Ethan huffed as he looked at Camp Half-Blood for the last time. It was supposed to have kept him safe, to have given him a home. It had given him hope to finally belong. Years after coming here, that hope still hadn't become a reality. It was time to leave, and yet he couldn't help but feel a little solemn as he let his eyes roam the area.
The campers had been trying - in their own ways - to give him something to hold on to, to make him feel at home. Some had invited him to sit next to them and talk to them at the dining table; some had taken him into their groups during competitions; some had tried to get him to sing at the campfire with them. It hadn't been enough.
He'd asked Chiron for permission to leave, but the old centaur had refused. Chiron had looked at him with his ancient eyes, a silent plea not to leave within them.
Ethan was no fool. He'd learned his mythology. He knew those eyes had seen heroes come, grow up, and go. They'd seen the messengers come to tell him of his trainee's deaths. They'd been blinded by tears, sometimes hidden in the face of other heroes in times of need, they'd been cleared, again and again. Time after time, Chiron must have become weary, though he still didn't give up on training young heroes. He'd become (if he had ever not been good at it) better at masking his grief, his desperation, and sometimes, his anger and frustration.
Frustration, albeit a different kind of frustration, was the key reason for Ethan to leave as well. For years, he'd been rotting in the overcrowded Hermes Cabin. He'd been hoping to be claimed, to see a bright light, a sign above his head that would proclaim his divine parent, but such a moment had never come.
He wasn't needed or overly wanted here. He'd never been. He was stuck in a big camp, a cabin overloaded with other campers, and he still was alone, only taking up space. That blonde daughter of Athena, Annabeth, she sometimes waved at him, and the head of the Hermes Cabin, Luke, he sometimes patted his head, or the Stolls who pranked him in order to try and make him laugh only to be hit with his revenge (not that that stopped them or the other Hermes Cabin inmates); but even after years, they never saw him.
The smile Luke gave him while petting his head was empty, like it was only there to appease instead of being genuine. Annabeth only ever gave him a glance. The Stolls could always find someone else to prank.
As he came closer to the barrier, he started to slow down. Chiron had to allow heroes to leave camp, so he'd have to try and break through the barrier. Maybe he wouldn't physically be able to phase through the barrier and leave after after all, forcing him to get along with others, maybe liking them. He did, however, feel no problems when he tried to leave, and frowned. Was he allowed to leave? Did even Chiron not care about him leaving anymore? A bitter laugh left his lips, staying as an equally bitter smile.
He may have been only eleven years old, but he'd received plenty of training. And they did say that practical experience is the best way to improve one's skills. They wouldn't miss him at camp, not even Chiron. Ethan wouldn't miss it, either. That would only be fair.
He'd been on the streets for about half a year now and the weather was slowly and steadily getting colder. Having no grownup around or source of income made it hard to eat enough every day, so he'd been becoming thinner, lankier, bonier. Luckily for him, supermarkets threw away plenty of food that was still edible, so if he managed to be sneaky, he could snatch some items before risking being spotted, which could result in the containers being locked. As he was sitting in a side alley to hide from the wind, he saw people walking by, most not even noticing him, let alone sparing him a glance.
Maybe Chiron counted on me returning , he thought, pulling the worn-out blanket closer to his shivering form as the autumn declared its entrance into the city. He chastised himself for that thought and immediately shut it down. The camp didn't care, the gods didn't care, so why should he care?
The gods didn't care at all. They wouldn't even care if he froze to death in this side alley, unknowing even of who his divine parent was. They wouldn't care if his pathetic life ended.
Maybe he could make them care, he mused yet again. He'd been thinking about this for weeks now. Or was it months? Time lost its meaning somewhat when you were under attack from monsters or fighting for your life in a different way constantly.
If he made a difference, they'd be forced to care some way or the other, right? The gods were fickle creatures, jumping from one human to another, never giving their attention to one for too long. That extended towards their treatment of their children, most not even ending up claimed - if they survived at all, whether before or after arriving at Camp half-Blood.
But this girl, Annabeth, he'd seen her. She'd received something from her mother. It had been on her twelfth birthday that she suddenly possessed a cap of the New York Yankees. Whenever she put it on, she turned invisible. And Luke, he'd received those winged shoes from his father. Others had received gifts as well, and if he remembered correctly, they were usually given as an exchange for an accomplishment.
He would receive attention from his parent if he accomplished something. It would only be fair, he told himself, though of course from his parent's perspective, the gift would only be a proof for bragging rights.
Thus, he prayed again. "Whoever you are, mother, father," he said. "Please, I want to make a difference. Let me make a difference and I will give you what you ask for."
Nothing happened, so he repeated his prayer, again and again, as the air grew even colder and the winds picked up. The sound of leaves rustling came over from the main street between the noise of cars and mortals as he prayed. He wrapped the blanket even tighter around himself and prayed.
Nothing happened and he prayed. The gods stayed silent, ignoring him as he prayed. Frustration welled up, but he continued praying.
This wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair.
He was eleven and had to fight monsters. He was at fault for choosing this, so he thought this hard life was rightfully given due to him asking for it after leaving the camp, but he'd hoped for something that would balance out his struggles.
He didn't even have enough power to make a difference. He'd die alone and forgotten. Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Please, let me make a difference," he choked, begging by now. "I'll give you what you want, but please, just let me make a difference… Mother… Father…," he sniffed.
"Who're you talking to, kid?," a rough voice asked. Ethan flinched and looked around, his bony hand flying to his Celestial Bronze sword.
"Nobody," he answered, one hand gripping his sword as he cleared his face with an old rug he'd collected somewhere. Mortals wouldn't understand, anyway.
"Don't give me that. You said wanna make a difference, huh?" the person asked as they came closer. It was a woman in a red leather catsuit, a motorcycle helmet under her arm, a cigarette in her mouth, her curly hair wild on her head.
Ethan averted his eyes and shrugged. "Yes, I want to, but you can't help me with that, anyway."
The woman shrugged. "Sorry, kid. But if I could, would you really sacrifice something? Even something like an eye?"
A bitter smile crept onto his face as his grip on the sword grew even tighter, ready to strike at any second now. The mortal, if she was a mortal woman, had to be mocking him. "Not that you could do anything, but yes, I would."
As soon as he said that, he felt a searing hot pain in his left eye. His hand flew to it, to protect it from whatever hurt it as he screamed in agony, curling into a ball. As he screamed and writhed, he felt something warm and wet pour out from his left eye while tears were streaming from his right. After what felt like an eternity, the pain decreased, reduced to a slightly duller throbbing, but it still hurt as if a salted knife had been driven and continuously stabbed into his face.
Except he felt nothing where his eye should have been at all; his eyelid fluttered loosely without something underneath it as he tried to open it. When he did open it - nothing on that side but darkness and pain.
Panting, Ethan sat back up, murder in his remaining eye as he stared daggers at the woman. She was holding something in her hand and regarded it. "Who are you and what did you do?," he sobbed, still holding his hand to where his eye had been.
"We made an exchange," she said, now shifting her look towards him. "You wanted to make a difference. As a price, you paid an eye."
She pushed her hand into one of the pockets of her trousers and pulled out something black. "Your eye will not get infected," she said, power behind her words. "Cover it with this eyepatch, and your eye socket will be protected until it's healed."
"Why would I take something from a psycho like you?," Ethan wimmered.
Wrath came to the woman's eyes. "Because I am your mother, Ethan Nakamura. The exchange is sealed," she said and threw the eyepatch at him. "You will make a difference, but it will come at a cost. Train and grow stronger so you will achieve what you sacrificed to me for. Don't throw this chance away, Ethan Nakamura."
And with a bolt of light, she vanished. As the image of two swords crossed under a set of scales flared up over his head, Nemesis' voice resounded in his head. "That was only fair."
At the age of eleven, a son of Nemesis was claimed.