No one will escape unharmed...The last line of the prophecy. And no matter whether it's victory or defeat, those who fought in the battle that day will wear scars for the rest of their lives. And who's to say they are purely physical?

Warning: Violence, language, mental unsability and angst. Hard T, I'd say. And yes, people have called me Emo. I felt like writing something depressing. Maybe I am a bit morbid. Oh hell, people will probably hate this but see if I care.

~.~Percy~.~

Blood.

The memory of it is still implanted firmly in his mind. Blood that spills from countless enemies as he makes his way to his goal. Blood that pours from Luke's slashed jugular vein. He watches as the river pours from the shocked adversary. And he revels in it. Red, warm, alive. It shines scarlet on Riptide as he holds the weapon up towards Phoebus Apollo. And the gods celebrate with him. Joy and sorrow, two conflicting emotions mingle together as his sea green eyes glance over the crowd. Joy for they are victorious! Joy for it is over! Joy for he is dead! Sorrow for he sees her. Sorrow for her own blood spills from a heart that has stopped beating. With a cry he drops the sword that delivered the last stroke of battle. The crowd protests as Anakulmos falls to the ground, the liquid seeping into the warm earth. Her string is already severed when he arrives at her side. The hero drops to his knees, her name on his lips. Meaning to shout it to the sky it escapes past his mouth as just a whisper, the three syllables suddenly hard for him to articulate. Behind him the army of half bloods is silent. They grow quiet with respect for the girl who lies before them. His arm snakes around her golden haired head and lifts her face towards his. One last kiss, it drives him to shout in fury, to turn around and pick up Riptide. Luke Castellan's soul is already standing trial as Percy Jackson lifts the sword to the sky. It comes down hard on the throat of her killer. The head snaps off and there are cries of disgust from the throng of demigods.

Blood. There is always blood.

~.~Nico~.~

Alone.

This is what it's like to be alone. Forgotten, dead for all they care. Maybe better off that way. He sits in the dark, awakening from another nightmare. The last beats of his cousin's heart ringing in his ears, her cry as the sword went through her breast. And Luke knows she's dead. He can see the remorse in his eyes. Bullshit. He should have died in her stead. But the best he can do is give the traitor another scar. He flees, arm bleeding from a large vein and Nico hopes it kills him. He turns to her, the expression on her face shocked. Blood pours from the wound as she slow ensanguinates and he tries to staunch the surge of red. She holds up her hand, feeling inside she's to far gone. She whispers his name and he blinks as her iridescent blue eyes cloud over, reflecting the heavens. No, no, NO! Dead. In the domain of his father now, he can feel it. The silver of her hunters jacket is turning red as he grabs her hand and yells at her to stay. When the silence grew to much to bear, blocking out everything he screams in rage. No one can kill that mercilessly someone they had cared about. Luke Castellan is truly gone. He looks up at the sky, pleading with the gods. He barely knows her, but she had saved him just minutes ago. And he had met her years back. He figures he owes her. Nothing happens. Of course. He stands up, a tall boy of thirteen and bends down, closing her eyes to the world. Then he turns facing the woods and slips off, leaving the world that just pulled the last straw. And now he sits, taking a mouthful of alcohol, wondering what has happened in the world he left behind. But who's he to care? He walks alone.

Forever.

~.~Beckendorf~.~

Scars.

They lace the skin of his chest and arms, and he bares them proudly. But every one of them tells a story, a story to painful to repeat. This one he got trying to save her, this one he got the day he died. Gone but not forgotten, at least by him. Heroes, all of them. And dead for their parents own requirements. What did they do but to be born? They fought and died for battles not their own. Was there no choice? He fingers a scar on his arm, the one he got attempting to protect Silena. It is long and slightly raised and the calloused fingertips trace it, the wound memorized. When it was fresh he nearly lost the arm. He wishes he had, maybe that would have been enough to rescue her. But no, her body had shut down, bearing wounds so deep they would never heal, never scar. He laughs, the sound bitter and scratchy. He throws down the pills they give him and laughs some more. Nothing short of death will cure him. '

Nothing else will heal these scars.

~.~Clarisse~.~

Insane.

That's what they whisper behind her back when they think she can't hear. But she always does. Maybe they think it helps to lock her up in sterile institutions while her mother desperately tries to fix her. A futile attempt and stupid. They should know how broken she is. Millions of pieces, like a shattered mirror reflecting something in her past. They can only see the outside and aparently it's not good enough for them. She is pale, an odd effect on the normally tan girl. Emaciated, compared to the strong figure she had before. Still tall though, and her strong bones her keep her from falling apart. On the outside anyway. Inside she is gone, her soul retreated to dark corners of a world no one can see. Ever since she saw her friends and family slaughtered, the price of victory. And that was way too high. He was gone too, the one she had loved. All gone for triumph. Her tears stain the pillows, wishing that her life had ended for that cause, instead of dying broken.

Broken and cracked.

~.~Travis~.~

Haunted.

By a young man that would never be twenty. Never get married, have a family, live normally. Travis feels he has failed him. His little brother, the one he should have been able to protect. Now everything he does is guilty. he loves Miranda, but when he marries her he is thinking of how his brother isn't there to be best man. And when Aidan is born there is no laughing brown haired uncle for him. He should be able to move on, but he can't. And it is painful to look in the mirror and note the differences. The slightly lighter shade of hair, the shorter stature and broader shoulders that had separated them when they were alive. That and the ten months of age. But he can't forget.

He is haunted by what is gone and will never come back.

~.~Malcolm~.~

Fake.

Everything seems unreal. Like a lump of clay, there, but not formed. Years go by and nothing changes. He is still Malcolm Clark. It all seems a joke, and a cruel one at that. As if someone had copied his life into ink and written a horrible ending. And then it goes on and on after it should have stopped. Many of his siblings dead, many of his friends and it's all he can do to get up in the morning and be unsure about whether living is a blessing or a curse. But sometimes it seems worthless.

An imitation of what it should have been.

~.~Thalia~.~

Cold.

She is ushered to the gates of Elysium, not quite sure what she did to deserve it. She's no saint. Elysium, it means lightening struck. How fucking ironic. She sighs, just a movement, as no breath passes her lips. There willl never be another breath. Not in this cold dark world. In front of her, the spirit stops, gesturing for her to go forward. She hears laughter of the blessed, but doesn't think it's honest. Who laughs when they're dead? She enters the room and the heroes look at her, sizing her up. Some scoff, some smile. But the eyes are cold. Cold and dead. And she knows that if she looked at her own eyes the emotions she felt would be gone. Just a pale wraith of the girl she once was.

And so bitter cold.

~.~Luke~.~

Pain.

He had known it was coming. He wasn't afraid of death or hurt. He had already had his fair share. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for this. Burning hot agony rippsthrough his veins, his vision is hazy world of red and black. He isn't sure of the source, it is a suffocating dark. This is almost worse then holding up the sky, alone with only his thoughts in an eternity of painful black. The guilt is just as bad as the physical pain, if not worse. The last cries of Thalia, Annabeth and countless others. And worse of all is the taunting voice in the back of his mind. The one that he knows too well. The one that tells him he will never be alone. Kronos.

This is his punishment. His pain.

Yes, I know. Confusing, short and creepy. I was bored.