He doesn't think heroes are supposed to feel like this, ever. He feels small. Exposed. Weak. His skin is raw, mottled with bruises and scabbed-over cuts, and his hair is stiff with a crust of dried blood. He wants to lay his head down and rest. He wants to sleep, and maybe to lose himself in that inviting warmth, to not wake up for a long, long time. Gods, he's so, so tired.
But there are things keeping him tethered to this life on the run, things that are worth more to him than his own life. He looks at the two figures curled on the ground beside him. Thalia's sleeping on her back, her chest rising and falling slowly, rhythmically. He can't get over how much younger she looks without the fierce expression, the narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He tries to save this image. He traces the delicate ski-slope of her nose, takes in the scattered freckles on her pale skin.
Beside her, nuzzling into the crook of her arm, is Annabeth's tiny form, obscured by the too-big flannel shirt and halo of blonde curls. Gods, Luke thinks, keep them safe. I'll take the blows. They can hurt me, kill me, whatever. But don't let the monsters touch them. Please. He smiles to himself when he thinks of what Thalia would say if she could hear his thoughts – Really, Luke? I can take care of myself, you know. He doesn't like asking the gods for anything. Still, anything that might keep them safe, anything that might give them a place to sleep for a night, will always be worth it.
Anything to keep his family safe. Anything to keep them together.