Chapter Text
The first time Atlas saw messy, illegible letters on his wrist in one of his classes, he assumed they were some kind of shit writing. Maybe his desk partner was looking for ways to make fun of him while he stared at two cooing pigeons through the window. He can either try to make him pay attention to some valuable words from the teacher or mock him, but Atlas honestly doesn't care. He continued doing anything but study, only to find chicken writing on his hand deep at night when his anxiety would not allow him to close his eyes.
To be honest, he hadn't even realised that they were letters and words until three past midday when another messy text started to appear right in front of him. He was terrified then. Like, would you appreciate seeing something—or someone, apparently—make letters magically materialise on your skin, and you wouldn't even be able to read this? Could it be a thread from Grost or some magical elven language? Or perhaps the blessing from Jesus? Atlas strongly doubted the last possibility, and the problem lay not only in his disbelief.
He ends up unable to fall asleep completely. The little terrified boy tried to understand the words on his hand, though he knew he could not. Scribbles done circle dances behind his eyes. He couldn't understand this writing even if he were able to parse the letters.
However, he hadn't told any soul about those paranormal things. No one knows about the mysterious texts that appear on his right hand, not today, not tomorrow, not next week, or next month. Texts showed up rarely at first, mostly during the day, but sometimes at night as well, but then they became more frequent. Gradually, they grew in sharpness and legibility, so Atlas really could read one to two words. Barely, but that was something. And even with so little information, he finally understands—that is not a thread or whatever he thought it was.
Words without any meaning. Badly written and common. It looks like someone on another line is studying basic calligraphy, but Altas tried to not jump to conclusions. Letters would disappear after some time, besides, he could wash them off if he wanted, so they weren't difficult to hide. He's getting used to it and doesn't think about it too much.
Until one strange evening.
It's been a year and something after the first text. Writing finally became understandable enough to read, and Atlas really started to make himself focus on classes so he could do it. His efforts didn't go unnoticed.
The person on the other line—he didn’t think calling them “something” was polite, so he picked up this nickname—usually wrote words, which couldn’t be consistent. But this time it was a question.
“What is your name?”
Caution letters with a question mark in the end. It seems they had to put in the efforts to make those accessible. The person who is sick is his answer.
But Atlas was frightened.
For a whole year he'd believe in his invention, which was pointless, only for receiving an actual question from someone he doesn't even know exists. What should he feel in that situation except fear and viciousness?
He washed it as soon as he could access the sink. Panic rose at his throat as he sat on the tiled floor in the bathroom with his arms around his knees. It couldn't be normal. Couldn't be real. Before Atlas stacked in here, Father mentioned he was broken, but even the best doctors would not understand this condition. Father told him about possibilities, and a younger version of him believed in this lie. Now he's ten, and he shouldn't care what the stupid man said before dropping him in a children's home a few states away.
Still, he ends up here, on the bathroom floor, in tears and despair. He is alone and broken now. It felt eleven times more thrilling than previously. Atlas cried silently until he heard the door open. He thought that was one from a caring person. It was late, and he isn't in his bed yet. He must be there by nine o'clock rigorously, no matter what.
Atlas stands, but in the doorframe, which wasn't something he used to see. That was different. None are actually human, but they are humanoid creatures with really thin postures. The worst was he knew this face and appearance were distorted beyond recognition. Mrs Nancy with a long skirt and an oversweet tone. She stood there with greyish skin and the biggest wings he had ever seen. Her fake kindness melted into a mask full of fury. She had been there for two weeks and always had a special attention toward him. But there was something strange and frightening about this interest. He hadn't noticed until that moment. Bloodlust radiated from her and was so obvious it made him nauseous.
He ran before he could process what happened. Mrs Nancy attacked with her long ugly nails and left two scratches on his back. Atlas barely escaped from another attack but would not be able to make it a second time. The bathroom was too tiny to run from the monster.
Atlas pressed his back against the wall. Mrs Nancy smiled at him with those sharp teeth and lifted hands. Not to hug, apparently.
Atlas was at his limit already before that. But a mix of fear and panic pushed him over the limit. The room darkened as he slowly slid against the wall to the floor, losing consciousness. The monster stepped too close and stopped for some reason. Atlas hasn't stayed in consciousness long enough to notice.
***
Someone slapped him one time. Then another. After the third time, he opened his eyes slightly and, confused, tried to remember some details from last night. The little text on his hand, panic, the monster in the bathroom, and him losing consciousness. Deep darkness after. And suddenly he's alive, getting slapped in the middle of nowhere by someone he doesn't even know.
He sat down a bit too fast and hit a person's forehead. Whoever that was, he released a little pain scream and rubbed the injury site. Curses escaped from his lips, but for Atlas it doesn't matter. d. He felt how hot his cheeks were, heard birds singing and cannot understand, why those things like… Haven't disappeared?
“Hey, are you okay?” the man from the side called. He's still rubbing his hurt forehead.
Atlas hadn't answered. His big eyes were full of fear, and his body started shaking visibly. He cannot think straight.
“Please, don’t kill me,” he whispered and tried to move over.
A hand appeared on his shoulder, and the boy shook more.
“Shhhhu, boy. I won't, I promise.” The man moved closer carefully to not scare the poor boy more. “I’m Grover Underwood. Remember me? Visited you once.”
Atlas pulled from touch. Tears ran down his plump cheeks uncontrollably as he noticed horns and legs—no, hooves, he corrected himself—of a strange guy forward. Yes, he can remember this visitor from a week, maybe two, ago. But did he have those before?
Atlas is sure he wasn't. Is he another monster, then?
Maybe Grover noticed Atlas` look on his hooves, so he started once more with this calm and steady voice.
“Don’t worry, child. I'm a satyr. We’re good guys who are destined to protect children like you, not hurt them.”
Atlas doesn't know why he started to calm down instantly. He was always said to be too trusting of a person, and one word about protection felt sore and delightful at once. He put his guard down.
“Children like me? What does that mean?” He asked carefully.
“Half-bloods. Demigods.” Grover continued with a soft tone. “One of your parents is a Greek god. That’s why creatures like the one you saw before hunt you down.”
***
Good news, Atlas got an explanation for his weirdness. He understands why letters are dancing, his inability to concentrate, and the absence of one of his parents in his life. Bad news, he doesn't want to be like that. He doesn't ask to be a target for monsters the rest of his life. And those things actually explained only half of the conditions he urgently wanted to know.
But it looks like Atlas doesn't have a choice or questions to ask. So he agreed to travel with Grover across forests and lakes to a place they called Camp Half-Blood. He knows it's not completely safe; Grover said it himself, but at least there he could stay until he would be able to stand on his own. Also, he can train, be taught properly, and leave when he's ready to. All he wanted for now, perhaps.
They had walked for two days in a row. Of course they're nowhere near camp yet, but Grover continued to tell stories about that place. The camp director and his right hand, Chiron, his adventures with friends Percy and Annabeth, chariot games, etc. Grover asked about his life too, but Atlas wasn't verbose enough to keep the conversation about his traumas going. He stayed silent most of the time.
And then it happened again. At the end of the third day, they passed halfway to camp. Grover went to the forest to look for branches to keep the fire going all night. Atlas sits alone near the campfire and stares. His wrist suddenly starts itching. He raised his hand to his face.
That again. Messy letters—he needed a whole minute to understand.
‘Mom said I cannot know your name. Can I name you Butterfly?’
Atlas just stared at his hand for another minute. Butterfly? Someone—he still hasn't figured out who or what—terrorised him the past year, and now he's speaking directly to him, asking to make nicknames. Is that what Dad called losing your mind?
Grover showed up unexpectedly. Atlas jumped up and immediately hid his hand from his sight. But Grover has already seen what he needed.
“You do see something over there, don’t you?” He asked. Atlas looked at his eyes with fear.
“It… It’s nothing.” Tears started to form behind his eyes. His throat was tight with unshown panic from those texts and understanding someone caught him. He doesn't know why, but it feels too private to show to other people. Besides, Grover hasn't seen that; he suggests that there is something there. Doesn't it made him look insane in the eyes of only creature who understands him better then everyone?
Atlas was ready for accusations or more questions. Adults never cared about his feelings, only asked more and drew conclusions. But Grover stayed silent for a while and then smiled. That kind of smile he always does—Atlas managed to learn the pattern.
It was about kindness and actual caring, not about sharp conclusions.
“Why are you smiling?” The boy asked.
“This is quite early. A rare case.” Grover puts a hand on the boy's hair and strokes it lightly.
“What?” Atlas directs a confused look at Grover's eyes.
“Soulmate. You see their texts on your arm.” Grover seems to be very excited about it. Atlas couldn't understand why.
“What is a soulmate?” He asked.
“A soulmate is the person who has been assigned to you by Aphrodite herself. Goddess of love, if you don't know. You can talk to them even at an abnormal distance, and only you and he can see text from each other.” Satyr explained. “Also, those blessings could be arranged for demigods only.”
That information explained many things, but Atlas was still confused. But he didn't ask another question and just nodded. He needed time to put it in his head.
***
The last two days of their adventure on the road to camp were a mess. The monsters' attack was unexpected and intense; they became more frequent as they approached the safe place. Grover was the only one who could fight; Atlas won't be able to even if he can. The fear made him freeze in place; his brain screamed for him to run for his life. He tried to help, but the attempts were awful. He got some new wounds that weren't terrible but bothered him the rest of the way. As a reminder, he was a burden on the battlefield, and he hated this aspect of himself.
But they manage to arrive at Camp Half-Blood by the evening of the sixth day of travel. Atlas looked up at this place for the first time and… He wasn't really delighted. By Grover's words, this place was way more exciting. Or maybe Atlas has very high expectations.
Grover accompanied him to a big home on the outskirts of the camp. He claimed this home-like residence for newcomers and the home of Chiron. Atlas did not really listen to what the satyr said further. Something about the rules and security of that place, maybe. His attention was on children that run around. Some of them are very young, like him, and some are already teenagers. All of them in orange t-shirts with “Camp Half-Blood” printed on them. Nothing distinguishes them from a regular summer camp. Exclude swords and another kind of weapon. Atlas would say they are real even from a big distance.
Those things somehow make him uneasy, so he turned from the children and made himself focus on Grover. Right on time, they slipped into the house.
The interior was nothing more than minimalist. Everything that they needed was there, but nothing more, nothing less. Atlas got bored after a few seconds of staring, so as they walked, he kept his eyes forward. There was an interesting picture there: the oldish and energetic man in clothes with leopard print. He narrowed his eyebrows, as he couldn't decide if that cart was more suitable for his case. His aura was thick and terrifying. Another man showed no signs of fear and grinned victoriously. Tall, muscular. But not only his appearance caught Atlas` attention. He slightly pulled the corner of Grover's sweater.
“Why is that man wearing a dress?” Atlas cannot help but ask to satisfy his curiosity.
Grover looked down at him and laughed softly.
“That’s not a skirt, little one. It's a chiton. Traditional Greek clothing.”
Those words broke the tense silence between two men, and they turned their heads in Atlas and Grover's direction. Atlas instinctively hides behind Grover. He learnt that he could trust this satyr over almost a week of travel, so he assumed he was the only one who was able to defend him from ‘bad’ people.
“Hey, new kid? What do you think that camp is, a kindergarten?” The leopard-printed man said. Atlas confirmed to himself that he dislikes him.
“Don’t be so harsh, Mr D. It's just a child.” A tall man stood up and made his way to them. “What’s your name?” He asked, looking directly at Atlas.
That man seemed not to be a bad person, but Atlas didn't used to believe someone at first sight. He hesitated for a moment before answering the question:
“Atlas.” He never told them his last name. Fortunately, they seem not to be interested in it at all.
The men he disliked rolled their eyes and left the room, mumbling something about the third child that week and the tone of work. Grover stroked his head once more and ran toward Mr D.
“Keep an eye on him, Hyacinthus. We'll be right back,” Grover said.
“Hey, when did I agree to be a local mommy??” The man—Hyacinthus, apparently—shouted, but those two had already left. He looked down at the kid he was left with. Atlas seems confused too.
“Well. kid… Those two could be the nothos sometimes, don`t mind them.” You can see clearly Hyacinthus doesn't know what he should do. They stayed silent for a good minute.
Atlas can't help but ask, only to make the silence not that tense.
“You’re named after a flower?”
Hyacinthus almost rolled his eyes, as he's been asked that question many times before.
“No, actually. The flower's been named after me thanks to my agapetos.” The last word was said with a you-complete-idiot tone. Atlas wanted to ask, but he bit his tongue before words left his mouth.
Then they become silent again. Grover and Mr D. were in no hurry to return, and Atlas didn't feel comfortable alone with the stranger, especially when he used words he couldn't recognise.
Hyacinthus understood that and sighed, making a proposal:
“Maybe you want to play in something?” The man asked.
His head is buzzing with thoughts and predictions; games were nowhere near the thing he was thinking about the most. Atlas was dying for a moment he could stay alone and just make everything work. Unfortunately for him, the door suddenly opened, and another boy stepped into the house.
“Mom!” He shouted and ran toward Hyacinthus, hugging him tight. Atlas had to stand back just not to be knocked off his feet. Hyacinthus's face lit up instantly. He took the boy in his strong arms and lifted him with ease. The boy laughed.
“Told you not to call me ‘Mom’ I’m your father,” Hyacinthus said with no offence and smiled instead.
They had a small talk about hunting with aunt and training with someone named Will as Atlas stood aside quietly. Staring at them, he thought about his whole life. That kid looked nothing like Hyacinthus, and still he was treated differently from Atlas. He cannot understand why.
Father… The only one good thing his father had done to him was his pity. For eight years. He used to call it caring, but Atlas knew it wasn't. He has an example of real father-to-son love and caring. Something he never had. And gods, he was so jealous.
A few minutes passed before two remembered him standing there. To be honest, Hyacinthus gave him a spontaneous look and then looked back at his kid.
“Hey, we have a new kid. Don't you want to make a friend?” The boy seemed interested in the proposition, so his father—Atlas refused to call this 2-meter-tall bodybuilder a mom—had to put him down.
The boy wasn't tall at all, but he had a muscular posture for his age. Blonde, with deep violet eyes. Atlas wasn't certain if this eye color is real or if this is his imagination. His skin was much lighter than Hyacinthus` who had a dark chocolate complexion. He offered Atlas a hand with this bright smile stretching his lips.
“Hi! I'm Orestes. I’m ten.” He said frankly. Atlas felt his rage bubbling inside from that sweetness. It almost makes him feel nauseous.
He stepped back from another kid, blue-green eyes filled with harshness. Seeing this reaction, Orestes dropped his smile. His expression is full of confusion and sadness. Atlas might have reconsidered his reaction in other cases, but currently he was too angry to think clearly.
Hyacinthus was shocked by this scene but won't say a word. God only knows what was in his head.
At that moment Grover appeared in the room, breaking the tense atmosphere with his happy tone.
“Atlas! Come on. I'll show you the camp.”
Atlas won't hesitate and walks toward him. Then he took his hand and followed silently. He might feel guilty later, but for now he needs to put everything into his head. And to look at his hands, because they started itching again.
Soulmate wrote something. What it possibly could be?