Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians. Rick Riordan does. (And that goes for the first chapter too)

Author's Note: Hello, any readers who've stumbled across this. I just wanted to take this space to thank you for reading my story. I've written plenty of fanfiction, but this is my first Percy Jackson fic. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Two

Promise

Staggering, tripping, stumbling, he makes it to the bedroom door and pulls it wide open. He falls into the room roughly, his breathing haggard, his tearing eyes blurred and seeing things that are not really there; dark, misshapen images that prowl in the shadows.

He collapses in a flurry of tattered clothes.

He is twelve years old.

Luke sat with his back pressed against the door, feeling the rough wood rub against his bare skin, the warm, pulsating ooze of blood drip down his sides. He couldn't comprehend the sporadic spiral of thoughts that whirled about his brain, the rustling, shrieking, clattering of outside, or the odd glimpses of an ugly, gray room he received whenever his teary eyes blinked open. All he knew was that his body was on fire; every inch of him felt battered and bruised, torn and bleeding, screaming with an agonized torment that would last forever.

This pain would last forever.

But no…Luke sucked a sharp breath and shifted his body into a more upright position. He had weathered this before, perhaps even worse on occasion. He had grown accustom to the unpleasant realities of living in this household. First the stinging hurt would fade to a dull ache, then a subtle stiffness, then finally to a gruesome white scar, which would fade also, if he was lucky enough.

Luke was hardly ever lucky.

His back slid a few inches down the door, grinding mercilessly against the splintered wood, and he gritted his teeth. The shirt was slick with blood and he had tossed it off, but now he regretted the absence of cloth on his torso, however thin and soiled. It would have served fairly well as a barrier between his wounds and the coarse wooden door.

A part of him figured he should reach out and grab it, but he couldn't move. His limbs felt frozen, burning in agony, so raw on his skin that the slightest motion directed his hazy, floundering thoughts to the already unavoidable pain.

This was routine; he had to avoid it.

Avoid thinking about the torture that lanced up and down his sides, the skin puckered in ugly black-and-blue bruises, the warm puddles of ruby that pooled in gaudy droplets at his feet

Gaudy. Blood was so bright, so vivid, so similar to the paint that splattered an artist's pallet— only wretched, because it wasn't true. Just something ugly disguised with pretty color—the color of roses, of cherries—but it was too sickening, too intense, too dramatic to contain the rich beauty of natural things. Blood was pretend. Blood was gaudy.

Don't think. Don't move. That was the routine.

Luke knocked his head a little too forcefully against the door—resulting in a clear, ringing sensation that made his brain vibrate—and let his breath sag in his throat, his chest heave in feeble, wispy gasps.

Okay, Luke reasoned through the pain. I can get through this. No problem. I've done it before. Yeah, I'll live, and by tomorrow—

"He's going to die!"

Luke jolted, his heart thrown into a frantic fluttering that stole all the breath from his lungs. The voice shattered overhead, like the peals of a cracking bell as it tumbled to a hard, unforgiving floor.

Had he just imagined that? Whose voice did that belong to, so shrill and strident it cut through the still air? It seemed familiar, but Luke's memory fumbled and he could not grasp it.

"I want him to die—it would be better—it would be better—so much better—"

A chorus now, an endless stammer, laced with shaking hysteria and a whispering sort of pain that was different from the sensation aching in his limbs.

It was like the pain in his heart; an agony that truly did last forever.

Who was screaming—?

The voice sounded again, the ringing of a broken bell, and Luke's reeling mind suddenly stopped, halted; froze on an image he did not want to see. A memory he did not want to remember. He willed it desperately to pass over him, but the picture only sharpened, the dying grayness of it brightening into a sickening vividness that stung his eyes, so that he could see every detail, every aspect, every element.

It was an ugly image, yet an ironic one, for the man within in seemed so handsome, princely, in his neatly pressed suit and wave of dark hair. Yes, quite charming, but for the cold, eternal, yawning tunnel-eyes that glinted from his sockets, trapping you in their endless labyrinth.

And the bloody fingernails. The bloody fingernails were ugly.

Luke was in the picture too, a dull reddish smear, crumpled on the floor with the hair in his eyes. His body was shaking, and his breath rattling in his chest, but he stared up defiantly at his oppressor anyway, ignoring the trepidation that rose up in his throat. The pain was only tingling in his arms now, not burning, though he thought a flurry of stars were blinking before his eyes.

But neither the man nor Luke was the main focus of the image. His mother was.

She was a small pinprick in the distance; though undeniably clear in his reverie: ghostlike in her pale white nightgown and loose, unbound auburn hair. This was the way his mother would remain, he knew, no matter what memory he looked back upon. A thin, wasted, beautiful woman garbed in clingy bodices and billowy skirts, her hair dark and cut at jagged ends while she stared ahead, with empty, dead eyes.

Dead eyes that didn't care.

Luke gripped at the roots of his blonde hair, bowing down so low into his knees that he felt his aching muscles scream. That man—her husband—was insane, his fingernails were bloody, and he kept clawing and kicking and punching, but she just watched with dead eyes that didn't care.

"I wish he would die—I do—I do—I'll make it happen—I'll make him better…"

There was a scuffling sound, a bark of cool laughter, then another sob.

"Do it, then. Kill him. I don't care. It's not like I'd press charges."

The retort made Luke's skin crawl, not because of the content, but because of the speaker. He imagined bloody fingernails. He shuddered.

The wailing ceased abruptly, followed by a tense silence that was broken only by the ragged breathing of someone truly desperate. Luke heard the sound of a hand groping for an object, without waver, without conviction, striding toward his door in a steadied, determined gait.

His body turned numb. He felt his limbs go cold and heavy, a case of ice enclosing over a heart that had stopped beating. He straightened his aching back, held his breath, his eyes widening and his throat constricting.

Soft footfalls, the quiet, husky breath of a woman as she neared the doorway.

But she wouldn't—she wouldn't—

"Love?"

Mom.

Luke heard her body crash against the door—felt it, too, as the door shook on its rickety hinges, shuddered against her weight—and listened as she murmured through the rusted keyhole. He could imagine her, garbed in her crumpled nightgown, hair hanging in lank, red strands, eyes pale and haunted. He knew what she would say.

She only loved him behind closed doors.

"Love?" she repeated, in a breathy, whispering voice. "It's me, Mommy. I—I'm here. I'm here, love. I want to make it better."

Luke hurt all over, and the pain had nothing to do with the bruises that mottled his complexion.

Once upon a time, he would believe the words he heard through closed doors, for his mother sang them in a lullaby so sweet and mystical it must have been magic. A beautiful, tantalizing melody that bewitched his senses; she spun a dream with those words.

It was a dream woven from the golden threads of his deepest desires, the silver of the moonshine he looked to for hope, the dazzling sparks of a fallen star he'd wished upon.

He opened the door and the spell was broken.

The golden threads snapped, the moonshine vanished, and the falling stars sputtered and blinked into shadows. The door swung outward and the woman before him was no longer an enchantress of dreams, but a cold, ravaged beauty that shook with hatred, blame—a resentment she held for him, and him alone.

Sometimes she would hit him, other times she would scream, but the worst was when her lips twisted in that bitter line and she simply walked away, without a backward glance.

Why?

She only loved him behind closed doors.

Luke's voice was a hoarse cry. "What do you want?"

"Love…" She was crying on the other end. "I want to make it better. Don't you understand? This will make it better. You'll be safe and unharmed, after this. Won't it be better? Won't it be easier?"

There was ice in his stomach. His throat was dry. He couldn't breathe.

She wouldn't—she wouldn't—

"So you're gonna do it, huh?" He looked down at his hands, white palms scraped with red. "Right now? If I open the door you're gonna—"

"No! I mean—" Her face was pressed against the door; he could feel it, see it in his mind. "Wouldn't it be better? Easier? Love, don't you want to—"

Luke bent over his knees, his stomach in knots, his eyes seeing nothing and everything all at the same time. It was his ADHD, he thought. His heart was thundering; his senses were sharp, acute, aware of every small detail his eyes flitted across. Every corner of the dull, drab room came into focus, from the worn mattress to the blood on the floor. His mother came into focus, also—her choked breathing, her warbling voice, her trembling through the door as she leaned against it.

"No, Ma," he said in a croak. "I don't wanna die. I wanna live—I wanna live—I wanna live—"

With each reply, he banged his head against the doorframe, making it rattle, making his head ring with a terrible pain that resounded throughout his entire body.

"I wanna live—I wanna live—I wanna live—I—want—to—live—"

There were words leaving his lips, pouring from his mouth in a panicked flood, but he couldn't understand them; the emotion they conveyed was too thick, too poignant. He couldn't feel the rush of stinging hurt that came from pounding his head against a wooden door. He couldn't hear the words his mother was crying on the other end, slumped against the keyhole. A single drive was moving him forward, instilled within the very roots of his being, however battered and abused: the drive to life, no matter how rocky, twisted, and painful the road of life was.

Everything around him was a sickening whirl of colorless, soundless, sightless feeling. She needed to understand.

Somewhere along the endless cycle of pain and choked words, he realized his eyes were wet. He was unsure when the factor had first become evident, but it was obvious now. A hot, blinding sheen that burned the corners of his eyes.

Dammit, he wasn't crying, was he? He couldn't cry; he couldn't. It was young, it was babyish—

Luke didn't know anything anymore; nothing but the heavy feelings rolling off his tongue, pouring from the shards of his soul, ramming his dizzied head into a hard wooden door.

Making him cry.

But he wasn't crying. Not really, not really…

"I wanna live—I wanna live—I wanna live—live—live…"

It happened in a flash, so quick his brain didn't have time to adjust. One moment his head was colliding with the coarse surface of the door, and the next there was the sensation of falling.

The door had disappeared.

Or at least, someone had pulled it back. All he knew was that he was falling now, tumbling swiftly and abruptly, and no one was going to catch him. His head was surging backwards too fast for him to stop himself. It was going to smash against the ground. It was going to hurt. He wasn't afraid of the pain, but he was mildly disappointed that he would not get to wipe the tears from his eyes.

But his head never hit the floor; instead it thudded against something soft and shaking, something that smelt like roses and alcohol. His mother.

She was holding him?

Why…? How…?

The knife—where was the knife? He'd heard her grab it. Wasn't she…

Wasn't she going to kill him?

Arms were encircling him, holding him close; rocking him in the gentle, rhythmic way a mother rocks a child. It seemed unnatural to Luke; like he had fallen into the arms of a stranger—a woman who had simply stolen his mother's face.

Her voice was in his ear. Her face was in his hair.

"I want you to live," she breathed softly. "Everyday, I want you to live. Even though it's harder this way; bloodier this way. I—I want you to live, but aren't you…aren't you tired of the violence? I hate the color red. It stains everything. My face, my hair, my eyes…I see it when I look in the mirror, see it when I look at you. But you protect me, love, and wipe up the color red. You hold me in your arms. I want you to live but tomorrow I'll hate you. Tomorrow I'll hate you again."

Luke didn't speak. Didn't breathe.

Listened.

"I do hate you—sometimes, all the time—but only because I care about you. Don't you understand, love? I hate you because I care so much. Care so much that I have to—have to…" Her voice sounded choked, like she was crying. "It hurts to care so much. I want you to live, but it hurts. You're stained with the red, but only because you wipe it up. Stand your ground. Take my place. You hold me in your arms like you want to protect me. Do you? I…I think you even love me. Truly, I believe it. You love me, the way a son loves a mother. You love me. Don't you?

I don't think anyone else ever loved me. I don't think I've ever known love—so mystical and fairytale-like—except maybe when I met your father, but I don't know if he loved me. I was married to another man—that man, the one downstairs—when I met your father. He told me he loved me. I loved him. But love isn't love when one person is pretending, and I think he was pretending. He was supposed to whisk me away from this unhappy marriage and make everything better. He could've done it, too, love. He could do anything. He was special. But he didn't save me…he just left me with you, and now you're all I got. I thought you might make him stay, but he left anyway."

The woman leaned in, her voice like a song, whispering secrets into his ear.

"I won't call you by your name, because it makes me think of that man downstairs. Luke. Lucas. They sound the same to me. Luke. Lucas. I didn't name you," Her grip tightened on his shoulders. "I can't look at you either, because your face reminds me of that man who left us. The one with little wings on his heels, love. He had elf-eyes, just like you. I hate you for many reasons, but one reason is because you look at me with those elf eyes.

But even with those eyes, you care about me, though you have no wings on your feet. You love me. You'll protect me, forever. And maybe—maybe, maybe—if we're strong enough and brave enough and living enough, your father will come back and take us away. He could fly us to a palace on a mountain, where everyone wears white silk and drinks red wine. Wouldn't that be lovely, darling? Red, red wine. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

Luke listened, listened and breathed—long, slow pulls of air, like an asthmatic fearful that his lungs may close up if he took in a gasp too sharp. Whereas his ADHD had made everything painfully visible a moment ago, now the whole world seemed blurred now. The weight of his mother's words were rushing over him in an incomprehensible tide, carrying him away; drowning him in deep, desperate depths.

He didn't understand.

He felt his mother's arms around him—a sensation he had never experienced—and felt the odd thrumming of her panicked heart—a heart that for so long seemed dead—fluttering in a rapid, violent succession, like a frenzied bird.

But did she love him or did she hate him? He could smell roses and alcohol, hear her singing voice in his ear, but the question remained unanswered.

Did she love him or did she hate him?

And a palace on a mountain? Red wine and white silk? She was crazy.

Luke felt a tear hit his cheek, but it wasn't his. His eyes looked up and found his mother sobbing into his hair, her thin white fingers clutching at the skin of his bare shoulders. He stared at her, face obscured in his own hair, nightgown frayed, hanging limp on a body that was worn and wasted. Bruised and battered. Just like him.

She was so weak, so pitiful, so beautiful yet tragic as she wept desperate tears into his sandy hair. She was fragile, delicate, a glass statue placed in his fumbling hands.

But he would no longer allow them to fumble. They would hold her close now, shield her, and meld together the fissures that had already been driven into her vulnerable, frail glass form.

She was right, after all. He did love his mother—more than anything—loved a woman who drifted in pale nightgowns, screamed that she hated him, and threw empty bottles. Loved this woman dearly. And he was going to protect her.

"Please," she wept quietly, brokenly. "Don't let me fall. Don't ever let me fall."

Luke imagined the woman with scarred feet and bloodied hands, attempting to claw her way up a painfully high mountain that spiraled to the heavens. The very tip was obscured by a wispy circlet of cloud—almost like a fading crown, or a thinning halo—and he somehow knew she would never make it. If he ever let her fumble her way up this mountain, her sore foot would alight upon a rock too weak, and she would crumple along with it. She would fall.

Luke would not let her climb this mountain. He would never allow his mother's soul to fall to the darkness that lay in the shadow of an exclusive paradise.

In most situations, a mother cares for a child. Well, now a child was caring for his mother.

Luke felt his heart swell in his battered chest; swell with a love so strong it was painful, just like the care his mother had described. Caring so much it hurt. He fixed his thoughts on the man she described—the one with elfish eyes and apparent "wings" on his feet—and knew he was never coming back. Whoever he was, no matter how rich or powerful, he had abandoned them to the cruelty of a dark-haired man with bloody fingernails.

But it was alright; they shared eyes but not souls. Luke would not be like his father. He would hold Mommy, protect her.

He would never leave her.

'A palace on a mountain…with white silk and red, red wine.'

"Is that what heaven looks like, Mom?" he whispered in a quiet, even tone; too quiet for her to hear over her sobbing. "A palace on a mountain? Well, let me tell you something—no, let me promise you something: I'm going to make you a new heaven. A better one. I'll tear down the old heaven stone by stone and construct a new one from its ruins. A heaven just for you, only you; a paradise you've never even imagined. A paradise where you don't need a man with winged shoes to fly you too. I'll make it for you, Mom, no matter how hard. And in this heaven, you'll wear clothes finer than silk, drink the reddest red wine. And you won't fall off this mountain, because my arms will be around it, protecting you. You'll see, Mom…it's going to be a new life, a new age, and you're going to be a part of it. Not just a part, but the focus. The focus of this new heaven."

She never heard him, just held him tight, and cried into his hair.

Author's Note: A virtual cookie for anyone who notices the incredibly obvious connection between what Luke says to his mom and what he eventually does in the series. Again, thanks for reading. Please review!