Chapter Text
There were two kinds of stories: those told to children and those only fit for adults.
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Luke and Marie Castellan were born on the 13th of August 1986.
They were the children of a mortal mother and a godly father, their lives bound to a destiny far too dreadful for any child to bear. But in those first moments of life, they were blissfully unaware of the heavy burden their lineage would one day demand of them.
They entered the world like any other infants—tiny, fragile, bloody, and screaming, their cries echoing through the sterile hospital room. Despite being born early, they were surprisingly strong, their lungs robust as they announced their arrival.
For May Castellan, their birth was a moment of profound joy, mingled with the quiet terror of what lay ahead. She held her children close, marveling at the perfection of their tiny fingers and toes, whispering promises of love and protection. But even in her bliss, there was an unease she couldn’t shake, a shadow that lingered at the edges of her happiness. She knew the truth of their father, knew the weight of the blood that coursed through their veins, and with that knowledge came a fear she dared not speak aloud.
And yet, for a brief time, everything was blissful. Hermes, despite the forbidden nature of his presence, stayed with them as often as he could, weaving in and out of their lives like a breeze that arrived without warning and left just as suddenly. During those stolen moments, they were a family—a real family—and a happy one at that. Hermes brought with him an infectious energy, a lightness that made even the most ordinary days feel special.
He would cradle the children in his arms, telling stories of places long forgotten, of times where gods walked freely and mortals could see the world for what it truly was. To May, these moments were like precious jewels, something to hold onto when the nights grew long and the world outside their door seemed too dark to bear.
Luke and Marie, too young to grasp the complexities of their existence, knew only that their father’s presence made everything brighter. When Hermes was with them, the house felt warmer, as if his very essence infused the air with a subtle magic. Laughter echoed more frequently through the rooms, and even the simplest moments seemed tinged with a sense of wonder. Hermes would delight them with his shape-shifting tricks, transforming into playful animals or conjuring shiny trinkets from thin air, his antics drawing peals of laughter from his children. In his own way, as much as a god could, he loved them fiercely.
But May knew better than to rely on that love. She understood the fickle nature of the gods, knew that their affections were as unpredictable as the winds. He was not like mortal men, bound by the same rules or driven by the same loyalties. Gods were capricious, their attention fleeting, and May could not afford to trust that Hermes’ love would be enough to keep her children safe.
Gods were not known for their constancy, neither to their lovers nor to their offspring. May had heard the stories, the countless tales of children born of gods who were left to fend for themselves, abandoned by the very beings who had brought them into the world.
May had seen the monsters that lurked outside. She had not been blind to the way their eyes followed her children whenever she dared to take them to the park. These were not the vague, distant threats of myth; they were real, and they were close.
The fear gnawed at her, a constant dread that kept her awake at night. How could she, a mere mortal, protect her children from the dangers that stalked them? She was painfully aware of her own limitations, of the fragility of her human body, and the insufficiency of her knowledge. She had tried to prepare, studying the ancient texts, but nothing had given her the answers she needed.
It was despair that filled her heart, a despair that deepened with each passing day. She felt trapped in an impossible situation, knowing that danger was coming for her children, but powerless to stop it. Luke and Marie were innocent, their eyes still bright with the joy of childhood, blissfully unaware of the darkness that loomed just beyond the horizon. They trusted her to keep them safe, but she knew that trust was misplaced. She was not enough. Not as she was.
And then, one evening, when Hermes had returned after a short absence, he mentioned something that changed everything: the Oracle of Delphi. His words were casual, spoken almost in passing, but they struck May with the force of a revelation. The Oracle—one of the most powerful sources of prophecy, a direct link to the wisdom of the gods.
And May, well, she knew exactly what needed to be done.
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For all her prophetic gifts, May Castellan, in her desperation, never saw her own end coming.
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Margot Castellan had always known trouble when she saw it.
It had a way of making itself known, slipping through the cracks of the ordinary, trailing chaos in its wake. So when her daughter, May, introduced her to the father of her children, Margot felt that familiar knot of dread tighten in her chest.
There was something about him—a presence that unsettled the air, a glint in his eye that spoke of things no mortal should ever know. He was charming, yes, with a smile that could melt stone and a voice that seemed to carry the weight of ages. But beneath that charm, Margot sensed an otherness, a power that set her on edge.
The way he moved, the way he spoke—it all hinted at something far beyond the scope of their imagination. Margot tried to warn May, to gently prod her into seeing what she herself could not unsee, but her daughter was blind with love.
So Margot watched, helpless, as May plunged deeper into this whirlwind romance. She knew better than to interfere, knowing that to push too hard would only drive her daughter further away. Instead, Margot waited, her heart heavy with the certainty that this could not end well.
And when May returned just a few short months later, broken in ways Margot could scarcely fathom, she felt no surprise—only a deep, abiding sorrow. May's mind was shattered, her once-bright eyes now clouded with a terror that defied language. She spoke in disjointed fragments, her voice trembling as she tried to articulate a future too horrifying to grasp. The world she had glimpsed, the truths she had uncovered—they had been more than any human could endure.
May clung to her mother like a frightened child, her hands trembling as she whispered of monsters and gods, of horrors that lurked just beyond the veil of reality. She spoke of little Luke, of tragedy, of death that loomed like a shadow over their lives. Her words were a torrent of despair, each one heavy with the weight of foreknowledge, each one a stab of pain in Margot’s heart.
All the while, upstairs, May’s children slept peacefully, too young to understand that the mother they knew was gone, replaced by this fragile, haunted figure. They were unaware of the darkness that had taken root in their home, of the battle that raged within their mother’s mind.
Margot listened to May's fractured confessions, holding her close, even as she felt the cold tendrils of dread creeping into her own soul.
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The first five years of their life were not so bad. They were filled with the laughter of innocent games, the gentle rhythms of childhood. Luke was the bolder of the two, always eager to explore, his curiosity boundless. Marie, quieter and more introspective, often followed in his wake, content to watch and learn. They were close, as siblings often are, bound by a connection that went beyond words.
In those early years, there was a peace, a kind of fragile happiness that wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Their parents might have been a sore subject, even at that age, but their grandmother did her best to shield them from the worst of it.
Money was tight, but they never truly lacked for anything essential. Their home, though modest, was filled with warmth and the simple comforts that mattered most. Margot was resourceful, stretching every dollar to ensure her family never went to bed hungry or cold. She poured every ounce of her energy into making sure they felt safe, cherished, and loved. And for a while, she succeeded.
Their grandmother was wise, with eyes that pierced through the Mist, seeing into the depths of what lay beneath. Fearing the dangers that might await them beyond the safety of their home, Margot made the decision to keep them close. She didn’t send them to kindergarten like other children their age. Instead, she kept them at home.
Under Margot’s watchful eye, Luke and Marie were sheltered from the harshness of the world as well as the worst of their mother’s fits. They lived in a small bubble of relative innocence, away from the prying eyes of strangers. Their grandmother’s house was a world unto itself, filled with old books and trinkets, the air always carrying the scent of herbs and Margot’s favorite rose perfume.
They had no playmates outside their little family, but that hardly mattered. They had each other, and that bond was unbreakable. Luke, always the adventurous one, would dream up grand quests and daring rescues, and Marie would follow, her quieter nature balancing his wild energy. Together, they explored the hidden corners of their grandmother’s house, turning every nook and cranny into a new world of their own making.
In those early years, life felt almost charmed, untouched by the cruelty that lay beyond their understanding. For all they knew, the world was a place of wonder, where the greatest dangers were imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows of their games.
But innocence was a fleeting thing, and the world always had a way of intruding, no matter how tightly one tried to keep it at bay.
For Luke and Marie such a time came shortly after their fifth birthday, when their grandmother suffered a heart attack.
She passed away long before the ambulance could reach them.
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Marie didn’t always remember her first life.
She was only six years old when it started. Memory came to her in fragments, like shards of a shattered mirror, and it took years for her to piece them together, to see the whole picture.
May Castellan had never intended to harm her daughter, that much was clear. But intent meant little when actions spoke so loudly, when they set in motion events that spiraled far beyond anyone’s control. It had been a blur—a sudden push, the sharp edge of the table meeting her skull, and then darkness.
When Marie awoke, something was different. She wasn’t just Marie anymore.
The girl who opened her eyes on that fateful day was no longer the same person who had closed them. Something had changed, something fundamental and terrifying. She could feel it in the way her thoughts intertwined with memories that weren’t her own, in the way a voice, soft yet insistent, whispered truths she should not have known.
The world around her seemed sharper, more vivid, as if she were seeing it through someone else’s eyes—someone older, wiser, and far more burdened. As the days passed, it became clear that she was no longer simply a child.
At first, she tried to push it away, to cling to the remnants of her childhood. But the memories were relentless. They bled into her dreams, into her waking thoughts, until she could no longer distinguish where Marie ended and the other began. There was knowledge of gods and wars that shaped the world, of children born to monstrous parents who were not so different from the beasts that hunted them all. And with each passing day, Marie felt herself becoming something other.
She began to understand things she had no right to know, to see the world in a way no child should. The gods, those distant figures from stories, were no longer abstract concepts.
In this world, they were real.
And there was nothing more terrifying than that.
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If life had followed a script, she would have stepped into this world prepared, ready to face every obstacle with unwavering resolve. She would have crafted a plan, executed it with only minor deviations, and emerged victorious, saving the day as a heroine of old—a figure destined to become legend.
But this was no story, and there was no script to guide her steps.
Reality, harsh and unyielding, held no place for fantasies of victory.
In a world where three sisters spun the threads of fate, weaving destinies with cold indifference, she was never meant to prevail.
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The truth was that, despite its dark themes and the dreadful events that unfolded, Percy Jackson and the Olympians was, at its heart, a children’s book. It danced around the edges of its grim premise, never fully plunging into the abyss. The horrors lurking beneath the surface were left veiled, the true, unvarnished history glossed over in favor of adventure and humor.
Yes, the gods were depicted as terrible, their cruelty unmistakable. But the true depth of their malevolence, the bone-chilling terror they embodied, was something the pages could never fully convey. Marie learned this the hard way. There was a vast chasm between reading about a brave twelve-year-old boy confronting a pantheon of gods—of silly Dionysus sipping Diet Coke and Apollo’s laughable haikus—and actually living in that world.
It was one thing to immerse oneself in a story, where the horrors were softened by the distance of fiction. It was quite another to be a child, trapped in a reality far crueler than any tale. A reality where your mother teetered on the edge of madness, a soul shattered by the burden of her own choices, and your father—a being so far removed from humanity that no language could capture his essence—cast a shadow so vast it seemed to swallow them all.
Marie had read the books and watched the stories unfold, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Hermes standing in their kitchen at night, holding her mother upright after one of her fits. The god who was depicted with such lightness in the stories, a figure of mischief and charm, was nothing like the one she saw in the dim glow of the kitchen light. His presence filled the room with an unsettling quiet, the air thick with an energy that made her skin prickle.
There was nothing human about Hermes. He was ancient, unknowable, his eyes reflecting the weight of millennia, carrying the knowledge of countless lifetimes and the indifference that came with it. In that moment, as he supported her mother—who trembled and muttered incoherently, her body limp in his arms—Marie could see the true nature of the god before her. His movements were careful, almost tender, as he guided May to a chair, his touch gentle as if she were made of glass. But beneath that gentleness was an underlying detachment that chilled Marie to the bone. This was a god, not a man, and his love—if it could even be called that—was as alien as the stars.
There was something startling about him, something familiar, and it took her a moment to place it. His features were sharp and almost fae-like, with a mischievous edge that hinted at the trickster within. His nose was straight and regal, his cheekbones high and prominent, lending him an air of aristocratic grace that was echoed in the faces of his children. Luke and Marie bore the unmistakable imprint of their father—his eyes, his nose, his cheekbones. Luke, in particular, had inherited Hermes’ strong jaw.
She didn't know why that surprised her.
Standing in their small, shabby kitchen, holding her broken mother with a reverence that seemed almost out of place, Hermes might have almost been mistaken for something human. But even in that moment of tenderness, Marie could feel the chasm that lay between them, a gulf so vast that it seemed insurmountable.
Marie’s breath caught in her throat as she watched, frozen in the doorway.
Her father’s attention was entirely on May, brushing a strand of hair away from her face as she continued to mutter incoherently. He whispered something to her—words too soft for Marie to hear—and slowly, her mother’s trembling began to subside, her breathing evening out as she slipped into a restless sleep. Her body slumped forward, until her head rested on a pillow on the kitchen table that Marie was pretty certain had not been there seconds before.
Hermes glanced up then, his gaze locking onto Marie’s. His eyes, a startling blue in color, seemed to pierce through her, seeing everything—her fear, her confusion, her desperate hope.
“She…she speaks of you,” Marie managed to say, her voice trembling with the weight of the moment. “You are Lord Hermes, aren’t you?”
His eyes darkened, and a sharp, piercing sound screeched in her ears, like the wail of some unearthly creature. It was there one moment, gone the next, leaving her stunned.
“Father,” he said, his voice soft but resonant with power that made the air around him hum. “You will call me Father.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and final, sealing a bond that felt more like a curse than a blessing. There was no warmth in it, no comfort—only the cold, unyielding truth of what he was. Marie’s heart pounded in her chest as she nodded, the word echoing in her mind like a command she could not disobey.
“Father,” she whispered, the weight of it settling in her soul.
Hermes’ gaze softened, just a fraction. He turned his attention back to May, who now slept fitfully at the table. “She speaks of many things,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Not all of which should be heeded.”
Marie swallowed hard, her throat tight with a fear she couldn’t quite name. The room seemed to close in around her, the shadows deepening as her father’s words hung in the air. Her stomach churned, a cold, gnawing dread settling deep within her.
“But she speaks the truth, doesn’t she?” Marie’s voice trembled as she forced the words out, her gaze fixed on Hermes. “We‘re all doomed.”
Hermes’ expression darkened, the fleeting softness replaced by something colder, more distant. The shadows around him seemed to swell, the room growing darker as the weight of his presence pressed down on her. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply regarding her with those ancient eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, resonant with a power that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Doom is a word for mortals,” he said, each word measured, deliberate. “It is the language of those who see time as a line, who believe in beginnings and endings.” He paused, his gaze boring into her, as if searching for something deep within. “But you are not just a mortal, Marie. The blood that flows through your veins binds you to a fate far greater—and far more terrible—than any doom your mother can foresee.”
Hermes turned away from her, his attention once again on May. His expression was unreadable as he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her mother’s face. “Your mother,” he continued, his tone softer now, almost sad, “is lost in visions she cannot comprehend. She speaks of truths, yes, but they are fractured, seen through the lens of a mind unable to bear the weight of divine knowledge.”
Hermes’ gaze drifted back to her, his eyes settling on her with a finality that made her breath catch. “It is late,” he said, his voice gentle yet commanding. “You should go back to sleep.”
Hermes stood there for a moment longer, his form bathed in the dim light of the kitchen, before he began to fade, his presence dissolving into the shadows as if he had never been there at all. Marie watched as he vanished, leaving behind only the faintest whisper of his presence, like the lingering echo of a distant dream.