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Music it was - the clashing of metal, our footsteps echoing in the midnight air.
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Never had I held a sword before, let alone a paltry dagger. But even then, holding the blade gave me a sense of power - overwhelming, yet frightening.
Quick steps. Lunge. Thrust.
A weak move countered by a forceful defense, the edge of my sword coming perilously close to my face. Gritting my teeth, I attempted to push back.
This was, however, to no avail. Practiced as he was in this art, he managed to draw blood from my cheek. And, had I not directed a swift kick to his shin, I might not have been able to escape with a minor wound.
Cursing without restraint, the man hobbled back a few steps, spittle landing in his infamous beard.
Gasping for breath, I glared at him, square in his beady eyes.
"Disgusting wench," he muttered, tightening his fist on the grip of his sword.
"No." I blinked, surprised to hear myself again. But, my attention refocused on him and, with much more confidence this time, I said, "I am Reyna."
Bristling with anger, he charged, whatever pain left in his foot forgotten. I resisted the urge to scream as I parried his quick jabs, instead calculating his every move, waiting for an opening.
He struck again.
And so did I.
Undoubtedly, the tense atmosphere was...not the only thing my blade had pierced.
Jaw open, he wheezed, a vain attempt in gathering oxygen with his abstaining lungs.
And even now, I cannot believe what I had witnessed, what I had done.
Blackbeard had fallen.
The victor was I.
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It felt as if I had sprouted wings and freed myself from a swinging cage
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I remember...
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...That first step into many, not knowing what I would encounter; not knowing what I would see.
...The hissing pain I felt as that tattoo was engraved into my flesh.
I wasn't initially well received, as, compared to the other campers, I was much more scrawny and well brought up, spoiled in their eyes.
But those days turned into weeks, which, in turn, became months. And, as I proved myself over and over again, I also learned...
Scars were beautiful spoils of war - proof of your perseverance and capability on the field. Stitches were treasured as evidence that you can (and will) survive, no matter what the cost. Bruises, however, were laughable at best, as they were only a testimony to one's clumsiness.
...Every inch of unmarred skin was like a story waiting to be told.
And, as the months passed, I accumulated various scars, quite a few wounds that required stitching, and - to my dismay - a number of bruises.
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Still, for the first time in my life, I felt truly successful
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But with the passing of time, even ideals and dreams will begin to crumble
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Laughter resounded in the air. I smiled, basking in the warmth of the cheerful atmosphere.
Hordes of young demigods gathered around in large circles, jovial expressions on their faces as they compared battle wounds and stories. Some told of epic adventures, but most would shout half-fabricated tales, claiming themselves to be saviors of the camp.
But, there were two people removed far away from the rest of the groups. True, they both seemed quite happy, however, the way they held themselves, the tense air that they seemed to discharge, and their hesitant laughter effectively sent chills down my spine - as if I had been anticipating something awful.
The next day, I observed the two demigods once again, and noticed a few bandages wrapped around their arms and legs. Even then, they were chuckling, pointing at each other's bloody wounds.
Six days later, one sported a cast on his left arm and the other suffered from a blinded eye.
They were still laughing.
Several weeks passed and they had attracted a large number of people into their group.
Many of this said group, with their bloodshot eyes, would trudge around camp like wooden puppets. When it came time to battle, without even a care for strategy, nearly everyone would immediately charge onto the battlefield. Purposely dancing around the enemy, they would allow their foes to graze nearly every inch of their skin before swiftly defeating them. Every single person who joined would eventually come to lose a limb, an organ...maybe even their life.
Yet, it took me months to finally understand what those two individuals had done.
Scars were no longer a code of honor. It was now a game. A plague. A madness.
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It was an absolutely disgusting sight to see
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Yet, I hoped that a cure could be found
I should have known that it was already too late for miracles
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"We gather here today in memory of the late daughter of Minerva..." I recited, glancing at the corpse's battle-stricken face.
Forming from the bridge of her nose, a large scar trailed to the bottom right of her jawbone. Her left ear, like a shriveled crust of skin, had been burnt in a chaotic escapade that had occurred only months prior. A large stitch encircled her neck, like a thorny vine that had eventually choked the life out of her.
It was ironic - as the daughter of Minerva, this demigod had cared little for wisdom and thought. Heedlessly, she would throw herself into every battle that came her way, even if they were not hers to fight. Every day she had boasted of her strength; she gloated about her new wounds. Even on death's bed, she had given one last triumphant smirk, dying with the madness still pulsing in her bloodstream.
Still, she had been hailed as a hero. No one in the camp had ever witnessed a warrior that could survive such a large amount of blood-loss per day. The largest gash could not even begin to compare to her plethora of burns, stitches, and scars.
But now, she was dead. "For Charon," I announced, placing a glinting piece of gold beneath her tongue.
May this be a lesson, I prayed, as the first ashes danced in the air. May this spread no more.
The carcass burst into flames.
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Of course, the gods paid heed to a select few words
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Mine...were none of them
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The madness spread. Dozens upon dozens of campers would die each month, the crazed glint never leaving their dilated pupils.
In every funeral procession that occurred, I wanted to scream at the demented campers; I wanted to beg them back into rationality. Coaxing would not work, and neither would yelling.
Every day, I would glare at my scars, wanting to rip them off one by one, as if to rid myself from this plague.
Perseverance? Capability? Evidence of survival instincts?
No.
Scars were only physical evidence of idiocy - of not being able to fight without drawing blood from your own skin. Stitches proved only of failure. Failure to think, failure to evade, failure in battle. And bruises. Always considered as a source of laughter...it was the only thing that would not drive me insane with torment.
If only I could escape. Escape from this madhouse, this gladiator's arena.
But it was too late.
Once a demigod of this camp, always a demigod of the camp. I was tied by my blood connections and these horrid wounds.
Hope was the only thing I could hold onto, in fear that I might succumb to the madness.
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A wounded, disillusioned bird I had been - escaping from one prison only to unknowingly fall into another
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However, this time, only sanity may escape from its bloody confines
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Disclaimer - I do not own Percy Jackson or the Heroes of Olympus
Thanks for reading! I hope that it doesn't seem too rushed...
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