A/N: The original chapters 1 and 2 of 2009 were combined and rewritten on July 2014.

Five year-old Luke stiffens as his mother seizes with a choked gasp. Broken thoughts tumble through his mind—should he grab her wrist, hold her still, help her ride out the storm? But if he did, would she hit him again? Throw him to the ground, not knowing of anything but her own fear? Would she—

A rattling moan escapes her throat. Fingers claw into her own ribs, jagged uncut nails cutting into her weathered green sweater. Another low moan, louder this time…

She isn't usually like this. Not always. It's just that… sometimes, when he's really happy, wide-grinned happy, that she falls down. Sometimes she catches herself. Sometimes she just lies on the ground, crying in a voice not her own, "Luke… not his fate…"

It's when her eyes flash a bright, clear green… that's when he can't take it anymore. His bare feet pad along the familiar route, across the worn carpet of the living room and up the stairs two at a time. Slams his bedroom door shut, wedges a book underneath it for good measure, races to the closet and buries himself underneath a month of smelly clothes.

He's safe here. That… woman… can't reach him. She can't. She won't grab his shoulders again, dig her nails into his trembling shoulders, can't—

Calm down. Breathe through the nose. Be quiet.

And it begins all over again, first with heavy footsteps that tread up the creaky stairs. The haunted ghost always chases him, always moans Please, my son… please save my—

"Luke…"

He clamps a hand over his mouth to physically hold back his own moan. He can hear his own heart. He wants to scream. He wants to run. He wants to be safe from the monster roaming the halls, the one with the claws and glowing green eyes.

"Hermes…"

It's in these desperate times, when he's hiding in his closet and his possessed mother sulks out in the hall, does seven year old Luke wish suddenly for his father. The man he never knew, but the man—the god—who had created him.

"Hermes, help me… not my child…"

This mysterious Greek god who abandoned him without a thought. His dad left before… before he can even remember. His dad had never been there for him, never even dropped by to see him. Luke hardly knows what to think of his father—just a brief memory of his face flashing across his memory, a one-second frame of Hermes with a scowl on his face. The rest of his father's body is purely imagined: slim, streamlined, fit for the messenger of the gods. Sure, with an occupation like that, Luke's father probably has a lot on his mind; but didn't his job ever swing by the lonely little house? Was he really too busy, or was he purposely avoiding the cursed building and his forgotten child?

Luke fights to suppress the sudden surge of emotions accompanying the thought of his father. A god—and yet he cares nothing for Luke. A mistake, no doubt. Luke was probably never meant to exist, otherwise such as powerful being would definitely have shown the slightest bit of acknowledgment to his son, the slightest bit of care towards his unstable mother. But he had never graced Luke with his presence, never a letter, not even a welfare check or something. Just a snapshot, a still frame memory of his imaginary father.

Luke's mother moans again, softer this time, and Luke's breath dares to emerge from his chest. The almost human release of air from his mother signifies the passing of her glowing green eyes and rough voice, but just to make sure, Luke remains burrowed in his closet, even when his mother's clear, bright voice rings down the hallway, calling him for breakfast.

If May Castellan notices anything strange about the bulging backpack that nine year old Luke brings downstairs the first school day after spring break, she doesn't let on. Luke's perfectly okay with this; the less suspicious she is, the better. She fusses over his school supplies, cheerily peppering him with questions: "Did you finish your reading assignment? Are you ready for school? You still want Kool-Aid, right?" At one point, she attempts to place his lunch in his already stuffed backpack, pulling open the zipper, but Luke yanks his pack away. "Hey!" he yells, slinging it over his back. "Don't—I'll… I'll be back for lunch." He hefts the pack, feeling its contents move about.

He's had the entirety of spring break to plan this out—a handful of clothes, an extra jacket, a couple granola bars, a bottle of water, a pocketknife, a few crumpled bills stolen from his mother's bedroom. It was strange territory—his mother's bedroom—and he had taken some time to explore the place. There, he'd found a bronze knife; awestruck, he held it up to the light, noting the morning sunlight hitting the jagged blade and casting amber speckles across the room. Celestial bronze, stuff of the gods. Apparently Mom did more than clean the house while he was at school. But she wouldn't be needing it anymore, with him gone. Once he was gone, the very few monsters that stopped by this isolated Colonial house would stop visiting. One step forward to freedom…

May raises her voice slightly as Luke makes for the door. "Okay, honey… I'll be waiting. I love you, Luke."

Luke hesitates on the threshold as her words sink in. He almost turns back, almost wants to run back into his mother's arms—but he never knows if those arms will wrap around him comfortingly or claw into his back, shaking him in the urgency of future warning.

It would be so much easier if she were possessed all the time, frightening him with glittering emerald pupils. So much easier to throw it all down and walk away and never look back. Walk into the arms of the huge wide world, enticing him with adventure and freedom from a haunted mother and a father who never cared. But no, his mother is standing there, so, so alone, yet so cheerful, the quintessence of a caring parent. He looks over his shoulder uncertainly, and May spots Luke's troubled countenance.

She stiffens as her eyes flare with Greek fire, and Luke's out the door and down the dirt road, running from it all. Running away from the fits of possession, from his comfortable room and his warm bed haunted by his distressed mother, pitching forward into the darkness of his closet, the world unknown, sealing himself off from his house and leaving only a tiny strand of hope to bind him to home.

Because he has no home now.

When he first started out, people had been too trusting of a little nine year old kid with a bright grin etched across his face. Especially when that grin had been slightly marred by two missing teeth.

His teeth have grown in now, completing his smile, but eleven year old Luke hardly shows it anymore. Maybe a little mischievous grin now and then, characteristic of the children of Hermes. Hermes, god of thieves and travelers. Those who run the lonely roads. Exactly where he's running to, he doesn't exactly know; as long as it isn't Connecticut. He thinks he might be in Ohio or Illinois now. Just putting as much distance between himself and that house on the hill by any means necessary.

He ruefully runs his hand along his recently cut hair. It had been rather expensive for a buzz cut, but he feels much more presentable now, able to flash that white smile without giving people the impression that he's about to steal their valuables.

Because, of course, he is.

Two years on the road. Wow.

He's gone through too many sets of clothes since then. Shoes. The leather jacket he'd pulled out of a dumpster eight months ago has so far been his most valuable find, protecting him from the stormiest of winds, and it's just big enough that he can tuck his knees to his chest and wrap the coat around his entire body to preserve warmth.

Which is what he's doing right now at a city bench during weather that is quickly promising to become a storm, staring across the street at a fast food restaurant and trying to ignore his growling stomach and the lack of coin in his pocket.

He tucks his chin into his folded-up knees. Looking away from the restaurant might help. The smell of grease still pervades the air around him, however. Moving would be the best option, but that would also require him to pop his little bubble of warm air. Seeing as he can't feel his ears or the tip of his nose, Luke's not quite ready to give it all up yet.

And then, for a miraculous moment, the wind ceases its continuous ebb and flow. Silence falls around him as he lifts his head curiously. In this moment of tranquility, just when a struggling ray of sun bursts through the cloud layer and descends softly upon the street, Luke's eyes make contact with another pair of startling blue eyes.

Electric blue.

He shivers, though not from the cold. Just a shock, passing through his entire body, zapping numbed fingers and toes with warmth. He smiles, almost reflexively, just a small grin at the girl across the street.

Just another snapshot memory of her face: those shocking blue eyes, boring into his icy blue irises with an invigorating intensity, enhanced by her midnight eyeliner and spiky black hair. A splash of freckles along the bridge of her nose, not so prominent in the wintertime. Her small mouth, twisted in a half-scowl, framed in a face weathered and beaten by hardship, but stronger, more refined because of it.

Just a snapshot though, because a bus passes in between the two children, and in the next instant she's gone, quick as a flash of electricity.

The winter wind resumes again in a sudden onrush of cold that brutally tears through his jacket and whips away the last remnants of warmth that he suddenly longs for.

And there she is again, stepping out of the McDonalds, head bent against the howling wind, walking across the street towards him but avoiding eye contact. Even when she sits on the far end of his bench.

He can literally feel the static running through his body, racing from one end to another; the hairs on the back of his neck rise as blood rushes through the back of his neck, creeping gently along the curve of his jaw and coloring his cheeks.

She opens the bag, unwraps a hamburger, and bites gently into it. The act releases a plethora of scents: warmth predominantly, food, grease, home. Comfort. The hearth, the flickering flames of warmth that threaten to melt his composure.

He should say something. Maybe a cool Hey or something. He could definitely pull the cool part off. Shivers are just beginning to wrack his body—

Then her head turns and her eyes making contact with him and any words that he had are vaporized instantly. It takes a couple of seconds to realize her lips are moving, and an additional two to comprehend her words:

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asks, as if they were just… two kids sitting on a park bench. "Your cheeseburger's getting cold."

He glances downward. He'd been so thunderstruck by her presence—human contact after almost two years of skittering around it, picking its pockets or running from its authority—that he hadn't noticed when she'd pushed the paper bag in his direction. He proudly does not pounce on it, even as his stomach makes a very loud announcement at that moment. With most of his self-generated warmth already lost from his jacket-bubble, he sends out an arm to reach into the bag…

The aura of warmth becomes reality as his fingers close around the promise of nourishment. And the feels that races through his entire body is unbelievable when he bites into the soft bread, his teeth cleaving through the tenderized meat, crunchy pickles, and warm cheese. He chews slowly, savoring the explosion of flavor.

He hears her right away this time, having been waiting for her to speak first. "You too?"

He struggles to get his tongue in working order. It's been lying at the bottom of his mouth for so long, only used to shovel food around his mouth for months. "…Huh?" he manages through a mouthful of cheeseburger.

The girl rolls her eyes. "Running away?"

"How'd you know?" Oh gods, he sounds like he just gargled a bucket of gravel. So that's what his voice turns into after months of disuse.

She jerks her chin towards him, eyes running down his body. Luke suddenly becomes very self-conscious of himself as her piercing gaze takes in his scruffy clothes, his battered backpack, general grimy appearance. Luke hides his momentary surprise by tearing another bite off the tender burger, and replies, "Yeah." They sit in silence a little longer, and Luke speaks up first. "What's your name?"

The girl shoots him an electrifying glance, shooting back, "What's yours?"

It comes out of his mouth before he can even consider giving a fake name. But what does it matter anyways? "Luke."

The girl sits back satisfactorily, finishing off her burger and reaching into the bag for another one. Another moment of quiet chewing, slowly regaining life energy as food accumulates in his stomach, before Luke ventures to ask, "Aren't going to tell me your name?"

"Nope."

The girl observes him carefully, furtively, waiting for a reaction, so he belligerently shrugs off her punk attitude and just enjoys the warmth spreading through his body. If she was kind enough to give him this small happiness, then she's bound to open up soon anyways.

What she says next, however, he wasn't expecting. "How many monsters have been after you?"

Luke almost drops his half-finished cheeseburger. "W-w-what?"

She motions at the celestial bronze dagger sticking out of his pocket. "You haven't cleaned it. You been busy lately?"

For almost a full minute, he can't speak. On his travels, he'd never met anybody else who could see the monsters. Just another reason why he felt so isolated, so alone. Only monsters actively acknowledged his existence, occasionally coming after his scent; everybody else had passed him by without a care. "What… do you know about it?"

She takes a Mace canister out of her pocket nonchalantly, and within seconds it's telescoped into a celestial bronze spear, smooth handle glimmering despite lack of sunshine, point gleaming wickedly.

At this point, a stranger walks by, noting the girl's spear with slight interest before passing on. Luke looks at her frantically. "Put that thing away, do you seriously—"

"It's fine," the girl laughs. "He probably just sees me aiming pepper spray at a scraggly punk. Because of the Mist."

"You're calling me a punk?" he rasps, gesturing to her I'm totally a rebel outfit. Oo, that was a good comeback.

He doesn't have much time to congratulate himself for holding a conversation lasting longer than thirty seconds before the girl speaks again. "Monster dust eats away on celestial bronze if you don't clean it. You didn't know about it?"

Luke flushes, wiping the flat on the dagger on his jacket. "Who are you?"

"Thalia." She scowls suddenly, retreating behind her hardened mask again as if realizing she wasn't supposed to be cheerful, even if it was about weaponry maintenance.

Thalia, the girl who electric blue eyes.

"Aren't you a little young to be running away?"

Thalia gestures to his ratty outfit. "You're calling me a runaway?"

Something strange bubbles up in his chest and explodes out of his mouth before he can process it. A quick release of air. A bark. A… a chuckle.

Gods, he hasn't laughed in… who knows how long. Years of hiding in the darkness of his closet, of hiding in the corner at school, of scrounging off basic necessities on the streets, stealing cash and food and clothes, of fighting for his life… of fighting loneliness…

Luke throws his head back and laughs.

"Wipe that stupid smile off your face. You're creeping me out."

"Not until you leave."

"Yeah, as if I'd leave your scraggly runaway behind to rot."

"That's what I'm counting on, punk."