just something about what the giant war coupled with the tian war would have done to Percy. and His feelings on the matter of war.
The Battle for Troy
The Earth keeps turning, days blur together, and life continues as normal for so many in the world. They wake, get dressed, kiss their loved ones goodbye, and leave home, all knowing that's they will arrive back that evening to see their family there, waiting for them. They laugh and joke around the dinner table, speaking of their stressful days at work, and complaining about that arrogant boy in school. They cry over toys and petty arguments that do not affect their life, screaming and shouting over things that matter not to the rest of the world. He was like that once as well.
And yet despite this, people still fight and die to protect them. The soldiers of Greece travel for days, to reach their destination, only to be ordered to lay down their life, and to accept that they no lave control over whether the live or not. And he is one of them, and it's his friends that scream next to him. But the fight goes on and it changes the earth, now stained with the blood of hundreds, it changes the balance of power, but most of all it changes him. It changes him like nothing else ever will.
He stands in the front rank. His sword in its sheath had spent the night being sharpened and polished. His effort to keep his weapon in perfect condition taking up his entire night, as he used his pent up nervous energy, to ensure it would cut through skin and muscle alike. His bronze armour was heavy on leather padded shoulders. His tunic, soon to be torn and bloodied did little to protect him from the sun's rays. His hollow eyes, devoid of emotion, flitted around the land in front of him, absorbing every detail, and filing it away for the future.
An azure sky stretched into the horizon, merging with the earth's teeth in the distance. A bird lingered in its flight, fighting against the winds only felt up high. Clouds scudded across the vast expanse, forming shapes and creatures unknown to those who cannot imagine. Apollo's chariot sits parked in the sky, heating the already warm ground under his sandals. A river ran nearby, a crystal mirror reflecting a world that glimmered in the daylight, not a land about to be ravaged by war.
The air is still, and sweat runs down his forehead. The two armies stand like poles, facing off in silence. His eyes are drawn to a glint on the ground as a beetle's golden shell reflects the sun, and it's like a sign. The two sides roar with anger, fear and determination, as they charge towards each other. He stares into the eyes of his enemies as he cuts them down, and he recognises himself in these men.
He sees himself in the young men that had torn themselves away from their mothers, foolish lads, eager to gain glory amongst the ranks. In the panicked eyes of the soldiers that made it to the battle only to realise that all they wanted to do was gaze at the stars of their hero's wishing to be as great as Heracles, but knowing it could never be. In the polished armour and sharpened swords gone over a million times during the sleepless nights before.
A retreat is called, yet he knows not from which side, both armies are scrambling back, eager to rest and recuperate. Men mill around, pushing through the throngs of men, to find siblings or friends. But he just slumps down on his cot, exhausted and afraid, tormented by memories of watching his friends fall around him, limp, as he fought desperately to reach them in time. Sons of Apollo, their faces filled with grief, were slowly loading the dead on a cart to be taken to be given their last rights, before their final leg to the underworld. He was alive. he was awake. He was safe for the night. But his friends were dead. His friends would sleep forever. His friends would never be safe again.
As he thought of this he realised how wrong it was to leave his home. His mother had lost his father before he was born - a god never would have time for a mortal, and now she had lost her only son, gone off to fight a foreign war on the other side of the world.
But he returns, after almost a year, he makes it home. Unlike so many of his friends, who were laid to rest in another land. He sees his mother and they weep tears for his return and for those he lost. And as heartless as it sounds, he tried to forget. He tries to forget the sound of men screaming as he extinguished the fire that kept them alive, and the feel of his sword slicing through skin, knowing if he doesn't kill he will not live out the day. His mother's nights are pierced with his heart-wrenching screams, as he tosses and turns, tears pouring out of closed eyes. He was changed. He walks hunched over and those who can bear to look into his eyes see grief that no young man his age should know. He lives his life alone, never becoming attached to anything for fear of losing it, like he did with Annabeth, Thalia and Nico.
War changes people like nothing else can. Some become fragile and scared, jumping at the slightest sound, others stoic and expressionless, hiding themselves behind a mask, and some just show their pain to the world, like he does. Soldiers leave their homes and fight, some choosing to do so, some being chosen, as the ones they leave behind can only sit and cry. And they all have one thing in common. They are changed.