A/N: Hi, it's me after a bazillion years… I've sort of quit this fandom, real life ate my PJO muse, but I thought I'd post all the old half-stories on my hard drive in case anyone wanted to read them... I haven't read book 5 so any continuity issues are my fault there. Anyway, hope you enjoy! Coming soon: chapters re: Thalia's mom, and Sally, and if my muse ever returns maybe Luke/Thalia. (and maybe Percabeth). Also, I'm just going to go ahead and post my huge RED POV story from way back when which I'm not sure I'll ever have time to finish. Thanks so much to anyone who reads  love, bloomy.

If the man who claims to love you has even the smallest drop of golden blood in his veins, you must never, never trust him when he promises you forever. In fact, the best thing to do when you hear that fateful word is to turn and run, as quickly as you can, away, and never look back. He'll forget you soon enough, and you should forget him as well. This is a lesson learned from experience. If you choose to ignore it, you alone are to blame for the consequences.

The first time he had glimpsed Rivkah Petrikovsky she had been only thirteen years old. But the wide, shy smile and rosy cheeks had caught his attention in the way a bright light captures someone who has been trapped underground for a long time.

She named the children Bianca and Nico, because Bianca meant white and pure, as she had thought their love had been, and because the names were Meditteranean, and he had told her that this was his ancestry. His appearance illustrated this apparent fact. He had created an identity for himself as easily as others might create a story: he simply slipped into a body and became Celio Di Angelo. Celio was older than her, about eighteen. He had mysterious, brooding looks: deep brown eyes, dark wavy hair, olive skin. Rivkah thought personally that he carried himself like an artist, and was not surprised in the least when she glimpsed the oil paintings he hid in the back of his flat. She would never know the strange, gray scenes depicted metaphysical fields of departed spirits in his true home, which was no longer located anywhere near the Mediterranean. He was dashing, kind, and sensitive. He flattered her endlessly, and like any young girl, she grew flustered, and then enamored.

The truth was that he had been in Europe observing his most prominent sons, and what he had seen so far was not promising. The year was 1934, and Celio hoped fervently that the world he and his brothers so dangerously tipped out of balance was not headed toward another terrible war. While he waited, apprehensive, he rented a room in downtown Moscow and got work: factory jobs, whatever he could find. It was easier for him, being a Gentile; Rivkah's family was Jewish, and things were not easy for them in Soviet Russia. Many laws, as well as many people, were blatantly anti-Semitic. In fact, Celio was beginning to fear that things were soon to worsen.

But that was not what was on his mind when he glimpsed a wide smile on the face of a young girl disappear behind a cloud of frizzy dark hair. He felt something he had not felt in a long time, something he hadn't felt with most of his latest conquests, and this something directed him to put on his helm of darkness and follow Rivkah Petrikovsky to her family's flat, and then obtain all information about this girl from any source available by begging, borrowing, or divine intervention. From this information, and also from careful observations made from the shadows of her home and other frequent haunts, he discerned what the easiest way to capture her would be, and created a character.

They met, seemingly accidentally, one day when he knew her bosom friend and neighbor Sasha was away, and she was walking home from school alone. As he walked in the opposite direction, on the same side of the path, he noted the dry, crunching leaves and remembered the reason they were so: another pretty young girl with enchanting dark eyes. He hoped this exchange would go better than that one had. He was so deep in thought, in fact, that it was a surprise for both of them when Rivkah was knocked onto the ground, schoolbooks spread around on the sidewalk; her face was not the only one a bit rosier than usual.

"Sorry!" he said hurriedly in Russian. It's easy, for a god, to slip into another language: speaking in tongues is just part of the deal. "So sorry, I didn't mean to, let me help you."

"It's all right. I wasn't paying attention, it's my fault."

"No, no. Let me help you carry these home, it's only fair, are you all right?"
"I'm fine- you don't have to do that! I can manage, don't worry, there aren't too many books anyway."

"No, really, I've nothing better to do. What's your name?" Celio was fully aware of her name, her address, her favorite color, and many more facts about her. However, years of experience courting women had taught him they are easily frightened away. For this purpose, he had also appeared as a youth of about sixteen, giving him only three years on her thirteen. Celio was in no rush: he had all the time in the world to capture her heart, but he knew she had a finite stretch of twine in the hands of the Fates, so he had decided to begin early.

"I'm Rivkah Petrikovsky," she said, gathering herself up, adjusting her cardigan. "What's yours?"
"Celio Di Angelo," Hades replied smoothly.

He continued to bump into her "accidentally". It was unavoidable, really: he lived just a block away. Some days he would walk with Rivkah and Sasha home from school: other times he would help her carry her market basket home. He made interesting conversation, and listened, fascinated, to everything she said. She was an impressionable teenager, and as the middle daughter and the least favorite of eight children, she had never been made so much of. It took her about seven months to fall completely in love. Still, Celio didn't move too quickly: biding his time, he never tried to take their relationship past friendship: she was young and innocent, and he had more time than there was in all the world. He was her confidante, companion, and most trusted friend: that was enough for him. Meanwhile, she swooned inwardly: however, she never let him come in: he was never allowed up the stairs into the flat. She knew her family would not approve of such a close relationship with a non-Jew.

Years passed: times changed. Around 1938, Celio began to realize that things were taking a worse turn than he had feared. The antisemitism on the continent was rising with alarming speed, and he realized he had less time than he had thought. He began to hint at what was to come: a picture he had pieced together from observation and numerous visits to various oracles. Nothing good was coming for Rivkah's family; he tried to explain to her, but she insisted her family was safe, that there was nothing for them outside of Russia. He was growing desperate. He decided to move forward: he would flirt, lightly; accidental touches began to appear more quickly, and about a month before her seventeenth birthday they kissed for the first time. He courted her urgently, with one intent in mind. He knew that if he wanted to preserve her life, he would have to make her willing to forsake her family, if necessary. He wished this sacrifice could be avoided, but she refused to talk to them. He professed his love for her, bought her flowers, wrote her notes. Then, one day he casually mentioned he might be leaving soon, to be with his father's family in Italy.

"For how long?"

"There's a war coming, love. I don't know if I'll be able to come back."

He was sure the look on her face could kill him. The next day, he came with a proposal.

"Come with me." Her eyes widened enormously, and she paled.

"I- I couldn't! My family! My honor... I'm hardly seventeen, I can't be wandering off with Gentile boys my parents have never even met! I can't!"

He focused his haunting dark eyes into her own. "Marry me." It wasn't a ridiculous proposal. He had another wife, but she wasn't going to mind: given her choice, she would never have to see him again, and at the very worst this wouldn't be for long: mortals' lives were expendable.

He drew her into his flat, and slowly he got her out of the sweater, onto the soft bed. A fortnight later, she showed up on his doorstep in tears.

"I'm pregnant. I can't go back... will you still take me with you?"

"Do you love me?"
"Of course."

"Then I'll stay with you forever."

They snuck out on an illicit voyage in a cargo ship, it being illegal for Jews to leave the country: Rivkah didn't even get to say goodbye to her family. He convinced her to go straight to America, sailing from England. They landed in New York City. She was six months pregnant. He found them a flat in Brooklyn: money, with the Mist at his command, wasn't even close to an issue. When the child was born, a beautiful baby girl, Rivkah named her Bianca. It was exotic sounding, and Celio told her it meant "pure white" in Italian. She didn't want to give her a Jewish name: she tried to avoid thinking about her old life, as it was too painful. Besides, there seemed to be nothing whiter or purer than the love she had with her now-husband. She changed her name to Rebeka, and cared for the child with the love she missed so dearly from her family an ocean away. But she was unhappy: the city didn't suit her. Celio noticed this, and so they moved south: to the northeast of Virginia, in a little house in the country. Sometimes they would drive down to the beach, and the little toddler would play in the water, the little sparks of light reflected off the waves imitated the matching stars in the dark bird eyes of mother and daughter.

The war started in 1942, when Bianca was almost three. So did the worrying. Said worrying was done entirely on Celio's part. He was able to easily travel to get real news, so he knew much more of what was happening back in Europe, and soon he began to fear what would happen when Rivkah learned of the terrible risk her family was at. So he crafted a new plan. He enlisted in the army, and began to prepare Rivkah for the idea of his leaving.

"Take me with you!"

"I can't, remember the baby."

"Please! You're all I have, don't you remember when you promised me forever?"

"We will have forever, when I come home."

"What if you don't ? What then?"

"Don't say that, we must hope." He used the earnest dark look: it was his last card to play, because it never failed, and that relied on its credibility. He only drew it out when absolutely necessary. That look held mortality in its depths, and she, of course, was only a mortal.

After he left, along with the local regiment, it was easy to wait a few months, watching with love as his daughter grew. He realized with regret after a few months that she was pregnant again, and after another few months, he sent the telegraph.

"Your husband has been killed."

The black car and grim officer had been easily procured through the mist: mortals' perceptions are easily bent. After that, Rivkah collapsed crying, holding her daughter in her arms. She sold the house, and moved them into Washington, D.C. She went to work after her son was born. She named him Nico in 1943 in hopes that her husband's death hadn't been for naught: it meant "victorious people", and it was Greek: Celio had not lied when he had said his mother was Greek: he had simply neglected to mention her immortality.

Celio, of course, was Hades: as such, he had a very different idea of forever than the impressionable young girl whose heart he had captured. When she died, about ten years later, of unknown disease and broken heart, he kissed her forehead softly and sent her into Elysium: he would often visit her in years to come, though she never knew who he was. He quietly placed the children in a safe place, for he knew that the times to come would not be safe for them; and he hoped that they would remain safe forever.