gia na kápsei
(who why when what where)
[ to burn ]
i.
Percy doesn't like the be kept out of the loop. (when?)
Annabeth wishes that it never happened. (who?)
You know that it's okay to be scared. After all, your great-grandma told you so. It's fine to be scared, it's fine to not be okay, she said. You believe her because her words are the only words that seem to actually make it through your thick skull. And as you stare at the two teenagers in front of you that just slashed your gym teacher and he disappeared into dust, you think to yourself, just close your eyes and you'll wake up.
You don't wake up. Because you find you're not dreaming.
The girl, a pretty blond with hardened eyes, puts her glinting dagger in a sheath at her waist. You back away when she tries to touch you—after all, she just killed your gym teacher! (You never liked him, but was there a cause for that?) Her eyes soften and she reaches out a hand.
"You're okay," she says, comforting. Despite yourself, you find that you're hypnotized by her eyes. "Come on. We've gotta get you to a safe place."
Despite what she's saying, all you can do is stutter out something incoherent.
Another person walks up beside her; a teenage boy, handsome, with the looks of a Roman statue. His eyes are sea green and his hair pitch black, and he glances around the empty gymnasium nervously; as if he expects something nasty to pop out at them (perhaps another demon gym teacher?).
"I-I can't...I don't..." You have nothing to say. "What...what was that?"
This time, the guy grimaces. "A monster," he says lightly. "No problem. A low one, but one that was probably looking for demigods around here." His eyes focus on you and you feel like throwing up. It's almost like those eyes know everything, can search way beyond you. You don't like it. "Are you dyslexic?" he asks, blunt, and the girl slaps him on the arm.
Your face heats up in embarrassment. "Yeah," you manage to squeak out, hiding your face.
"Percy," says the girl patiently, "I will hurt you when we get back to camp."
The boy named Percy shrugs, but he doesn't look too worried.
"Come," the girl says again, this time towards her, kneeling down. You feel like a child, but you don't exactly hate it either. "I promise you, you'll be safe, and we'll explain everything." And even though your great-grandma told you not to trust strangers, not to listen to their words, these people are barely years older than you are and they saved you from an untimely demise. So you decide to trust them. How bad can it be?
(All you really want is answers, because you're so, so confused.)
You take her outstretched hand.
He finds that this really wasn't the best way things could have gone. (what?)
You are taken to a camp. And not just any camp—a camp that is part of a whole 'nother world. A world filled with monsters, hidden secrets, a greater deity just beyond your reach. A camp full of the divine, a camp full of all the things your mother said that you can't read because it'll give you nightmares.
And you are one of them.
The whole thought is much too much for you—you stare at everything, your mind going miles a minute, while you're put in a rickety cabin and kept there until you're "determined", which is supposed to be your "god" parent. You are the child of a god.
And you suppose that it could be your mother or father, because all your life you've been raised by your grandma. And she has no idea that you're here. You should really tell her that you're here, but you just can't find it in you; you are still starstruck by the world that has been introduced to you. It's all so new, shiny, and great.
You don't get "claimed" for two weeks, and you forget about your grandmother all together.
The signs of a demigod don't apply to you that much. ADHD, okay—you get that. You're hyper. Extremely hyper. It hasn't been classified as ADHD, but you haven't been to the doctor in three years. And even though you're horrible at Latin, the blond girl says you get better. But you're horrible at Greek. This is something you don't tell anyone, because it seems as though everyone knows Greek and it intimidates you. Hell, you know that even your grandma knows Greek!
(Come to think of it, she has dyslexia and ADHD as well...maybe she was a demigod too. You'd have to ask when you get back. Wait, don't you have to send a letter to her...?)
You can't really seem to get the weapon-and-bow fighting down. You're horrible with archery. You can't hold a sword right because it doesn't fit in your hand. And your senses don't tingle. In fact, they seem to get worse in the moment of panic you get whenever you're fighting. Scenes blur. Your breathing becomes labored. You are not like the son of Poseidon who is your instructor, frowning at you and telling you to go slower before finally changing you from sword to a simple knife.
You feel as though he has degraded you, but you can't do anything about it because you know that he's right in doing it.
So you take a dagger and walk away, wondering why you are the worst demigod on the face of the Earth.
"She wasn't...Oh...my gods..." (where?)
Your head hurts, but you don't say a word. The armor is heavy on your arms, and you can't move. Your dagger feels slippery in your hand and almost three times it seems to slip out of your hands. You're on border patrol; new kid always gets the brunt of the work, but you don't care because it's you're not that great at fighting and you'd rather take this than anything else.
You're paranoid. You've learned to be paranoid, because you're up against the cabin that burnt their own home down, colored it with red fists and has an angry boar's head pinned at the top of their door. You don't like staring at it. It makes you feel like someone is looking into your soul.
The forest seems to close in on you for a second. You think it's just yourself, but then something hits you on the back of the head, hard, and you stumble away from your spot. Stars dance in front of your eyes, but for a moment, you feel this anger burning inside of you.
You turn around and there is an ugly sneer on one of the camper's faces. Not all of them play nice, warned the green-eyed instructor of her. So don't play nice back. It's the only to survive, you think weakly to yourself.
"Oh lookie here," says the camper, leering at you. "The weird kid who's past her ripe age."
You feel tears pricking the corner of your eyes, because you're nearly sixteen and not claimed yet. But you feel a burning anger inside of you, and then you charge forward blindly with your dagger with all the strength you have. The camper is so surprised that he only has a few moments to defend himself, grunting, and you feel a surge of pleasure. This is how it feels like to win.
A slimy grin passes on the camper's face. "You wanna fight, girly? Let's fight." He slashes at you with his long sword, and it hits on your armor. Thank gods you stepped back in time to only catch minimal damage.
With your heart pounding, you learn that fighting gave off the best feeling ever. Your blood rushes in your ears, but your mind is working in overdrive. All you can think of is the open spots, when to block, when to cover, every single one of the instructions that were taught to you runs through your head like a mantra.
And then, a large horn blows.
You are temporarily distracted as it does, signaling the end of the game. Your opponent sees the opening and hacks at you, causing a large cut in the side. You cry out in pain; it hurts, and then you lean down and hold your fingers toward it, feeling the gush of blood come out. You barely remember anything, you're bleeding so much, but you see the white face of your opponent—he didn't mean it—and the pain is overwhelming.
"Malcolm! Come over here, we wo—oh, crap! What did you do!" a harsh, female voice shouts, and you recognize it as the head of Ares Cabin that, for some reason, warms up to you. You been cool fingers touching your neck, and you realize that you're face-down on the ground.
"Nelly," says a soft, hoarse voice, "Don't die. Malcolm! I'm gonna skin you alive! Get Annabeth!"
"Already here," another female, terse and familiar, joins in. "Gods, what happened?"
"Later," she growls, the leader of Ares. "First, get her some ambrosia and bandages. Malcolm slashed her really bad. Boy, get out of here before I kill you!"
"Clarisse," says the blond girl you know is there, "I know she reminds you of Silena, but—"
"Don't say her name."
You gasp for breath, catching both of their attention. You only see black because you've shut your eyes closed deeply. You don't know why this causes you so much pain, but it does. It's like a thousand electric bolts running through your skin, and it's sending more and more hurt every moment. Blood, wet and slippery across your fingers, falls out of the wound and it just won't stop.
"Here," says a panicked voice. "Eat this and you'll feel better, okay?" Hands take your own off your wound, and they start pressing things to it. A crumbly, almost brownie-like substance passes through your lips, and you open your mouth to swallow it. It's hard and unyielding in your mouth, but you manage to get it down your throat anyways.
It's about the greatest thing you have ever tasted. It tastes like your grandma's apple pie and warm, warm hot chocolate that slips down your throat.
And then it burns.
It burns like a thousand fires, bursting inside of you, and you scream. It feels like someone is charring you, tearing your body to shreds, hacking away your limbs while you bleed to death. It feels like someone is boiling you from the inside out, and suddenly, everything hurts. You want to die. Gods, you just want it to end.
You scream and shout and flail, but you feel your body on fire. When you open your eyes, all you can see is dark red flame, encompassing and burning you. You are burning. You are burning alive.
You never thought death would come this way, and suddenly, you feel like crying.
But then you're in too much pain to cry, too much pain to feel anything other than pain. And you're burning.
You scream until your voice is hoarse, until you can feel yourself giving out. It's like candle wax is being melted inside of you. Like someone is putting a slow fire over your beating, roasting you until you're charred black. You hate it. You wish you never took her hand, never took the chance, never wished to know the answers. You wish that you could read normally and that you didn't have to go through this pain. Because you are the worst demigod on the face of the earth, on the planet.
That thought remains with you until the last moment you scream, your last breath, is taken away. And everything is dark.
"S-she was...she was...mortal. She was a mortal." (why?)
.:.
fin.