Chapter Text
It began with Kallias. Thoughtful Kallias, with his bright grin and his blessed voice, who was everything a child of Apollon should have been. Kallias, who strung her first bow and taught her how to shoot, because the ability was not innate to her as it was to most of her siblings, and he understood that better than anyone else; Kallias who sang the younger kids to sleep on their first days at camp; Kallias who was oftentimes more a parent than an older brother, always present.
Kallias who died, alone, crushed to death by the reptilian foot of a Gigas. Kallias whose broken body should have been kept from the eyes of his younger siblings, but it was impossible, because his three brothers were needed to tend the Asclepieion where it was being kept. His body should have been kept from the eyes of his younger siblings, but his two sisters were needed to prepare his body for the funeral. His body should have been kept from the eyes of his younger siblings, but all five of them were needed to sing the threnos.
He had told her, upon her arrival, that the Camp would not be anything without them. He had called it their father’s greatest gift. In that moment, surrounded on all sides by her grieving brothers and sisters, Phoibe could only see it as a curse.
After Kallias was Ismaros, a mere two years later. Lovely Ismaros, with his pretty face and his deadly aim, who was everything a child of Apollon was expected to be. Ismaros, who stepped up as their protector in Kallias’ stead; Ismaros, who was always the first to cheer on a sibling that struggled with adapting to one of their father’s domains, because he knew perfection and it weighed on him; Ismaros, who was favored by the Gods for his potential.
It killed him, in the end. Everybody wanted a champion. Everybody expected him to be a champion. He died trying to prove that he was truly worthy of the Gods’ favoritism, the favoritism that he had spent so long trying to run from. Their cabin had to bury another brother, and the Gods had already moved on by the time his shroud—they’d never found the body, they’d never been able to lay him to rest—had burned.
The task of keeping their siblings alive fell heavy on the shoulders of the next eldest brother, decreed as such the very same night of the funeral, like Ismaros had stopped mattering the second he was no longer bringing glory to the Camp.
Ibykos was only twelve. Tortured Ibykos, with his fraying mind and his sleepless nights, was everything a child of Apollon was supposed to stray from. Ibykos, who never knew a moment of rest even during the loveliest days; Ibykos, who took everyone else’s pain and made it his own, because he thought he was best equipped to carry with it; Ibykos, who everyone pitied but nobody helped.
He had spent twelve years shouldering the burdens of his mother, his siblings, and the camp, and then he’d been thrust into a position of leadership when he should have been given the space to grieve, because Camp only functioned as well as Apollon’s children, so Apollon’s children did not get time to do silly things like deal with their feelings. Poseidon’s Perseus had not hesitated to dive into the lake. It had not been enough to save him.
They were down to three. Three siblings to weave his shroud, three siblings to sing, three siblings to place an obol in his mouth and pray that he saw Elysium.
It was the first time that Phoibe saw her father. She was only seven, and there was a man she had never seen before sitting on the bed that had been Ibykos’ just a day prior, and it should have been terrifying but it was not, because Apollon had looked devastated. She never told anyone, and the next morning they were introduced to the Naiads. They would be taking up residence in the Camp’s lake from now on, said Chiron, and Phoibe did not need to ask why.
Artemas lasted the longest. His mother had hoped that, by honoring the Goddess of the Hunt with his name, she would grant him extra protection in his duties as a hero. At thirteen, having lived through the death of three other brothers, Phoibe was not at all convinced. Artemas was not thoughtful like Kallias, or lovely like Ismaros, or tortured like Ibykos. Wayward was the best adjective to describe Artemas, with his angry demeanor and his fierce loyalty, who was only ten when he had been charged with the wellbeing of two younger sisters.
And oh, how Phoibe loved him. Kallias had been wonderful, but she had been only five when he had died, and she had had to learn how to heal quickly after. And she had never been able to bond with Ismaros or Ibykos, both of whom were too weighed down by their own existence to bother with hers. Artemas had always made time for her, had strung her bows after Kallias’ death until she learned how to do it herself, had taught her which healing hymns worked best for which injuries, had challenged her with seeing which of them could climb a tree the fastest.
He was not one to comfort anybody when they cried or got hurt. He told them that they had to hit the ground running, because a woman would always be at a disadvantage compared to a man. He put them on Asclepieion duty when their monthlies came around, despite the fact that they did not have any true alternatives to it.
Artemas was not their best archer. That title went to Achaia, fifteen years old and already getting offers for her hand in marriage from their fellow campers, but Achaia was a daughter, not a son, and so all she was good for was healing and singing, and so Artemas was the one sent out to battle.
She and Achaia were not allowed out of camp. Their brothers had been the healers in battle, but now there was only one brother, so nobody received medical aid until they returned to Camp. Most of them never did. And Artemas never said it outright, but it was clear in the way he never went off to battle without telling them that he would be waiting for them on the other side.
And that made it hurt all the more. Kallias, Ismaros, Ibykos— she had grieved them, had missed them, but their loss did not leave a gaping hole in her heart. Their loss did not devastate her. Artemas…
The sky was clear, the day he died. Sunny; a warm day at the tailend of Spring, shortly before Achaia was set to return to Camp for Summer. And it was so unfair, because it was not war that killed him, it was not battle. It was a hunt.
He had gone out to the surrounding forest with two sons of Ares, arrows sharpened specifically for the task. The two had returned, scratched up but alive, carrying her brother’s body between them. A boar, they said. They had no choice, they said.
Because healing was Artemas’ job. It was Phoibe’s job. It was Achaia’s job, when her mother allowed her to come. The Apollon kids. Nobody else had had any training, but what did it matter, when Apollon had so many children to spare? But that was not the case anymore. It had not been the case for many, many years, and now it was even less so, because—
Their siblings had made the last three shrouds together; Phoibe did not let anyone else help with Artemas’. Their siblings had always sung the threnos together; Achaia sang Artemas’ alone. Their older brothers were not there to burn the body of their last brother, so Phoibe and Achaia did it alone.
Phoibe had no more brothers to burn and mourn, after Artemas. But she still had a sister.
Reliable Achaia, with her gentle hands and her unyielding resolve, who was everything that their brothers had tried to be. Achaia, who had been in charge of the Asclepieion from the time she was nine, and who began to quietly pull away until she stopped healing campers entirely; Achaia, who shot another camper in the foot to prove a point; Achaia, who had been and still was reliable, as she took Phoibe’s hands in her own and told her that something had to change.
Achaia who never returned after that last Summer. Achaia who, Phoibe was told by Poseidon’s Perseus, had been married off the second she had returned home. She had been hiding her monthlies for three years, spurred on by Artemas—and Phoibe had known this already, because she had received the same advice—with the goal of joining Artemis’ ranks the second she was able. But her mother had found her out, and her mother had married her off, and so Phoibe lost her last remaining sibling to a fate worse than death: marriage to a man old enough to be her great-grandfather.
She never did see Achaia again, but it had not been a full year when Perseus, who was neighbors with Achaia and her ancient husband, told her she had passed. The house she lived in had a staircase, and it seemed that her ancient husband was not so ancient that he could not hurt his wife. She had not stood a chance.
But Achaia would not have been the first sibling to have a funeral without a body, and so Phoibe had one anyway. There were exactly three attendants: her, Poseidon’s Perseus, and Apollon.
Phoibe had not seen him since Ibykos, but the summer following Artemas’ untimely demise had been scorching, and weaker men than her had complained about blistered feet and peeling skin, so it did not matter; if there was one thing that Phoibe had never been given reason to doubt, it was that their father loved each and every one of them.
Perhaps that was why they had not had any new siblings join camp since Kallias’ passing. Perhaps he did not wish to repeat the process with another set of children. In any case, his presence did not shock her much. What did was his advice.
Well, no— it was not truly advice. It was more akin to begging, if Gods were even capable of it. He told her to join the ranks of Artemis. He told her she would be as safe as she could be. But Phoibe could only think of Artemas, named for Artemis, and the irony of his death. Artemis had not given him a single thought. Artemis had never appeared to Achaia and offered her safety. Artemis had never done a thing for them before, and Phoibe would not besmirch the memory of those that loved and died by picking an option that had never been available to them.
There had been six of them, and now there was only her, and Phoibe would live the life she was granted until they were together again.
“No.” said Phoibe, and saw in her father’s face that he was mourning her already.
There was only one child of Apollon at Camp, and she was a girl, and anyone who took issue with that was more than welcome to shove an arrow up their nether regions. There was only one child of Apollon at Camp, and she was a girl, and she harassed Chiron until he forced everyone to take archery lessons. There was only one child of Apollon at Camp, and she was a girl, and every week she picked a group of campers to learn basic healing practices.
There was only one child of Apollon at Camp and everyone may have hated her for giving them more work but at least they would never have to know what it was to lose five siblings in nine years. There was only one child of Apollon at Camp and she might have been alone in a cabin that had once housed six, but sometimes it felt there were more.
At seventeen years old, Phoebe had outlived four brothers and a sister. At seventeen years old, Phoebe was officially older than any of her siblings. Kallias, Artemas, and Achaia had all been sixteen when they passed. Ismaros had been fourteen. Ibykos had been twelve. Phoebe cried when she realized.
At seventeen years old, Phoebe was once again asked—begged—by Apollon to reconsider. This time, she paused. This time, she asked questions. This time, she got an answer.
She did have more siblings. There had been children already born, by the time Kallias died, and they too were dead by the time Achaia was.
It had been nine siblings lost in nine years, not five. She had had nine siblings and had only gotten to know five of them, because Priam, Anais, Bion, and Iole never made it to camp. Apollon knew the names of all her siblings. He knew the order in which they died. And so Phoebe asked.
Little Anais, only three years old, had been the first one to go, during that same Winter. Her mother and stepfather were too proud to accept help from anyone, and it cost their daughter’s life. Her death and Kallias’ were only fourteen days apart. They’d both gotten Elysium.
Ismaros had been the third, two years later. Then Ibykos, seven days apart. Sweet Iole had been the fifth, ten years old and only a few weeks away from the supposed safety of Camp. Her passing and Ibykos’ had coincided. Phoibe had seen Satyrs bringing new campers, but she had not known the reason for them was so closely related to the reason for the Naiads being in the lake. Apollon had asked they both be given Elysium despite the circumstances, and Haides had agreed.
Priam had been the sixth, two years later, like there was some sort of sick pattern. Apollon did not speak of how it happened, just that it did, and Phoibe did not ask. She assumed the boy had not been at fault, because he had also been granted Elysium, just as all the siblings before him had.
Another two years, then Bion became number seven. Bion, whose existence Apollon did not learn of until his mother was praying to him for her baby boy—just twenty-one days old—to be given back to her. Even a God did not have the authority to cheat Death, though, so Bion stayed dead. Such an innocent soul could only ever be granted Elysium.
Two more years made six years that Phoibe, Artemas, and Achaia had lived in peace, until Artemas was lost to them, too. Another year made nine years of dead siblings, rounded out by Achaia.
Ibykos had always been adamant that everything was a sign if one just bothered to look.
Phoibe joined the Hunters of Artemis the very next day.