The warm breeze and the cool rain fell over the boy's black, mousy hair, but it want unnoticed.
His pale face was even paler than normal, and his tired black eyes were wide.
Tears ran down his cheeks, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. His eyes stayed fixed on the scene before him.
It all seemed to go in slow motion, like it always did for this unfortunate boy.
His friends, his many friends, clad in bronze armor and armed with knives and swords, their helmets shinning with pure power.
But as their enemy, their evil foe, the ones that they had trained all of their lives for, the ones that they had wasted their childhood to defeat, the ones that they hated with all their hearts and souls, even in their young age, advanced, they were slowly covered in a blanket of red.
The crimson liquid cloaked his vision, and all he had left was his other four senses.
He could hear his fellow warrior's screams and the sickening sound of metal cutting through flesh.
He could taste the dry air and the gagging taste of blood that had splattered over his face.
He could smell the putrid aroma of death and open wounds.
Another sense filled his entire body with a tremulous ringing. The feeling he got when any soul entered the underworld.
His vision sped up, and he could feel his entire body shake as he saw the dying bodies of his friends at his feet.
One had grabbed his pant leg, and was groaning in agony. Her entire lower body had been severed from the rest of her form, and blood poured out of her wound.
How could their be that much blood in one human being?
He screamed, and fissures erupted from the ground, swallowing the monsters that were now after him. Armies of skeletons followed, slicing the rest into black dust.
His voice was hoarse and raspy when he collapsed on his knees.
His bloody hands grabbed his hair, and his tears flooded from his eyes as he stared at the faces of his long gone friends.
So carefree. So innocent. They didn't deserve to die like this! He thought over and over, trying to stop the pain.
But it kept coming.
"Please father! Don't do this to them!" he cried out to the heavens.
But he knew that his father was below the very ground he knelt on.
A voice echoed through his head, as cruel and dark as the pits of Tartarus.
You know better than anyone that they needed to die. There is nothing you could have done. It's not my fault, it's theirs.
"Who!" he yelled, his voice faltering with sobs.
The voice didn't say anything more.
As the boy shook with heavy cries, he suddenly got what his father meant.
They made themselves die. They trained themselves for death.
They all knew that they would die.
But they did nothing to stop it.
His friends, so strong.
They were his enemies, so weak, now.
His tears stopped falling.
He stood, wiping the salt from his face, and looked down at the faces of his dead friends.
All of them died. They deserved to die. They were all so weak, that they killed themselves.
Were did all the strong children go?
The Hermes cabin knew how to survive.
The Apollo cabin knew how to survive.
But everybody else….
Dead.
Blonde haired, blue eyed.
That was the last thought that ran through his head as he ran off, through the forest that he had called his home for so long.
His place was back in Germany, and he wouldn't stop until he got there and showed them what was right. America would never listen.
For he was Adolf Hitler.
And he was dead inside.