Percy winced as the celestial bronze bit into the delicate skin of his wrist. Dark crimson blood streamed down his hands in cold ribbons, dripping off his fingers, staining the sand red.

Another one, his mind urged.

Another one.

His forearms were a patchwork of scars. A beautiful yet horrifying tapestry that truly embodied his emotions, that truly showed how broken the Savior of Olympus was, how far gone he was, how darkened the Son of the Seas had become. Each cut grew deeper, more ragged, until the blood flowed freely down his arms, as fast and quick as a river.

But Percy did nothing to stop it.

It was all too much. All the choices, the heroics, the deaths; the crushing guilt he felt constantly was harder to carry than the weight of the world. The hole inside of him threatened to consume him alive, slowly eating away at his sanity and confidence, turning him into a shell. His sea-green eyes had lost their trademark sparkle, and his careless grin was harder to come by nowadays.

It was all too much. Sometimes, all he wanted to do was turn back the clock and go back to his life before Camp Half-Blood. Back when he was only a troubled eleven-year-old from Yancy Academy, with the best mother and the crappiest stepfather.

He was seventeen. The same age Luke Castellan had been when he turned on the Gods. Percy finally understood the Son of Hermes choices, his pent up anger towards his father, towards Olympus.

"I saw a lot out there in the world, Percy," Luke said. "Didn't you feel it—the darkness gathering, the monsters growing stronger? Didn't you realize how useless it all is? All the heroics—being pawns of the gods. They should've been overthrown thousands of years ago, but they've hung on, thanks to us half-bloods."

I couldn't believe this was happening.

"Luke ... you're talking about our parents," I said.

He laughed. "That's supposed to make me love them? Their precious 'Western civilization is a disease, Percy. It's killing the world. The only way to stop it is to burn it to the ground, start over with something more honest."

Percy had been a piece in two Great Prophecies, a pawn in the twisted game the Fates play. He had been toyed and baited. He had danced with death- but somehow, he was the one still here. He didn't deserve to live. Not while others were dead.

Bianca Di Angelo. Zoë Nightshade. Charles Beckendorf. Silena Beauregard.

Every name, every face, seared itself into his mind, branding and crushing him with mountains of guilt.

Michal Yew. Ethan Nakamura. Luke Castellan.

For every name, a nick appeared on his arms.

The ocean swirled around him, wanting, yearning, craving, to heal his wounds… to take away his pain. He willed it away, leaving a circle of wet sand around him.

Another drop of scarlet fell. The sand hissed.

Release.

That was the reason Percy kept coming back to the ocean. That was the reason why he snuck out of his cabin nearly every night; the reason that kept him going, giving him the strength to hide behind a mask of laughter. And hours later, when the deed was done, the Son of Poseidon would will the ocean to his side, surging up and healing the cuts, erasing any flecks of blood and wiping away the scars.

No one knew.

Not Annabeth. Not Grover. Not his mom or Chiron.

And they would never know.

They would never know how broken he had become. Would never know how darkened the usually vibrant seas had become.

He would keep smiling and joking, hiding the pain and hurt beneath a wall thicker than drakon hide.

So the Son of the Sea faced the ocean and raised his blade once more.