Hunters All Grown Up

Matt woke with his hand against the duffel and the wool blanket tucked beneath his chin. For a few comfortable seconds, he listened to somebody tending a fire outside before remembering whose camp he was in and reaching up to check his forehead. No antlers. His hands were still hands, and moving his feet beneath the blanket reassured him that he would at least be leaving on two legs, provided he managed to leave at all.

The cot was harder to account for. So were the waterskin beside it and his boots, neatly dried and placed near the entrance. Each belonged to a part of the night he would have preferred to dismiss as a dream, particularly the spoonfeeding. He remembered Phoebe offering medicine, Zoë apologising, and the Hunters putting him to bed after he had shouted at them. Hunters did not become reasonable because a boy lost his temper. If that worked, somebody at Camp Half-Blood would have managed it years ago.

“Right,” he muttered at the canvas. “If last night actually happened, then every Hunter in this camp has magically grown up. Body, mind, spirit, the lot. Proper adults by breakfast.”

A laugh outside carried over the clink of a pot as he pushed the blanket back and reached for his boots. Getting them on without assistance was a modest improvement over the night before. He intended to pack next, but the voices around the fire drew him toward the flap before he had done more than straighten his duffel. Perhaps a look outside would explain why nobody else seemed troubled by the situation.

His escort rose to greet him, and he stopped in the entrance. The familiar eyes and affectionate smile belonged to a face that looked several years older than the one he remembered across the spoon. She appeared to be in her twenties now, taller too, though he scarcely registered that before noticing how beautiful she was. His attention shifted hastily toward Zoë, whose equally adult features gave him another reason to stare and absolutely no confidence that he would survive being caught doing it.

He settled on the cooking pot. Phoebe stood beside it accepting a cup, and even she had changed, the last trace of her split lip confirming that this was the same Hunter who had tried to strangle him. Whatever had happened to their appearances, he had no intention of testing whether their newfound kindness extended to a boy looking too appreciatively at them.

Beyond Phoebe, the Hunter cleaning her bow looked to be in her twenties as well. So did the two sharing breakfast beside her. Matt followed the group around the fire, searching for somebody whose appearance matched his memory, until his escort caught his eye and beckoned him toward the place beside her.

“What happened to you?” he asked, remaining by the tent.

She paused with her hand extended toward the log. “What do you mean?”

“Your faces. You all look older.” He gestured toward the others, unwilling to single out any feature she might accuse him of examining too closely. “You didn’t look like this last night.”

“I noticed when I washed.” Her fingers touched her cheek, and she turned toward Phoebe, who nodded over her cup. “I thought you might have been too tired to notice the difference.”

Too tired to notice that an entire camp had aged several years? Matt looked toward Zoë for something resembling concern. She left her place beside the fire and approached, her familiar circlet and yellow coat making the change in her face harder to dismiss as mistaken identity.

“It appears to have affected us all,” she said. “None hath reported pain or illness.”

Behind her, the Hunter cleaning her bow gathered up her equipment to clear a seat. Somebody asked for another cup, and Phoebe passed one over while his escort waited to see whether he would join them. Their willingness to carry on with breakfast left him searching their faces for a suppressed grin. The Mist might explain what he was seeing, but he could not work out what sort of joke required every Hunter present to participate, or why Zoë would help them sustain it.

“And this doesn’t worry you?”

“We are examining it,” Zoë replied. “I shall speak with Lady Artemis upon her return. Our continued youth is her gift; she may know why it hath changed.”

Matt released the tent flap. She sounded so composed that he almost felt foolish for asking, which did little for his temper. They had all aged overnight, and apparently the appropriate response was to have breakfast while waiting for somebody qualified to explain it.

“Right. You got over the prejudices and grudges, grew up as people, and the rest of you caught up. Artemis rewarded you by strengthening her blessing. Now you’re adults and better Hunters, more in tune with her than you were yesterday. All in one night.”

“That would explain it.” His escort looked down at her hand, flexing her fingers before reaching for the bow beside the log. “I thought my shoulder was simply less stiff.”

She drew the string back experimentally. Across the fire, Phoebe set down her cup to do the same, and Matt watched them test his sarcasm with an earnestness he had no idea how to interrupt.

“The blessing is stronger,” Zoë said. “I can feel it also.”

He turned toward her, meaning to ask how she could possibly sound so certain, and found himself noticing the morning light on her face instead. The silver circlet lay against dark hair, a few loose strands stirring beside her cheek as she watched her sisters. When she looked back, her brown eyes held his with a calm attentiveness that made him forget the beginning of his question.

“So that makes sense to you?” he managed, directing his attention toward the braid over her coat. That was scarcely better. She was close enough that he could see the curve of her mouth soften, and he hurriedly looked past her before she caught him studying it.

“Our lady’s favour hath taken an unusual form,” she replied. “Yet our strength is increased, and none is suffering. I see cause for gratitude.”

Behind her, Phoebe eased her bowstring forward and said something approving to his escort. Neither appeared to be waiting for him to admit that he had been joking. Matt folded his arms, trying to recover the objection he had intended to make before Zoë turned toward him.

His escort returned her bow to the log and picked up a spare cup. “Come and have breakfast. There is room beside me.”

He accepted it, grateful for somewhere to direct his eyes. The cup was warm, its rim chipped, and examining it was unlikely to get him shot. Unfortunately, Zoë remained beside him while his escort cleared a place, and he was uncomfortably aware of how much effort it took not to look at her again.