t mind. It’s not like it was hurting anyone.

“Rosabella! Your best friends here!” A small voice yelled. It was Lillian, of course, the heart of Camp Half-Blood. 

Rosabella was quick to get up and start running. It was not every day that Wren Jury arrived at camp. 

Wren Jury, Rosabella’s best friend since her second year at camp. She was a daughter of Tyche, the goddess of fortune and fate. Wren was one of the campers who came unannounced and left unannounced. There were few times when Rosabella would have contact with Wren outside of camp, mainly because Wren was still convinced that Iris messages would let monsters know where she was. That, or the fact the Iris messages from New Mexico to the Ivory Coast, were not at all stable for more than a few seconds.