He knows her name. And he always has. He sighs, remembering the little blonde girl, and the way her curls bounced when she was excited. The way she ran up the steps to the Big House, eager to, "tell Mr. Chiron what Luke said today!" He's watched her victories, her losses, and her tears. Now it's his turn to shed a few tears. He bows his head and leans against his dresser, looking out onto the valley. The whole camp seems somehow darker, without that blonde head of hair, the girl doing cartwheels, plotting capture the flag attacks, and sparring with any luckless campers who trained with her.
He had never cared. Or that's what he told himself. She was just one camper, nothing special, he shouldn't care if she lived or died. He tried not to care. But he did. He didn't act like he did, at least not to anyone watching. She was "Annie Bell," just some girl, a nobody. But she was special. Smart, lively, and full of fun. Now she was gone. Gone forever. And Dionysus wept.