The monument was a small one. It lay in one corner of the atrium of the Empire State Building. If you did not look for it, it would not show itself to you. But for those that remained of the forty campers, thirty hunters, and more than a hundred nature spirits who had laid their lives on the line, or at least those who survived, it was a light in the darkness. On the monument, there was a simple list of names. Charles. Bianca. Leneus. There were many names on that list. Too many.
At the other end of the atrium was another monument. It too had names. Luke. Silena. Ethan. It held far too many. This monument was seldom visited, but was even more important for the few that did.
On both monuments, there was an inscription, lettered in a glowing bronze not found among mortals. The first had the words That Others May Live. This one was visited quite frequently, and had always had a large pile of offerings placed upon it, which would grow to heaping proportions in the days leading up to August 18th. The second monument was different. While it had far more names on it, it was almost never visited. Instead, next to each name, there was a sticky note. None of the notes were blank. Some had only one or two messages, the word "Why?" being quite common. Many of them had several notes attached, dozens of them. These notes were more detailed, often telling stories of recent events. One of them spoke of receiving recognition after an event, and how the writer wished the recipient could have shared it. Another wrote that the recipient was brave and did what they thought was right, even though they were misguided. This monument too had a message. Our Memory Remains.
Every name on each of the columns is the same size, and none of them give a last name, nor mention parents. In death, they were all equal, as they should have been in life.
Every August 18th, the atrium would be cleared without reasons being given. If one had been able to stay behind and see what happened, they would see a large group of orange-clad children walk in. They would painstakingly carve new names into the first monument, which would then grow high enough for a few inches of blank space to appear at the bottom, enough for the next year's set of carvings. No new names were added to the second monument, but the originals, those 70 demigods, would spend the next hour sitting by that monument, the shrine to the fallen; all their usual hyperactivity gone. Those moments were what gave them unity, what gave them courage to do what was right beyond all costs. Because they knew that if they did not, if they returned to the old ways, that more names would be added to it.
So, it's 2:05 am where I am now, and this is completely unedited, but I'm battling through major depression right now, and I decided to let out some of it with writing. And then, well, if I write it, you might as well read it. I'm not sure if this will stay as a one-shot, or possibly become a one-shot collection, but, well, yeah. If anyone has ideas, feel free to leave them in reviews.