The following is the author's note that I just posted earlier today:

Sorry that I've disappeared for so long on this story. My computer crashed and I ended up taking a break from it because all of the chapters I had were deleted entirely with no way of recovering them. I got a little discouraged about trying to redo because I make all of my important corrections on my computer, not on paper.

So. A few months ago, I went back and decided to start working on it again, but when I started reading through it, I was like 'This does not reflect my current style and there is so much more that I can do with this story.' I have been MIA with this for so long because I have been editing, adding, and changing quite a bit of the story.

I will not be moving it to a different story. I am replacing chapters straight on this one and anyone who has been reading it—I hate to inconvenience—but you should probably start back at the beginning because the fundamentals have remained but I have added a lot of details and other things into the story. I think this will improve the story and bring it to my current level of writing.

You will be seeing this 'new' Amethyst within the next two weeks depending upon my schedule. I actually hope to have it up by the end of this week, but I will have to see how that goes.

Thank you for sticking with the story despite the lack of updates and I hope that the wait has been worth it.

Thanks!

~Kanae~

Obviously, I got to the first chapter tonight because I really didn't want anyone to have to wait around for it, so the first chapter is here in its edited and revised form. The later chapters will follow anytime this week that I have free time. I promised I had no intentions of abandoning the story and I still have no intentions of doing so. I plan to finish this story, especially now that I think it is up to par with my current writing style.

Hope you enjoy. :)

~Kanae~


Chapter One: Perceptions

Camp Half-blood is a great place. For most half-bloods. I mean, just look at how good it's been for Percy …and Annabeth… and Nico, and so many others. So many profit from it. It is especially helpful to them, meaning half bloods in general, now that all the gods and goddesses are recognized and all their children claimed.

All except me, apparently.

I have been in the Hermes cabin for ten years. While everyone else has come to and left the Hermes cabin—one way or another—I remain. I have yet to be claimed by my parent despite the promise the gods made to Percy that they would claim all of their children. For whatever reason, I have been excluded.

I know what some of the campers think. Maybe I am a Hermes kid, and he just doesn't feel like claiming a kid who's already been here since she was ten. Maybe he thinks it should be obvious I am his if I've been here this long. But no. It's not that simple. It never is so simple with the gods. I know I am not a child of Hermes.

First clue, I have absolutely no desire to steal anything and am always the victim of the thefts in my cabin, not the thief (which, FYI, is almost always one of the Stoll brothers). Besides, Luke's death really motivated Hermes. It gave him a reason, a huge reason, to claim all of his children at the camp.

The very day the gods promised to claim their children, Hermes claimed all of his at the camp, even if he had claimed them before the promise. Not to mention, if one of his children are discovered, the split second that their big toe is inside the magical border protecting Camp Half-blood, the caduceus— his symbol— pops up over his or her head.

The point is that I still don't know whose child I am. So while everyone else talks/brags about how 'awesome' their parent is and vows that they will make their parent proud, I sit alone on my bed or up in some tree in the woods with the monsters.

At least the monsters will come right up to you and rip out your heart.

What makes it worse is that I know many campers kind of pity me in some way. Everyone in the camp knows I'm unclaimed. As a result, I have several people that simply try to talk to me because they don't want me to feel excluded or ostracized.

A prime example of this is that Percy and Annabeth find it necessary to chat with me every now and then, when they aren't too busy arguing with each other, which, albeit, is quite the rare occasion. Sometimes even Clarisse and Chris sit and talk with me, though the girlfriend-boyfriend dynamic limits this greatly as well.

Thank the gods for my friends. Theia Palmer, a daughter of Apollo, and Travis Stoll, son of Hermes, are my best and closest friends. They make camp bearable. Out of everyone, they try the hardest to treat me normally. Sure, there are sometimes pitying looks when they think I'm not paying attention, but they try their hardest not to let me see it. They know how much I hate pity. Besides, unlike all those others, I know that no matter whether I die unclaimed or not, they will still be my friends.

Honestly, I suppose camp has been a blessing for me in some regards. I had never really had any good friends before I came to camp. I had been abandoned as a baby and sent to an orphanage. Because of this, I don't even know which of my parents is an Olympian.

Nonetheless, I guess I should be somewhat grateful. I would probably have stayed in that awful orphanage until I was eighteen if it hadn't been for a horrifying, yet fortunate event before I came here.

Mrs. Stevens, the bitter old woman who ran the orphanage, had sent me to run an errand. Sending a nine-year-old out into the 'cold, unforgiving streets' of NYC, crazy, right? But that old hag wouldn't have cared if I never came back to the orphanage. She probably wouldn't even have filed a missing persons report. She hated me. End of story.

There I was on my way back to the accursed orphanage when I had to cross a certain street. Well, the little walking man had turned green and I started walking across the street. Of course, just as I got halfway across, some maniac whipped around the corner and was headed straight for me at high speed, much higher than the speed limit, in a bright red Mustang.

Strangely, the one thing that registered at the time was that the driver had long hair that covered one eye. Not just covering an eye. Covering his only eye.

Weird, right? Not even. I saw things like that all the time. People with one eye, people with multiple sets of eyes, even some people with no eyes. I had learned early on not to dwell upon or question it. All I had known was that, for some crazy reason, I could see more than most people could.

When we kids at the orphanage would get a day on the playground, I was the only one that didn't play, because I saw the monsters there. Waiting, lurking. And when they realized that I saw them for what they really were, they usually left, but sometimes it put me in a situation where I had to protect the other kids, especially the younger ones. Looking back, I have no doubt that, had I not been there a few of those times, things could have ended badly.

But in-between my insight of today and my ignorance of then, it got me bullied and labeled as a freak. That's one reason why the old hag thought I was crazy.

The other reason I didn't dwell on it then was probably because I was somewhat preoccupied at the time with the car speeding toward me.

By the time the idiot looked up and it finally registered in my mind that the car was coming straight at me, nothing could be done on either of our parts. He had no time to brake and there was no way on this planet or any other that I would be able to jump out of the way at this point. Nothing could save me.

I vaguely remember clamping my eyes shut, spinning around with my back to the vehicle, and dropping into the fetal position while lifting my arms in an attempt to protect my head.

Dropping down in front of a car speeding towards you with no time to brake is not the smartest move, I know; but I was a terrified nine-year-old. It was a perfectly legitimate reaction to knowing that the speeding car would bring a premature end to my short but miserable existence.

I could feel the car hit me, and I braced myself for my demise with every bone in my body shattered. Vital crimson would repaint the NYC street for a few hours while the police investigated— they wouldn't discover what the driver was or what had really happened— and then I would be forgotten and washed away. No one would miss me. No one would mourn Nakita, the orphan girl with no last name. No one.

Then, after a few moments, I was still there. I was still breathing. I knew that the car had hit me. I had felt the full weight of the car impact. It was then that I realized that I could also feel the cold metal wrapped around my shoulders. Yes, wrapped.

When I finally worked up the courage to open my eyes, I saw that the front of the car was indeed bent around my small shoulders, and I was sure that, if I moved, there would be a me-size indent in the front of the car.

Smoke was everywhere. Before I was even able to sort out what had happened, a van door was thrown open and out of it jumped a tall guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

As he bailed out and approached the car, he had an angry, horrified look on his face and I could hear him yelling at the driver… in another language… that I had never heard before… Yet somehow understood.

"Αυτό που είναι το πρόβλημά σας? Είστε τυφλοί? Πώς μπορέσατε να μην δείτε εκείνο το κορίτσι, εσείς ηλίθιος?" he yelled.

I was sure that this would have sounded like gibberish to most of the people standing in horror unable to see the 'tragedy' from the sidewalks. But I knew what he had said, "What is your problem? Are you blind? How could you not see that girl, you idiot?"

Then he came around the front of the car and paused mid-step. Even then, I had oddly thought that he looked frozen in place like those Greek statues I had always seen in the museums.

And me? Well, I probably looked rather freaked out as I met his eyes. Yeah, nine-year-old hit by a car… and still alive. I could see my shock mirrored perfectly on his face…. Which had way more than two eyes on it…

After a moment, the window rolled down on the van from which the blond man had bailed out, and I saw a middle-aged man with curly brown hair and a scruffy beard. Even in my stunned state I couldn't help but notice the aura of ancient wisdom he seemed to emanate. It was as if he had lived an eternity and had gathered so much wisdom and knowledge that he could be a walking library.

"Quickly, Argus. Get her in the van before the smoke clears," he had commanded the man with whom I had been in a staring contest.

The older man's voice must have snapped the other out of his trance because he immediately looked to the man and nodded.

The blond man, Argus, then looked at me curiously, almost as if he were unsure of what to do next. Finally, he seemed to decide and knelt down.

"Don't worry. Not gonna hurt you," he said as he picked me up bridal style.

I know. Some random stranger picks you up to put you in a vehicle to take you to who knows where and do who knows what. You're supposed to kick and scratch and scream bloody murder, right?

I didn't.

A hushed voice in the back of my mind told me that it would be okay. That I would be okay.

I had heard this voice ever since I was a little girl. That was just another reason why Mrs. Stevens thought that I was crazy and the reason I went to the shrink every month, but I don't care. I would trust that voice with my life. I have trusted that voice with my life, and not once has it ever told me wrong.

So when Argus stood up with me in his arms, kicked a man hole cover into the front of the car hard enough that my indent was gone, and walked over to the van still carrying me, I did nothing. Strangely, as I had absent-mindedly twirled the amethyst bracelet on my wrist—which had been with me since I was left at the orphanage—I believed that soft voice in the back of my mind. I allowed Argus to put me in the vehicle with the older man.

Without a moment's delay, once I was completely inside, the door was shut, and the man with the curly brown hair, whom I realized was in a wheel chair, was in front of me.

For a moment, he simply looked at me with hazel eyes that seemed to penetrate through to my very heart and soul. He seemed as though he was examining me, reading my thoughts, my life story, possibly even my future for all I knew.

I have to admit it had been rather unnerving, not to mention the initial silence that had enveloped us, but then he began asking me questions such as, 'Who are your parents?' and 'Where do you live?' to which I answered, 'Don't know' and 'At an orphanage.' This seemed to surprise him slightly, and he got this look on his face that had suddenly made me wonder how old he truly was. Surely he must be older than he appears…

Not a second later, Argus opened the driver side door and sat down, closing the door quickly behind him. The man turned back, once more giving me a view of his multiple eyes. To be honest, it was kind of trippy. I was used to many strange sights, but the fact that most of his eyes were focused on me was more than a little unsettling.

The blond man seemed oblivious to my discomfort and inquired as to where I lived and how to get there. Upon receiving my answer, he seemed surprised and glanced at the man in the wheelchair, but he said nothing and started driving.

The man in the wheelchair continued talking to me normally, as if I hadn't just been hit head on by a speeding car and left the scene unscathed. Apparently, what he had seen didn't faze him in the slightest. A part of me at that time wondered why it didn't, but as usual, I didn't dwell on the thought.

On the drive back, he had continued asking me questions such as 'How old are you?', 'How long have you been at the orphanage?' and several other questions that, at the time, just seemed like he was trying to make the ride back less awkward and uncomfortable for me. Of course, now I know that, while that may have been part of the reason, there was a more important reason for the line of questioning he chose.

I answered each of his questions to the best of my ability, but there were a few that I wasn't sure about how I should answer.

'How many schools have you attended?', 'What grades do you make?', 'Are you dyslexic?' Questions like that threw me off a little. It was almost as if he knew I had problems in school. Should I tell him that I've gone to six different schools? Should I tell him that I generally make straight Cs? Should I tell him that, yes, I am dyslexic and have ADHD?

After a few moments of internal debate with each of those questions, I ended up telling him the truth anyway. Somehow I knew that, even if I lied to him, he would know I was lying and be disappointed that I hadn't told him the truth. For some reason, lying to him—disappointing him— were things I did not want to do.

Following what seemed like a very short span of time, we arrived at the orphanage. To be perfectly honest, it made me a little sad. I really liked talking to the man. Whether it was pretense or not, he actually seemed happy to give me the time of day. The idea that someone might enjoy talking with me and listening to me was a novel idea in my mind.

Typically, it was all I could do to have someone listen to me for a few minutes, but this man had talked to me and continued the conversation for well over thirty minutes. That was an unprecedented amount of time. The prospect of returning to the orphanage and being neglected again was not one to which I looked forward.

Nevertheless, we had gotten there in record time, and, despite Argus' crazy driving, we hadn't hit a single car. It was at that point where I exited the vehicle and was surprised when the man in the wheelchair told Argus to help him out of the van as well. The blond man with the multiple eyes got out and came around the van and went into, what I would guess was, the usual routine of pulling the ramp out and so on.

As soon as all of this had been done, the man in the wheelchair followed me to the door of the orphanage while Argus stayed outside in the van. I reached the entrance into the orphanage first and opened the door for him because I thought that was the only polite thing to do, but he thanked me and gave me a smile that seemed as though my action was not one he was accustomed to from younger people.

Once we were inside, he asked to talk to Mrs. Stevens, whom I'd told him about during the drive there. I really wasn't anxious to see the nasty old woman again, but the man had been nice to me and he wanted to talk to her for whatever reason, so I went and got the old hag.

She wasn't happy about being interrupted from her soaps and didn't cooperate with me until I said there was a man in the entrance hall wanting to speak to her about something. Considering her general hatred of me, she probably assumed that I had stolen his wallet or busted a window out of his car, but either way, she got up quickly and went to meet him.

When she introduced herself to the man, he did the same, saying his name was Mr. Brunner. He then had gone on to say that he was interested in adopting a child. Hag Lady, as I called her, sent me away and they went into her office, but as soon as the door shut, I was there, ear to the worn wood of the door, eavesdropping.

I had done that ever since I was little. I always wanted to know which of the kids would be lucky enough to get a home. Not if I would be, but if someone else here would. When I was younger I had always hoped to be adopted, but due to several of my medical and mental conditions, I never had been. Eventually, I gave up. Of course my conditions never went away, but when I got older the problem was that even though I wasn't a teen yet, I was over the unofficial adoption age. Not many couples ever wanted to adopt a kid during that stage of life, and thus I had more or less settled on just leaving the orphanage when I was eighteen.

Imagine my surprise when, upon Hag Lady asking him if he had any ideas as to what he was looking for, things like similar physical characteristics and whatnot, he asked about me. He said that I seemed very nice.

I almost went into shock.

Me? I could have been knocked over with a feather. That's how unbelievable it was to be asked about at my age. My hopes soared higher than they ever had at the thought.

Of course, then I remembered that what Hag Lady said next would change his mind, which very quickly brought me crashing back to reality.

She said something to the effect of,

"Are you sure you wish to adopt her? She has several… Um… Disabilities. She has insomnia. She is also a diagnosed dyslexic and has ADHD. Not to mention something is wrong with her. She's always seeing things that aren't there, going into 'trances', and talking to herself. At first, I thought she just had some imaginary friends but she still talks to… whatever it is she talks to when she thinks no one else is there. We have plenty of other children who are just as nice if not more so."

What he said next, I still remember word for word, because it impacted me so much.

"Mrs. Stevens. Sometimes, what the average person perceives as strange or eccentric or a disability is, in a reality high above their own understanding, a gift. I see beyond these perceptions and into the truth, the true beauty and strength of the human soul, of people in general. That child, I perceive, is truly gifted in ways that are beyond your understanding. I wish to adopt her."

Now obviously, I was standing outside the door wide-eyed and in disbelief. All I can remember having thought is Why would he want to adopt me?... After everything Hag Lady said?... Why?

I stumbled back to my cot as if in a trance. He had spoken so highly of me, defended me. That was more than anyone had ever done for me in my nine years of life. He had seemed convinced that I was special. What he had said made me feel for the first time in a small eternity that I meant something in the grand scheme of things, that, for whatever reason, I was of some value.

Looking back and realizing that my self-esteem had been so low at nine as to believe that I was a waste of space should really be a testament to what being abandoned and living in an orphanage will do to someone, and that's assuming that they're perfectly normal. Unfortunately, I also had conditions and disorders that made orphanage life without anyone to care for me even more difficult.

Again, though, hindsight is 20/20. At the time, the notions brought to my mind, courtesy of the kind older man, were so fantastical that I had convinced myself it was all nothing but a dream. Yes, that was the only logical explanation. I had dreamt the accident, the man with the multiple eyes, and—most of all—I had dreamt Mr. Brunner.

As I laid down on my bed, the news reporter on the TV told of an accident where, due to some freak occurrence, a man hole cover had burst open and hit a car. I knew that wasn't what had happened, but for some reason, no one else did. Oddly enough, one of the few things I remember of that was wondering why that was. Why did I see what had happened clearly, yet even the people who saw me get hit by the car didn't seem to remember?

My mind kept running in circles, trying to find answers, but none came. Eventually, the day's events caught up to me, and I had curled up and gone to sleep, certain that waking up the next day would prove I was dreaming.

However, a year later, Argus was driving the van toward the camp and Mr. Brunner, whose name he revealed is really Chiron—yes, as in Chiron the immortal trainer of heroes— explained to me who I am and told me about Camp Half-blood.

Now, even when I was younger, despite my dyslexia, I would struggle through reading any and all Greek mythology I could get my hands on. Antigone, the Iliad, the Odyssey, and many, many others were what I read from the first I was introduced to them. I had whole volumes of books in my "room" where I had done little jobs after school and gotten money to buy them. Some of them were even gifts from teachers at school who noticed how interested I was in Greek mythology. I guess they thought that holding my interest in one study was better than never having it at all, and so the kinder ones tried to encourage my reading.

Truthfully, I always felt more at home lost in the pages of my Iliad and Odyssey hardback book than I did at school or anywhere in the "real" world. Sometimes, I had even pretended to be some of the very heroes about which I read. The fact that most of those heroes were not female did not deter me because after realizing this, I began to create my own heroes. It was probably this very passion for Greek mythology and the heroes found therein that kept me sane, kept me learning, made me keep trying no matter how small the odds. The heroes of Greek myth never gave up, why should I do so?

Needless to say, being told that I was a demigod and that everything I had read about was real produced quite a different reaction than I think the ancient trainer of heroes had ever seen before or was expecting.

I was happy. I was happy that the only world with which I'd ever really felt comfortable was the real, existing world. Of course, I realized that this would mean danger for me—after all, not many of the demigods in the myths had happy endings—but I didn't care. Finally, I knew why I could see some of the things I could, why I had the "disabilities" I did, and why I always seemed to get attacked by random strangers. I wasn't just some freak. I was a demigod freak, and that fact alone made all the difference.

After he got over my initial, unexpected reaction, he told me that once at camp, my Olympian parent should claim me, but until then, I would reside in the Hermes cabin.

The Hermes cabin, being dedicated to the patron god of travelers, had the duty of taking in demigods who were unclaimed when they arrived at camp. The campers would stay there until which time their Olympian parent saw fit to claim them, and then they would move into the cabin for their parent.

Chiron told me that sometimes this took days, other times months. When we arrived at camp and I was put in the Hermes cabin, the older campers told me sometimes it never did happen. Sometimes a demigod would remain unclaimed for as long as they were at camp, which, usually, was as long as they were alive. Most demigods don't do well out of camp unless they are the child of a minor god or goddess, in which case, they aren't typically as strong and can escape the notice of monsters.

Whereas this low probability of being claimed might have depressed some campers, even the possibility of being claimed by a parent was more than I had ever had, ever even thought of having. To think that my parent might claim me was a huge step up from the orphanage.

The first few weeks, I had patiently, yet hopefully waited to be claimed. Some nights after everyone else would be asleep in the cabin, I would pray that my parent would claim me. The next few months, I grew doubtful. Finally, years passed and day by day, I lost hope little by little until finally I just gave up on ever being claimed, just as I had on ever being adopted.

By the time Percy Jackson arrived and the Second Titan War had begun, I was close to seventeen or eighteen and considered by many people to be a prime suspect for being one of the spies.

Often when I would walk around camp, people would stop talking entirely or glare at me. My unclaimed status promoted me to a threat in most of the other campers' eyes. They figured that I was one of the ones with the most to hate about Olympus.

The only people who didn't even consider it were Chiron, Travis, Connor, Theia and Argus. They knew that, despite my situation, I would never betray Olympus or my few friends and 'family' at Camp Half-Blood. I simply wouldn't.

When the war finally ended and we had won, it seemed things were looking up. The gods had told Percy he could have anything he wanted due to his having saved Olympus and everything. He told them that he wanted them to promise to claim all their children by age thirteen. After a little debate, they agreed to his request.

For the first time in a while, I was hopeful again, but that quickly faded. As everyone else was claimed, I remained in the Hermes cabin, unclaimed.

And here I still sit—ten years since I arrived— in the Hermes cabin… Well, currently on the roof of the Hermes cabin hiding from the world so that I can think freely and uninterrupted for once…

But that's not the point. The point is, I'm just as parentless now as I was in the orphanage, except now I know it's because my parent just doesn't care.


This first chapter didn't need a WHOLE lot of re-write, but it did require some and I think it flows much better now than it did.

I hope that I can get the other chapters corrected shortly and get them posted. ^_^

~Kanae~