Chapter Text
Tim roused himself from sleep, far too early for anyone. Except maybe the Apollo cabin, because the sun is just barely peeking above the horizon. There are several personal lights on where various people fell asleep working on whatever they were working on, probably battle plans if he's being honest with himself. The war is definitely looming.
He drags himself out of bed, he has things to do. He rubs his face as he makes his way to the Big House.
He stands at the door, debating on knocking. It's technically a public area so he decides to just open the door.
He enters the office from his first day, empty.
“Of course,” he sighs as he claims a couch and takes a nap while he waits.
Chiron is not one to consume mind altering substances, but when he walks into his office to find a 11 year old sleeping on his couch, who wasn't there when he went to bed, he runs through the list in his head of every drug he knows and how it might help him deal with this situation.
The list is surprisingly long, guess his party pony days aren't far enough behind him.
He's considering nutmeg intoxication when the kid suddenly sits upright.
This, of course, triggers his camp therapist instincts and he is prepared to calm the kid down from a panic attack. The kid however looks straight at him, not a hint of fear.
Chiron knows all the kids at camp, it is his job after all, (despite Mr. D's insistence that it doesn't matter) but it isn't until this moment that he fully recognizes the child in front of him. One of their newest campers, a rich kid from Gotham who ended up being a child of sleep.
He honestly Wasn't expecting to see much of the boy after he'd been claimed, but he has been seen around the training grounds and spending a lot of time with the Athena cabin.
“I want to see The Oracle.” The kid, Tim, tells him.
And that's how Tim ends up in the attic, face to face with a mummified corpse of a hippie. The dried out husk of a woman in a tie-dye dress sitting amongst various nick knacks and souvenirs from previous quests. He wrinkles his nose at the sight, feeling bad for the woman that used to inhabit the bones before him. Such a careless way to treat your dead.
Tim stares at the woman, debating on storming down the stairs and giving the big horse man a lecture on how to treat the dead, when suddenly it moves.
She sits up, green smoke pouring from her mouth and covering the floor. Tim steps back as tendrils of smoke reach for his ankles. They twist around his body, they're not constricting him just ensuring he can't leave. And that's when he hears her.
“I am the spirit of Delphi,” her words are less spoken and more like snakes that slithered into his mind, “speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo. Approach, seeker, and ask”
A small tug on his leg has him stepping forward, “how can I help Batman?”
Smoke coils around him, and a dozen voices speak in unison,
“Return to Gotham and help the bat after,”
“The baby bird was taken by laughter,”
“The son of sleep helps manage grief,”
“The joker’s son brings true relief.”
Prophecy complete, the snakes of smoke merge and return to the open maw of the woman.