Cleo Agate was just a little girl of six, a little girl with long chocolatey brown hair and bright hazel eyes that changed colours in different lights or depending on her mood, a lopsided smile that showed a dimple in her right cheek and clear creamy skin.

Her father, Kit Agate, loved her dearly and proclaimed she was his favourite muse as he took photographs of her or painted her in almost fairy-tale scenes—some of which she loved so much that he kept them instead of selling them off, and put them up on wall with her own paintings that showed she wasn't the artist her father was, but he still displayed them proudly.

Cleo was the type of little girl that, despite having her thick hair done up in different pretty braids, preferred running around and playing almost rough than playing with dolls and such as most girls did though she had her own mountain of soft-toys scattered in her room.

She wanted to a get a dog, she didn't have one set favourite colour but she didn't like bright pink or pink much at all after she ate some pink dyed food that made her sick later that night.

And she was dying.

Her daughter was dying and she was bound by stupid ancient laws that stopped her from reaching out and taking all the pain away, stopped her from saving her daughter, and Aphrodite wanted to rage, she wanted to scream at Zeus, at the Fates, but she didn't.

No, Aphrodite simply watched the doctors attempt to save her daughter from where she was hidden from mortal sight in the corner.

She could hear Kit's slurred and panicked questions about their daughter from another room, and her heart clenched at the heart-break he was going to suffer when they finally told them that their daughter, their baby girl, was dead because of a stupid mortal drunk driver!

If he survived his own injuries, then Aphrodite wouldn't be kind to him. Not after he had killed her little girl!

Her little body was shaking from shock and blood loss as the doctors and nurses attempted to assess her head wound which was matting her hair to her head, straighten one of her legs and deal with the shards of glass in her broken arm.

The heart rate was too high, screaming the final beats of her daughter's heart, and Aphrodite couldn't help but reach out and pause the scene because her daughter wouldn't die surrounded by strangers, not while one of her parents could be with her in her final moments.

So the Goddess of Love slid between the bodies and towards her tiny daughter, she tenderly stroked an already cool cheek and shed a tear when Cleo gave her final shuddering breath before she went lax on the bed.

Hades would take care of her, Aphrodite knew, as he had a soft spot for children—or at least children that weren't his brothers—and leaned down to press a kiss on her dead daughter's forehead.

She was about to leave, to return time, when the impossible happened.

A soul, a lost wandering and hurt soul, was drawn into the shell that had once been her daughter and new breath was given as the tiny body jerked as soul met body and merged.

It was the sight of her eyes moving rapidly under her eyelids that snapped Aphrodite out of her shock and she pressed a lightly glowing hand to her daughter's head.

"You've been through so much," she whispered with sympathy as she gathered each memory of her daughter's new soul's long life and sealed them away for now. "You need to heal, my dear. Too much pain and rage in your soul though Ares would approve, there is not enough love for a daughter of mine."

She hummed as she brushed her glowing fingers against still cool but warming cheeks.

"Kit still needs you," she told her daughter, because this soul had become her daughter the moment it joined with her daughter's body. "I can't have you pushing him away, now can I? You've saved him from heart-break, you know? And he'll save you from all that pain and rage though I'll help damp some of the emotion effects—poor dear, you've been through far too much for such a young age."

The soul was barely a few centuries old after all.

Aphrodite also anchored the divine gifts she gave her children to the soul, making them a part of her forever. No matter when or where this soul would go next, she would always be her daughter—Aphrodite had made sure of that.

This was her daughter, for now and forever.

Cleo Agate was six years old, she had cropped chocolatey brown hair and hazel eyes that changed in different lights or depending on her moon. Her smile was lopsided and showed off a dimple in her right cheek, her once clear creamy skin would have several scars from the car accident that briefly took her life and took her some of memories.

Her father still loved her deeply and Kit would weep over his daughter's sleeping form when he was finally released by his own doctors and allowed to see her all bandaged with her arm in a cast and her leg with pins in it to keep it straight.

And most importantly, she was alive and was going to remain amongst the living for a long time if her mother had any say in it.

She woke slowly, heavily, and couldn't open her eyes.

Then she realised with a slowly building panic that she can't move, her limbs, her whole body, felt heavy like they were made of stone.

They've drugged me, a part of her whispered in the back of her mind, building on the panic she already felt, and sounding furious to hide the fear.

There was a beeping beside her head, a beeping that sped up with each panicked moment, as her lungs felt heavy and she couldn't take in air, and she couldn't move because they've drugged her and, oh gods not again, what happened to me? Not again, please not again. Where am I? Please, please, not again. Help!

A large hand cupped her face, fingers tickling against her skin as they went through short locks, and part of her panic eased from the familiar—strange—hand before a calloused thumb brushed across her cheekbones—callouses not made by a weapon, but tools of a different art.

"Hush Cleo, it's alright, you're alright, Daddy's here," a warm familiar—not familiar, I don't know him! —voice calms her further.

Daddy? She questions in her mind.

My father is dead, has been for decades. No he's not, he's here, right beside me. He died from cancer, I saw him days before he died! Daddy would never leave me. I don't have a father! Yes, I do.

She wanted to groan, but the sound was trapped in her throat, because her mind was fighting against itself and it hurt and she just wanted her Daddy!

It was like she flipped a switch as slowly, too slowly, memories came back to her;

A deep laugh as she giggled helplessly while long clever fingers tickled her and she shrieked with laughter.

Staying painfully still as dark hazel-green eyes glanced up from a canvas, paint brush in hand and a warm smile for his little muse.

Sitting in a comfortable lap as those clever hands carefully held the stencil against the soft lilac wall as she carefully—messily—painted in the unicorn stencil with her silver paint.

Of soft carpet under clumsy feet as she ran breathlessly from him, long arms held out ready to catch her.

Warm arms, strong and protective, cradled her gently to a broad chest as a deep voice hummed lightly as they swayed together to music he had played and recorded for her.

Daddy, she recognised, two parts of her in harmony.

"Can you open your eyes, Cleo?" he asked softly, his voice sounding wrong like he was in pain, and she wanted to take away that pain.

Carefully, slowly, she opened her eyes to the dim light of a hospital room and her eyes focused on the reassuring face above her.

His dark hair was messy and pointed up funnily like when he ran his fingers through it too many times, his bread was shaggy and he looked tired. One of his eyes—warm, loving—was swollen shut and there were little cuts all over his face, but he still smiled at her—his special smile that was just for her—and all traces of panic was gone, leaving her aware of her aching body.

"Hurts," she whimpered and coughed at the dryness of her throat, and Daddy's face crumbled slightly.

"I know love, but everything's going to be alright, I promise," he smiled again, his smile almost fragile as he carefully brought a glass of water with a straw to her mouth.

And Cleo—not my name, yes, it is, now it is—gratefully drinks and ignores the voice in the back of her mind that calls her father a liar.

Kit Agate had been a simple young artist—a portrait artist mostly, one of many in New York and one of thousands in the world—when he caught the attention of the Goddess Aphrodite at one of the smaller art shows that he had managed to get work into.

She had been stunning, always shifting hazel eyes, and long pale gold hair. She had been enthralling, drawing him in and making him almost drown in her embrace, her love.

He had drawn and painted many things in honour of her during their time together, all to see her pleased smile and that twinkle in her colourful eyes.

It had been because of her that he had gone from a struggling artist into a successful one, one with work in major galleries after a few words to the right people—she had made them stop and give him a chance and he had proved himself worth it—and requests for more.

It was because of her that he went from a tiny apartment to a decent sized and priced penthouse.

He had come from the simple Brit artist that decided to try and make it big across the pound from home and turned into an almost famed artist with his own fans.

She had inspired him, encouraged him, and he had loved her for that though he knew their relationship would be short.

She was a Goddess after all and Kit had known almost from the first moment he saw her that she wasn't a simple mortal. She had smiled and called him 'Clear-Sighted' when he admitted that to her as he saw how the world as it really was, but hadn't mentioned it again until a week before she left him.

She had taken him and showed him the monsters, had explained how dangerous the world really was and had told him all about Demigods, of Camp Half-Blood, and the harsh and often tragic life of a hero. She told him how those heroes, those Demigods, risked their lives to defeat monsters, to save mortals, and how the Fates were rarely kind to them.

She told him a Demigod could never run from their fate, that monsters would always find them in the end, and how Camp Half-Blood was the only safe haven for them where they could learn to fight and protect themselves, where they could be around their own kind, where they could learn and grow at the Camp, where they could live full-time or just for the summers.

He hadn't known why until he opened the door to his apartment to find a golden cradle with a pink swaddled baby sleeping securely within merely a week after she had left him after almost a year together.

Even after all she had done for him, Kit would always say the greatest thing she had given him had been their daughter, their Cleo.

And he had almost lost her.

Not to a monster that he had almost expected to attack every time he turned his back, but because of another mortal, because of a drunk.

Kit knew he would never forget the sight of his Cleo lying too still in bed, one arm in a purple case and one leg suspended after numerous pins were inserted to fix the almost shattered bones. Of her chocolatey brown locks cropped short, stitches starting from her right temple and well into her hair covered by white bandages with her other scraps, cuts and bruises likewise treated.

He had been foolish, he realised as the Doctor explained that Cleo may have some memory-loss or confusion—something he realised was true when it took too long for Cleo to recognise him, to know who he was and react.

He had only thought his daughter would be in danger because of monsters when really she was vulnerable to both mortals and monsters—something that Aphrodite had once warned him and he forgot.

It was not something he would forget about again, that he swore to both Aphrodite and Cleo.

Elsewhere, Aphrodite smiled as she felt the oath Kit Agate swore to both her and their daughter settle into an iron-clad promise that he would keep.

Thanatos almost frowned as he stared at the living and breathing child that was currently curled in her father's arms.

Aphrodite's touch was heavy on this child, it curled around the soul in a possessive way though the soul didn't belong with that body.

Cleo Agate had died three weeks ago and had already been ferried by his brother, Charon, and yet her body still lived because another soul had merged mere moments after Cleo Agate's death.

He closed his eyes and reached out for the wayward soul, he slipped passed Aphrodite's essence that twined around the soul, and reached for the memories of this soul, memories only kept away from the body by Aphrodite's magic, memories;

Of mismatched eyes, brown and blue, staring up at the mirror as the doctor cut and cut—he wouldn't stop cutting, no matter if she begged or cried or screamed, not that she ever begged, he would never have the satisfaction of making her break down and beg for him to stop because she would be strong, she wouldn't break!

Of sharp sting of breaking skin under shiny blades, needles injected deep into veins, poison like fire or ice following paths to her heart, to her brain, and she screams, screams and screams until her throat tears and she coughing, choking on her own blood and still trying to scream because it burns, it burns and she's going to die and oh god, someone help her!

Of harsh hands curled into caramel hair, blue eyes wide as she's pushed face-first into the small tub of water, and she thrashed, screaming soundless as water rushed down her throat and began to fill her lungs, hands clawing, scratching, nails breaking, bloody and broken.

Of blue eyes staring down at her in overwhelming guilty relief as she chokes and coughs, pained but alive, and he clings to her because she's all he has left in this world and she hugs back just as hard because he's all she has ever had in this world.

Of dark eyes cold with anger, tanned hands easily holding bloodstained hands, of feet firm despite the mud made from blood and dirt.

Of fire and steel, of rage and pain, of fight because flight had been beaten out of her, of vengeance, of war and politics, of love and desire, of harsh edges pulled back together with bloody fingers, of happiness and despair, of sacrifice, of fear, of loyalty, of torture and mercy, of promises sworn and kept, of lies and truth, of friendship and hatred.

It was Aphrodite's hand on his shoulder that broke the connection he had formed, it was heavy with the weight of her rage and disapproval.

Her eyes are dark, almost as dark as his Liege-Lord Hades, and there was something hostile in the sharp angles of her face as she stared at him with a frown twisting dark—blood—red lips.

"Thanatos," her voice though as musical as ever was also curt as she greeted him.

"Aphrodite," he greeted back evenly, calmly even.

There was a short impasse as both Gods stared at each other, as the God of Death and Son of Nyx stared with bright golden eyes into the dark eyes of the Goddess of Love and Grandniece of Nyx.

"There has been no laws broken," Aphrodite declared powerfully and Thanatos was forced to agree with a slight nod of his head.

Aphrodite hadn't attempted to stop her mortal daughter's death nor had she purposely sought out a replacement soul, it had just happened and Aphrodite had even bound the soul's memories—though perhaps not as tightly as she should—so Thanatos could not really fault her.

However,

"She doesn't belong here," he told her and her expression tightened.

"Check her connection with her body, my daughter belongs here," there was almost a hiss to her words.

"She's not your daughter," he absently stated as he did what the Goddess said and was surprised by the depth of the connection—it was as if the soul had been born with this body as its shield.

"She's mine, my daughter," there was a dark tone of possessiveness that was common amongst Divine parents when it dealt with their mortal child. "I have claimed her as mine, I have made her mine, she will always be mine."

Ahh, that explained why Aphrodite's essence had been entwined so deeply into this soul. No matter where this soul was reborn, Aphrodite had made the soul hers, her daughter forever.

If she was ever pulled into this universe again or a version of it, she would be Aphrodite's even if she merged with another's demigod daughter. That would be interesting to see, two divines fighting over one daughter whose soul would scream Aphrodite while her blood would scream a different name.

"Curious," he muttered as he turned his gaze back to the young girl with a soul too old for her and yet the body and soul clung to each other, connected deeply like the soul belonged with this body.

He could almost feel the hands of his sisters' at work here and he wondered what his sisters' had spun that made them bring this soul here. What had they seen and spun that made them act in this manner? He couldn't help but wonder but knew his sisters' wouldn't tell him.

There was only one way to satisfy his curiosity and that was keeping an eye on the child.

He could still feel Aphrodite's gaze fixed on him, dark and protective, and met her gaze.

"I will not reap her," he told her and Aphrodite waited and wasn't disappointed when Thanatos continued. "But I will be keeping an eye on her."

He held out a hand and Aphrodite watched as two bronze loops formed with a familiar and unmistakeable black feather hung from each loop in the palm on his hand before he closed his fist and Aphrodite knew without a doubt that those earrings would be resting on her daughter's bedside table.

Thanatos had taken an interest into her daughter, her Cleo, and had marked her as one that interested him, perhaps even claimed her as his Champion or just a Disciple.

A prickle of fear danced along her spine as her gaze darted to the reassuring sight of her living daughter and her loving father.

Thanatos had never been one to take an interest in demigods, and yet her daughter—not the daughter she had first birthed and gave into Kit's care, but still her daughter and his—had done it without meaning.

Part of her wanted to crush those earrings before her daughter could touch them, before she could wear them and seal her fate, before she belonged to someone else other than just Aphrodite.

But she couldn't, for all the power that she had, the power to bring both mortal and divine to their knees, even Love had to admit defeat to Death at times.

He wouldn't rip her soul from her body, he wouldn't kill her, Aphrodite knew. But she also knew how dangerous a god's curiosity could be, and Cleo, her little Glory, had stirred Thanatos' curiosity.

And there was nothing Aphrodite could do to protect her because of the Laws, and Aphrodite wanted to snarl.

How she hated those Laws and she knew she wasn't the only one, but Zeus would not be ignored.

Dionysus had ignored his father and was now banished to Camp Half-Blood—and that was only over a nymph.

His new position didn't allow him much leeway for his twin sons that had recently been brought to the Camp, in fact it had made Zeus focus more attention on his young son and soured Dionysus' mood more.

Separated from his wife, unable to favour his own sons, and not allowed to create or drink his alcohol were just the basics of his punishment.

Thanatos didn't have the deal with the same laws when it came to Cleo and that could potentially help her daughter in the long run.

Or it could bring her into his domain before her time, Aphrodite thought grimly.

Kit had been idly thinking about taking an extended holiday, he thought they both needed it after that scare and it may do Cleo some good, give her new happy memories to replace those that she could no longer remember or remember fully.

It had been a simple idle thought until his little girl appeared for breakfast one day wearing black feather earrings that he knew for certain he didn't buy and sent a chill down his spine when he reached out to touch the surprisingly cool black feathers.

Kit knew with the same certainty that filled him when he first met Aphrodite, that those feathers were a token from a divine.

A God had taken interesting in his little girl, and the thought made his heart and stomach clench in fear because Gods weren't always kind to those that they gave their attention—their 'myths' told him that.

He felt his idle thought solidify into a plan, yes it would be good to get away from the Heart of the West for some time, far from the country the Gods currently had their gazes fixed on.

His mother would love them to visit, he knew, especially considering their very close-call to a trip to the Underworld.