~Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson, Rick Riordan does.

No one knows my name. I died fighting for Olympus, because the gods were too lazy to get up off their butts and claim their children.

Maybe if they had, Kronos wouldn't have gotten so strong.

My father didn't claim me. I lived in the Hermes cabin for seven years. I was a year rounder. I was an expert archer, and a decent sword fighter. I could speak Ancient Greek fluently. I worked hard to become an adept craftswoman, and even harder to overcome my fear of heights, so I could ride a Pegasus.

The only reason I mastered most of the skills I possessed, was because I hoped to make my father proud.

I worked harder than everyone else, because I had to prove to my father- whoever he may be- that I was worthy enough to be recognized as his daughter. I had to make him proud.

Maybe even proud enough to claim me.

He never did.

Even when I won the camp-wide archery competition. Even when I single-handedly captured to flag. Even when I killed a hydra.

Everything I did, I did in his name.

He still never even acknowledged me as his daughter.

There were times I dumped my entire meal into the fire, praying that he would claim me.

I went to bed hungry, still in the Hermes cabin, still without a glowing hologram suspended above my head.

I guess he didn't love me.

But still, when the time came, I strapped on my armor, grabbed my sword, and joined my brethren as we battled the Titan lord.

In the heat of the battle, you couldn't tell what was going on around you. All you knew was that you had to kill, or be killed. And chances are, you really didn't want to be killed.

The monsters came in endless supply. I watched as demigods were slaughtered. I wished I could hold the hands of the injured, tell them that it would be okay. But I couldn't, not unless I wanted to be slain, too.

Honestly, I don't know how many monsters I killed. Maybe twenty. Maybe forty. I didn't know. I encountered demons which I had never seen before. All I could do was try to stab them where they looked vulnerable, and pray for the best. I killed and killed. I remember stabbing monster after and monster, and finally, I had to kill enemy demigods. As much as I wanted to run and vomit, I reminded myself that I had to keep fighting.

By the time our general called for a retreat, I was beaten and bloody, and disgusted that I had killed actual human beings.

We spent the night in a hotel, then went out for more.

I was forced to murder demigod after demigod, because I knew that if I didn't, I would die.

The worst part was when I came face-to-face with my best friend.

Or should I say, ex-best friend.

We had lived together in the Hermes cabin at camp, both undetermined, for years. Then, she had disappeared without a trace. However, I knew better. She had joined the Titan Army. She had asked me to come with her when she left, but I still clung foolishly to the hope that maybe my father would claim me. I refused, and the last time I had seen her, she had been walking into the darkness of the night, black curls swishing behind her. Somehow, I knew that we would meet again.

And we did. In battle.

She brandished her sword and grinned, but it wasn't the happy smile I had remembered her wearing. The grin was evil, malicious. We locked in a vicious swordfight. During the swordfight, she managed to pant out that she had finally been claimed, and that she was a daughter of Hecate, the goddess of dark magic. She told me that I should have joined her while I had the chance. In my shock over the fact that she had been claimed, I accidently let my guard down.

Even now, as I drift aimlessly in the Fields of Asphodel, I remember her wicked grin as she pointed her sword at my heart. I can remember the sound of her laughter as she plunged her sword through my chest, and I remember the pain that I had felt. The vicious brat had missed, and I had no doubt that it had been on purpose, to prolong my suffering. It hurt so badly. Words can't describe the pain of having a sword plunged through your shoulder.

Especially when it was your best friend who had done it.

I knew without seeing, that it was a fatal wound.

Right before I closed my eyes, I could see my ex-friend gape, and point above my head. I followed her stare, and caught sight of a small floating hologram above my head.

A glowing sun.

The symbol of Apollo.

At least someone would know what color to make my burial shroud.

I remembered seeing another daughter of Apollo run up to me, trying to see if she could heal me, but I knew it was no use. I beckoned her to come closer, and whispered my last words in her ear.

"Tell dad to go to Tartarus."

I may have added a few cuss words.

Just a possibility.

I died that day, and would bet anything that no one would remember me. I would just be just a speck of dust, shadowed by the 'almighty' Perseus Jackson. He was the type of guy who thought he could just butt in and save the world, as if it was his right to get whatever he wanted handed to him on a silver platter, just because his dad was important. The rest of us had to work to get to where they were.

In the end hated only two things in my life.

Number one was my father, because he didn't claim me until I was dead. Yeah, real big help, Dad.

Number two was the fact that I spent all of my time at camp to prove myself to a guy who didn't care that I existed.

Maybe I should have joined the Titan forces.

I bet that would have ticked dad off.

Then again, I really doubt he would have cared.

~Elayna Atchkinson, daughter of Apollo

This is my very first story. I really want some advice, even criticism, because I want to become a better author. Flames are accepted.