not all those who wander are lost.

when her attention shifts the air stills, her voice breaking him from his ideas like the tip of a lead pencil snapping against the paper to disrupt the flow of thought to paper. his hands are brought up to the sides of his head in surrender, point of the arrow catching the light as the sun dips below the horizon.

her words should be heeded as a warning, not a challenge, but he can't be compelled to take it. not when there's a perfectly poised, perfectly trained, individual in front of him now to help him clear some of the noise from his own head. " how do you feel about trying something new? "

rosaie lowers her bow fully, yet her wariness lingers like an echo in the night. despite the warning implicit in her words, he seems undeterred, and she can't decide whether that's incredibly smart or incredibly idiotic of him.

and then he opens his mouth.

❛ 'new' is a relative term, ❜ she replies, her tone carrying a hint of skepticism despite the undeniable curiosity in her stare.

❛ chiron's watchful eyes may span the horizon, but it seems they've yet to master the art of listening, ❜ she replies, redirecting her gaze back to the shoreline ahead of them. ❛ that, or he is simply as lost as the rest of us. ❜

as she waits for an answer to her question, the gravity of the situation settles into the lines of her face. the night seldom holds secrets from rosie, but even she can feel the weight of the unknown pulling her deeper into the sand under their feet.

❛ well, over the last several days, we've dismantled every piece of this realm and hid them hastily, only to attempt reassembly as if the initial disarray never occurred. so, it is different, and not in a good way. ❜

a wry smile plays on her lips.

—  THE  QUIET  OF  NIGHT  COVERS  SOME  of their soft steps  through  the  dark  campus  and  to  where  she  suspected  their  oldest  acquaintance  would  be.  in  some  ways,  it  was  perhaps  where  they  wish  she  could  go  to  be  calmed  half  as  much  as  they're  sure  it  was  aiding  rosie's  stress. 

they're  not  wholly  sure  how  long,  exactly,  the  hunter  has  been  in  the  range.  the  hours  have  rushed  past  her  in  the  way  that  only  fear  could  make  them,  feeling  like  they  were  at  a  standstill  only  in  the  moment  to  later  wonder  where  the  entire  day  had  gone.  with  the  campfire  dim  in  the  distance,  past  the  stables  and  the  practice  arena,  they  don't  intend  to  sneak  up  on  rosalyn  and  she  doesn't  realize  she  has  until  there's  an  arrow  pointed  at  her,  rendering  them  speechless  and  frozen  in  place. 

"it's  only  me,  rosie,"  they  call  gently,  stepping  forward  to  bathe  in  the  dim  moonlight,  outside  the  cover  she  hadn't  realized  she  took.  "you  been  out  here  for  a  while,  s'all." 

alicia.

❛ you've still got a talent for sneaking up on people, ❜ rosalyn remarks, a faint smile playing on her lips. she fully lowers her bow, unshot arrow in hand, and faces alicia with an unspoken understanding.

❛ time tends to blur out here, ❜ she admits, though she fails to mention that, for the most part, time is always a blur. rosie blinks, and for a moment she's face-to-face with the child she met all those years ago.

but the world has changed since then, and so too has alicia.

as he steps into her line of sight, hands raised in a non-threatening manner, rosalynn senses the easy confidence that accompanies someone like him. his love for precision and glory screams apollo, and his words carry a casual charm, an invitation wrapped in a playful challenge.

and yet, rosie can't bring herself to offer more than a wry smile in return. ❛ i'm not one to insist upon anything, though i can't say i make a habit of turning away a fellow archer, either. ❜

her gaze holds a subtle wariness, a guarded acknowledgment of the inherent tension that often accompanies interactions between hunters and campers at camp half-blood.

phia is used to maintaining a phantom - like silence. at home in kansas, she haunted the dusty rooms of the house she and mother shared — more a gaping wound than a home. but she should have known better than to assume that someone who had been twenty - five years old for nearly twenty - five years would not have experience with ghosts of her own. “ there are worse fates than death. ” she speaks monotonously, for rosalynn has already torn open the night’s silence like a greatly anticipated birthday gift. happy twenty - fifth … again! “ i think if you wanted to send an arrow through my head, you would have already. ” phia confronts the hunter, holding her most recent journal in front of her hips with both hands, weighty with the recently - recorded word of dostoevsky. she waits, bathed in moonlight, the june heatwave’s mugginess making her hair stick to the back of her neck despite the sun’s retreat. or maybe it’s the adrenaline, the way their conversation thins the veil between this life and the underworld, if only minutely.

phia's silhouette is painted by the moon, and rosie contemplates if, like her spectral kin, the demi-god finds solace in silence more than shared conversations.

but as Phia's words echo in her mind, an unsettling feeling takes hold.

there are worse fates than death.

❛ we're all haunted in our own ways, ❜ rosalynn's voice continues to resonate in the nocturnal stillness, ❛ but words can cut as deep as arrows, provided they are used as weapons.

THE FIRELIGHT FLICKERS, casting shadows on her contemplative expression. aria's question echoes in her mind, frustration simmering beneath the surface, and rosie can't even blame her for it.

it’s been months since she's last seen her goddess, and that sense of abandonment lingers in the air with the smoke. she's tempted to stir that pot, to point out that maybe, just maybe, with even the slightest bit of guidance, the problems currently facing the inhabitants of camp half-blood would unravel like a poorly-woven braid.

her lips part, then close again, a silent dance of uncertainty in spite of the temptation to share her true thoughts.

her banishment is a fragile subject, a broken promise that cuts deep.

in her moment of hesitation, the loyalty takes over, the same way it always does. to speak ill of the supreme huntress, to unveil the cracks in a divine facade, feels like betraying the core of her being.

so she offers a vague response, opting for diplomacy over raw truth. ❛ she's always been elusive in her ways, ❜ rosie finally murmurs, her tone stoic, steadfast.

HE RUNS AS IF BEING CHASED, as if the fire burning a path from his chest to his throat with each inhale was instead swallowing camp whole in his wake. he runs as if it wasn’t just the moon and her godly companions watching over his seventh lap of camp’s boundary, the urgency for speed flagging as what unavoidable urge to move was sated. tiredness — not from his run but from the day’s events — begins pulling at his limbs and ezra slows to a regular jog, taking a deeper breath of the clammy, claustrophobic night air in an attempt to quiet the frenetic energy he can still feel tugging at the edge of consciousness ( there's a storm coming. he can feel that too. )

a mortal ventured deep into her mid-security prison, and she has learned nothing, done absolutely nothing about it.

it's infuriating.

ezra's approach, though not entirely welcome, is expected in these times. ❛ don't tell the grown-ups, but i think evening strolls are becoming a new trend,❜ she remarks. her voice is steady, concealing the wariness that accompanies every interaction with outsiders.

his silhouette persists against the moonlit waters, but the shadows obscure his face. if she were in a poetic mood, perhaps rosie would muse on the delicate balance between mortals and monsters. for now, her tone remains committed to friendliness.

❛ can't say i mind the company, ❜ she adds, trying to infuse a positive note while her eyes keenly search his features for any clues to his intentions.