The satyr sat at the edge of the dock, overlooking the stretch of ocean that met Long Island Sound and listened to the waves crash against the rocks and rush over his hooves, intertwining seaweed around his ankles. Wind blew over his horns and dark curly hair; the salty air filled his nose and lingered on his lips. The weather was beautiful, as it always was at the camp. Far behind him, Demigods were picking strawberries in the fields and the daily activities dragged on.
Typically, he'd be helping in the strawberry fields or at a Council meeting, but this particular day was different. The cloudless sky, perfect weather, and Apollo, the sun god himself seemed to mock him as the sea screamed for help.
The words from Nico's Isis Message rang in his head. His two best friends were damned. They were in Tartarus, the deepest level of hell, where only the worst of the worst were sent, and they didn't stand a chance. His duty was to protect them, to lead them to safety, and he had failed. He cursed himself for allowing his new position to consume him and to allow for Percy to literally drop off the face of the earth. He stared at the rocks that were continuously consumed by the oceans waters, and pleaded that it was some sort of sadistic foreshadowing: that Percy would rise above this, and conquer Gaea and all who supported her.
He cursed Gaea and Kronos and Hera for all the lives lost and all the lives that he had left to lose. His hand slid to a flat rock in his pocket and gripped it, ripped it out, and hurled it across the sound, and watched it skip nonchalantly over the water before sinking in. How did he come to hate something he swore his life to protect so much? He wanted to scream and shout and crush every rock at his feet. Instead, he stood, and made his way back to camp.
There was nothing he could do now. He couldn't fight this war alone. He didn't even think that with all the gods, and demigods and all the armies of the world, that they would stand a chance against Gaea and her army.