Chapter Text
Lester got sent back to camp. Zeus said he'd return to Olympus once his mortal body died naturally.
Will, Kayla, and Austin greeted him awkwardly.
Or at least it felt awkward to him.
They were probably waiting for the moment his flimsy corpse rotted away, soul returning to Olympus once again.
Or at least that's what it felt like to him.
The night came quick. The dining pavilion filled with chatter, laughter, and a warm glow from the eternally burning fire and torches. Lester felt a sense of calm at this. Demigods getting to grow up in a semi-safe enviroment, having friends and lovers along the way.
The losses they felt over the years like a burning piece of paper; hot and terrifying at first, but eventually fading and falling into ashes.
Ashes that would never rise such as a Pheonix.
He ate the food he was given, listening closely to what his children talked about.
Archery, music, healing, poetry.. all so similar to what he was before the fall from greatness. Austin spoke of how he taught some newer campers chords on a mandelin. A, C, C minor, D, high D, B, and more. Kayla talked of her time shooting arrows to a target and hitting perfectly. Will complained of a influx of patients since the Capture the Flag game earlier that day, but switched to fawning over Nico di Angelo.
Will's face lit up whenever he talked of the son of Hades. He spoke about him as if the boy was the greatest of all men, seeing things through gold colored glasses. It was foolish in a way, but that's what love always is. A blindness to all emotions, even that of your own.
Or at least that's what it felt like to Lester.
When dinner ended, the campers lingered around the area for a bit before the Harpies came. Everyone shuffled into their according cabins. Lester took a small bed in the corner, nearby a window and the main door.
Everything felt wrong.
The others in the cabin fell asleep. It must've been an hour since they were in the cabin.
Lester stared at the ceiling uncomfortably, scratching at any skin he could. It felt wrong.
Wrong in every sense of the word.
He sketched in a small notepad aimlessly. There were always art supplies in cabin seven, so he had a pencil case on the bedside table.
The tip of the purple pencil glided across the yellow note until it snapped.
The tip of the pencil fell onto the mattress. Lester groaned and reached into the pencil case for a sharpener, eventually finding an old green sharpener.
He used it for a few seconds before it broke. The silver blade fell out of the plastic casing and onto Lester's chest. He picked it up, the blade glinting in the soft moonlight. He stuffed it in his pocket.
He sat up, staring at the floor for a few minutes before carefully walking out of the cabin. The wood scraped against his bare feet.
He sat on the steps to the cabin, staring up at the starry black sky. The moon was a crescent, the symbol of his twin sister Artemis. Did she miss him up on Olympus?
Hopefully.
The grass felt soft and real. Oddly real. Like nothing before this moment existed.
He fidgeted with the sharp broken piece in his pocket before pulling it out carefully. How ironic it broke and fell from it's case, it's home, such as he did.
He stared at it for a few moments more before carefully gliding it over his own arm in small, straight lines. The soft skin was torn with the blade's harsh metal. Lester winced as he lead the razor against his forearm, blood slowly spilling out and pooling up against him. It wasn't much, it didn't matter.
He whimpered, yet kept forcing the blood to spill. Why must the most painful things feel like a comfort in the strangest of times?
After everything that happened, Lester learned that he wasnt of much importance. People wouldn't sacrafice themselves for him, they'd sacrafice him for themself. They had a good reason. There were things more important than a flabby, awkward, acne filled former god.
Life was something to be valued, he knew that now. Everyone else's was, at least. Not his. He had his time.
The blade sunk deeper as his thoughts progressed. He let out a choked sob and dug the razor out of his broken skin.
His eyes stung, his arms stung, his skin stung, everything itched or burned in some way. It was horrible.
But he felt calm in a way he shouldnt.
He shoved the now dirty blade back into his sweatpants pocket and stared down at his bloody arms.
He shakily stood up, feeling a bit lightheaded. He wandered back into the cabin and to the bathroom. He washed away the red and was left with a small scar, but most of the cuts simply looked like pale scratches.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
Curly brown hair, a pudgy frame, freckles and acne marring the skin on his face, and bright blue eyes that glimmered like crystals in the warm glow of the bathroom light. It was him.
It was him.
And he hated it.
The night inevitably moved along. Lester stumbled back over to his bed and comfortably fell asleep, somehow.
As the days at camp progressed, Lester got used to it. When he'd first got turned mortal and thrust into all those trials, he'd had only a few days to discover the beauty of Camp Halfblood.
Everything was a draw for inspiration.
But inspiriation without a talent or power to use.
Most days, the former god was in the art pavilion. He did some archery with his daughter, maybe some music lessons with Austin, or helping Will with patients. But he mostly stayed in the art pavilion. It was calming, the soft white marble walls scruffed with dirt and paint.
The place was empty as Lester sat at a small table, doodling in a sketchbook.
His mind was tired. The razor appeared in his hands again. Blood spilled and splattered against the pale paper of his sketchbook and his skin.
When he finished, he waited for the blood to clot and dry. He leaned against the table, resting his head for a second. The sketchbook's paper was a mess of pastells watered down by a crimson blood that seemed to shine like glitter.
He sat up straighter, but fell back down as his head felt light and airy. That happened a lot lately.
Maybe this is what the real punishment was. A meaningless taunt of life that would always move without him. No matter the consequence of his actions the world would keep moving. No matter the reactions of the people around him (who cared so deeply) mattered. Time would keep moving forward no matter how long you'd wait for it to stop.
Or at least that's how it felt to him.