[ luke had thought talking on the locket would be easier. it can click out. he can easily manipulate it. technology has always been his domain, just as running is — but he finds he can't quite outrun this. after opening a can of worms, he finds that they turn into snakes that coil around him, refusing to let him go despite how he tries to pry their tails from his legs and whip them away from him. this is why he doesn't talk. he may be able to make deals and be diplomatic and know the right thing to say to see someone else smile instead of frown, but he's clueless when it comes to himself. what did he want from this? why did he even tell her the story behind his scar? the dream they had shared hadn't encouraged him to open up — it'd forced him to shut down. revealing so much to hermione, knowing she wouldn't understand the boom of the voice and the violent tremors in the ground was kronos — it'd been too much. she's not dumb — too quick-witted and too analytical, if he tried to play it off like it was his imagination going wild from a book he'd read the night previous, she'd see right through his bullshit. and, truthfully, he isn't quite so sure he'd be able to sell it. ]
[ the drabwurld has changed him. by giving him a second chance at redemption, by the monarchs listening to him when he had chosen to use his voice — it's everything he had ever wanted when he had arrived at camp half-blood determined to not let another demigod fall victim to his or her godly parent's shitty parenting. being turned into a tree in an effort to save a hero from joining the ranks of the many who had fallen and who would never be remembered wasn't what he wanted. he wanted heroes like thalia to be revered, to be saved as they deserved, instead of being locked within mansions like hal green had been. but the drabwurld has been easier to swallow when it gifts him his handouts, believing in him as it allows him to strive for the excellency he has always pushed himself to soar toward. but when another identifies it, when another gives him a golden cloak to welcome him into a team of champions, his self-deprecation and self-hate see fit to come into his house, regardless of how intricate his own locks are, and decimate his hope. and he lets it. ]
[ he doesn't know why he said it; he doesn't know what he's meant to gain from this. she doesn't understand how ladon and the garden had been the beginning of the end for him. it'd hardly had been a beginning; sometimes, he thinks it was the end of luke castellan and the start of a boy he would never come to recognise in the mirror. it's been haunting him; ever since he had been given his second bundle of boons, the shield he hardly takes with him to spar with being fashioned out of ladon's scales, the ghosts of his past hadn't left him alone. latching themselves onto his heels, they'd forced him to carry their weight all across the drabwurld. in his dreams, she'd spied the worst of him, what he was afraid of, the moment he realised he regretted everything, the moment he realised he'd never be remembered and revered as hercules, despite being such a douche in reality. but he does know, even if he'll deny it to himself, he no longer wants to be the kid who tried to raze olympus and who had killed everyone who got in his way. he hadn't meant to. it hadn't been his hand that had struck against them. just like with ladon, he had tried to survive, defending himself against a titan who he thought was asleep as he approached but had struck out harshly and powerfully against a boy who was unprepared for him. ]
[ he doesn't want to slow down in fear of her — and himself — not liking what they see. but he doesn't want to stop running so the beast that's chasing him, the forgiveness and the want to stop hating himself, never catches him. the fields of punishment no longer exist in hades; he's brought it right to drabwurld for him to run through as he refuses to give himself what he wants, believing he's undeserving — and he'll always think so, about the cloak representing the cadre, about the forgiveness nico has given him, about the peace percy has bestowed upon him. he can feel himself wanting to destroy it now. with all the stones falling into place for him in this very moment, he can feel the impulse, as it's been building inside of him, to tear it all down with one big, mighty shove. and maybe the part of him that has begun to believe, so slowly, that he deserves good has been fighting against such a self-destructive instinct by making him latch onto a story about a scar and give her one of his own without missing the intricate details. he's always kept himself locked in a jar, unattainable to all, that a part of him wants to break out. ]
[ he just watches her, expression not as blank as he would hope it to be. it's confronting; he wants to bolt, as he had when annabeth first left. but he knows, unlike those who were in his life months before, she won't let him. but for being wordy, he finds he only has a few. ] I've always known what I wanted. Always. [ to be a hero; to make a difference; to be the son a god would be proud of. he had always known the roads to travel, the alleys to cut through to make the journey a little quicker. but he's found it so difficult now, uncertain of where he wants to go at the forked road he's been stuck at for years. he cards a hand through his hair, it sticking up at all ends. his hand returns to his lap, fingers interlaced with the other, before he breaks them to cup his knees instead. it's as though he wishes to move, but a part of him ties himself to the couch. his gaze becomes distant as he doesn't look at the locket, and his voice mimics it, ] I don't know what I want anymore. [ for her to come over; for this story to make a difference; to strive to be better; to be left alone. he doesn't know — and he has always known. ]
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[ the drabwurld has changed him. by giving him a second chance at redemption, by the monarchs listening to him when he had chosen to use his voice — it's everything he had ever wanted when he had arrived at camp half-blood determined to not let another demigod fall victim to his or her godly parent's shitty parenting. being turned into a tree in an effort to save a hero from joining the ranks of the many who had fallen and who would never be remembered wasn't what he wanted. he wanted heroes like thalia to be revered, to be saved as they deserved, instead of being locked within mansions like hal green had been. but the drabwurld has been easier to swallow when it gifts him his handouts, believing in him as it allows him to strive for the excellency he has always pushed himself to soar toward. but when another identifies it, when another gives him a golden cloak to welcome him into a team of champions, his self-deprecation and self-hate see fit to come into his house, regardless of how intricate his own locks are, and decimate his hope. and he lets it. ]
[ he doesn't know why he said it; he doesn't know what he's meant to gain from this. she doesn't understand how ladon and the garden had been the beginning of the end for him. it'd hardly had been a beginning; sometimes, he thinks it was the end of luke castellan and the start of a boy he would never come to recognise in the mirror. it's been haunting him; ever since he had been given his second bundle of boons, the shield he hardly takes with him to spar with being fashioned out of ladon's scales, the ghosts of his past hadn't left him alone. latching themselves onto his heels, they'd forced him to carry their weight all across the drabwurld. in his dreams, she'd spied the worst of him, what he was afraid of, the moment he realised he regretted everything, the moment he realised he'd never be remembered and revered as hercules, despite being such a douche in reality. but he does know, even if he'll deny it to himself, he no longer wants to be the kid who tried to raze olympus and who had killed everyone who got in his way. he hadn't meant to. it hadn't been his hand that had struck against them. just like with ladon, he had tried to survive, defending himself against a titan who he thought was asleep as he approached but had struck out harshly and powerfully against a boy who was unprepared for him. ]
[ he doesn't want to slow down in fear of her — and himself — not liking what they see. but he doesn't want to stop running so the beast that's chasing him, the forgiveness and the want to stop hating himself, never catches him. the fields of punishment no longer exist in hades; he's brought it right to drabwurld for him to run through as he refuses to give himself what he wants, believing he's undeserving — and he'll always think so, about the cloak representing the cadre, about the forgiveness nico has given him, about the peace percy has bestowed upon him. he can feel himself wanting to destroy it now. with all the stones falling into place for him in this very moment, he can feel the impulse, as it's been building inside of him, to tear it all down with one big, mighty shove. and maybe the part of him that has begun to believe, so slowly, that he deserves good has been fighting against such a self-destructive instinct by making him latch onto a story about a scar and give her one of his own without missing the intricate details. he's always kept himself locked in a jar, unattainable to all, that a part of him wants to break out. ]
[ he just watches her, expression not as blank as he would hope it to be. it's confronting; he wants to bolt, as he had when annabeth first left. but he knows, unlike those who were in his life months before, she won't let him. but for being wordy, he finds he only has a few. ] I've always known what I wanted. Always. [ to be a hero; to make a difference; to be the son a god would be proud of. he had always known the roads to travel, the alleys to cut through to make the journey a little quicker. but he's found it so difficult now, uncertain of where he wants to go at the forked road he's been stuck at for years. he cards a hand through his hair, it sticking up at all ends. his hand returns to his lap, fingers interlaced with the other, before he breaks them to cup his knees instead. it's as though he wishes to move, but a part of him ties himself to the couch. his gaze becomes distant as he doesn't look at the locket, and his voice mimics it, ] I don't know what I want anymore. [ for her to come over; for this story to make a difference; to strive to be better; to be left alone. he doesn't know — and he has always known. ]