Disclaimer:I don't own PJO.
Warnings: Some violence, and other things that might be a little mature.
"I've lost my way, I've lost my way, but I will go on until the end."
-Breaking Benjamin: Until the End
The battle rages around you, swords clashing, and abstract movements. A metallic smell of blood fills your nose, and it makes you gag. Horrible screams sound everywhere, sending waves of panic down your spine. It's getting difficult to distinguish friend from foe anymore. It seems no matter where you look, a camper will fall down to never stand again, or a demon will disintegrate into dust leaving a path clear for only a moment before the battle crowds in. It's impossible to tell if the demigod running at you with a blade in hand, screaming their lungs off, is really a traitor coming to kill you, or a comrade aiming at something behind.
It is getting hard to fight back, to truly fight. It's easy to go through all the motions, notch another arrow up to your bow and aim. To not think the face you are aiming at in the crowd was sitting across the dining pavilion last summer last year, laughing and happy.
It's hard to remember what we are fighting for in the face of such destruction.
You can fear, you could scream on the inside, and beg for your life. But who will listen? Who wants to listen?
Your musings are interrupted by a sharp cry, it took only a moment to realize it came from your own mouth. Blood starts pouring down your shoulder from an angry red gash. By then it has become clockwork, notch, aim, fire, notch, aim, fire.
You cry out again as a Hermes kid falls next to you, a kid you had grown somewhat close to over the years. His knees hit the street, blood gushing from the sword through his stomach. His murderer's cackle is short-lived as you slice the demons head off, you don't watch as it disintegrates into dust. You can't stop for one last look at your friend, you must be aware at all times, lest the same happen to yourself.
A sharp buzzing clouds your ears, another loud crash comes from the distance, followed by screams you barely register.
You gasp for breath as your body finally starts catching up with its actions, your armor is just a little too big for your body, it chafes around you uncomfortably, the sores are starting to sting whenever you move. When you bought it, you were thinking you'd have some time before you actually had to use it, and by then you would be tall enough.
You don't belong here. You've only been training for a few years. Only this summer did find your talent in archery. Not enough to gain Apollo's interest – but enough to hit the target.
To your own surprise you find yourself thinking about what life used to be, before you knew you were a demigod, back when you were just a hyper kid in school with big dreams. Not popular, but not unwanted. Loved, but not coddled. And yet, you still wanted more. You could ask yourself where it all went wrong, but you already know that answer far too well.
Two years ago:
"I cannot believe this is my third summer here!" You burst out, rapping an arm around the girl standing next to you. You kept forgetting her name. It was something that started with a . . . B?
A cheerful grin appears in her face, "That's -"
"There you are," your bright eyes looked up to meet the speaker. "Blake, you should go back to your cabin," Chiron tells her, she gives you both a sheepish smile and runs off, her feet padding against the lush grass.
Chiron stand in front of you for a few minutes, the soft morning wind casting small ripples in his fur. You might have found the whole effect rather pleasant, but your gaze staring at his face, noticing how grave his face is, eyes downcast, and head bent. There was no excitement in his voice, no shine in his eyes that you rarely saw him without.
"Hey, C-Chiron. Did you hear from my mom about school next year?" You asked, fidgeting with your wrists nervously, wondering what had brought on his gloomy mood.
"No, I haven't. I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Your eyes widen slightly, and your mouth runs slightly agape, afraid to hear what was coming next. "Please, tell me it's about the saran wrap on the Aphrodite cabin's toilet seat prank, because I swear -"
"No. It's not about that." He whispers alarmingly. You were afraid, and you had good reason to be, the only time you'd ever seen that look on his face was when he told Annie Lang her father had succumbed to cancer.
"P-please," you breathe out, in the hollow voice of a child who knows they aren't going to get what they want. "Tell me my mother is alright."
But he didn't tell you that, because he couldn't.
"I'm so sorry – "
You never heard what he said next, because you were already falling, your body shutting down on itself into a tiny shell, a shell that held no room for anything but black.
Nothing in the world . . . nothing, can describe the pain of losing a parent. Just like nothing could describe loosing a child, or a sibling. Some say it's like a big whole punched into their chest, others, a dark void in your heart. You don't know how to describe it yourself because it has barely even made its way into your head. You just notice something is missing, something you never realized was so vital until it left you. It's so confusing.
Different people do different things in a time of grieving. Some lie around all day, crying and eating. Others force themselves to keep busy, doing anything that will keep thoughts of the deceased one out of their heads, and then at nighttime, when they're forced to sit still, can't sleep from the overpowering memories. You on the other hand, take a somewhat different approach . . . You cave yourself in, nobody else exists. It's just you. You think if nobody gets in, nobody can get out either. Nobody can hurt you.
Most of your friends are giving you space, figuring you would come around and open yourself up sooner or later, very few held on. Trying desperately to cheer you up, refusing to leave you alone, they won't let you hurt yourself. They won't let you disappear on them.
You picked yourself up from that, you aren't sure how, but you did. It took months, months you can hardly remember, because you didn't do anything worth remembering.
It was painful, the most random things could make you burst into tears, lilacs, waffles, anything that could remind you of her. The thought of never hugging your mother and hearing that calm voice that reminded you of honey was gut-wrenching. She could comfort you no matter what, but not this time. A ghost can't comfort you about their own death. She's gone, taking with her a good portion your heart, and the familiar thing you call home.
You have a big family, relatives everywhere who are instantly willing to welcome you into their homes, they love you, and want to raise you.
For some reason you decide to stay at camp. You aren't ready to face them, and their pitying faces. Maybe it would have been better if you'd gone with them. Maybe, if you hadn't stayed at camp you would never have met him.
You would never have fallen in love.
Ten months after your mother's death . . . That was how long it took to finally let someone else in. It was odd, thirty other year-rounders and somehow he was the person you went to.
You never meant to, but somehow you grew to love his cocky smile, and snarky comments. Somehow you grew to love how he always know what was going through your head, and how he could always calm you down when you were at your worst.
Arguing with him got your mind off other things, things you didn't want to think about anymore, things that around him, you could shove out – if only for a little while.
Very few people recognized when fighting turned to teasing, and even fewer noticed when teasing turned to flirting, or when flirting turned into one very small date by the lake.
Everything changed the day a young Aphrodite girl walked up to Chiron, shoving the bridge of her glasses up her nose, an odd accessory, but it looks perfect on her nonetheless. She's stuttering slightly, in a voice that warns danger, but you pay no attention. You're too busy looking over her head for the obnoxious grin that makes your heart melt, completely unaware that you will never see it again. Then the words fall from her lips, they aren't directed towards you, but they might as well have been.
Suddenly you're falling, headfirst into a black hole that was now all too familiar, or maybe just into your chair.
You remember his words of comfort when your mother died, "Cheer up, you can keep going and you know it, everything will start piecing itself back together. . . eventually."
Your eyes burn, tears threaten to overcome you, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of the entire camp.
"It was quick, too quick to do anything about it." The Aphrodite girl tells the counselors, hurriedly, as if she wants nothing more than to disappear.
There's no body, they couldn't find any remains after the smoke had cleared. He was just gone, carried away by a deafening noise and a well-hidden bomb.
It days later, you're sitting at the Hermes table, picking at your spaghetti when a girl you barely know manages to rip right into your chest. She asks you why you took his death so hard, when you so clearly hated each other. The words were careless in her mouth. She didn't realize what they did to you.
Because she - like so many others - never realized you were dating the one person who could make you scream in frustration, and laugh in joy, at the same time. She never realized that one measly date you two shared, almost helped pull you out of you protecting shell, you let someone in, and once again they're gone. When you spoke your voice was cracked, tears threatening to spill out if not contained. You told her it was because they were a good friend.
Because you loved him goes unspoken, but not unheard. Not anymore, and you were too tired to care.
As a child you had dreamt of adventures, who hadn't? It was the thrill of the fight. The thought of being more important than you really were appealed to you greatly.
The life of a demigod was nothing you had expected when you stepped through the borders and the camp was declared your new home. You had thought you were the only one coming there after a perilous journey, which was honestly - only a small scuffle with a Hellhound that your protector took care of right away.
You thought you could be a hero, coming to save the universe, risking life and limb for the gods!
You were wrong. You couldn't even save yourself.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, you started kidding yourself. You thought you weren't claimed because your father was one of the big three, or a Titan. And they didn't want people to know. You weren't the only one. Many grew tired of waiting to find out where they belonged. And you started seeing more and more betrayals of those who thought they were unwanted. Many times you considered going with them, but then you thought back to them, to your mother, to him, how upset they would be if you chose that path.
So here you stand, fighting for the very gods who couldn't care less about you. You don't even know why. But you've seen it - betrayal at its worst staring you straight in the face, before you could even recover from his death.
Two months earlier:
Sharp swings of metal clash near your side, you move to block it with everything you had. It's a messy move, controlled only by instinct, and what will you have left.
Metal meets metal.
You almost want to shut your eyes and pretend this is all a bad dream. "Blake, what are you doing?" Your voice is unrecognizable, an airy breath in the wind. No force. No heart.
"I wish I could say I'm sorry. But I can't take another day in the Hermes cabin!" She shouts, her voice just as injured as yours, but for a very different reason.
"Yes. Yes you can, Blake. Please, don't do this!" You shout, blocking a swing from her weapon. You start fighting on the defensive, trying to figure out a way to knock her out, and drag her back to your team.
"What's there to fight for, anymore?" She gasps out, slashing her sword in your direction. You cry out as it connects with your stomach, leaving a small, but painful, and sightly bloody mark. "The gods don't care about us. I know who my mother is! Everyone does, and she still refuses to claim me!"
You start to back away. She's been training for a long time, and it clearly shows. "Look, I don't know why -" She cuts you off by pulling out the dagger strapped to her thigh and chucking it at you. In your hurry to duck, your sword slips from your sweaty hand. She takes advantage of that, and charges at you, throwing you to the ground. Knees press against your lower back making you scream in pain.
"You could come with me, we could help destroy the gods together. Your father hasn't claimed you either! Not for four years. He clearly doesn't care about you!" She shouts, you squirm pathetically, but she's too strong.
Here it was, the ultimatum you've read about in so many stories. The answer is so clear, it's an obvious decision to say no and die bravely, or get saved in the end. The hero rarely considers saying yes, so you shouldn't be. You shouldn't be thinking that she has a valid point, and that maybe your father . . . whoever he is, really doesn't care about you. When you open your mouth it should be to say 'never' or 'no freaking way' not . . . 'you're right'.
She never gets a chance to hear them. You hear a strong 'clunk' and suddenly all her weight is on top of you. Only to be removed a second later, replaced by a hand pulling you to your feet. "Are you alright?" A hoarse voice asks you, showing real concern.
You can't say you are. Not when your friend - one of the very few who stuck by you during your time of grieving, betrayed you. Not when she tried to kill you. And most certainly not when you almost came so close to siding with Kronos.
You're exhausted, every muscle in your body is begging for mercy. Your movements become careless, feeble jerking. The fight to stay on your feet has evaporated. Replaced by simple longing to just curl up in the corner and try to catch your breath. But you fight it out, you must. Your heart might be shattered. You might want to curl up in bed and cry. But if you do that . . . If this war is lost, there won't be any life left for anyone to live. Not for those who want it.
Another monster runs at you, howling viciously. It's a gruesome sight, one that you've seen more times than you can count. Another demigod slashes at it's knees before it can reach you. It falls to the ground, screeching.
You move for the kill, brandishing your sword. But you stop. Something catches your eye - A shattered mirror in a corner store. You can't recognize yourself like this, teeth gritted, blood that's not yours splashed on your armor, and eyes that seem dead. They see nothing. Whatever happened to that smiling child four years ago? The one that was chubby and excited for anything. Where did you go?
The sound of metal falls towards the street, followed by something much bigger. It's over, your strength has left you.
Three hours earlier:
The bed creaked noisily under your form, you just sigh. You wish to be out training, walking around, doing something other than sitting in this room with twenty others, and the tension that could cut glass.
It seemed your wish was granted as the Head Counselors of this cabin trampled in, one after the other. "Alright, come on!" One of them shouts.
"It's time?" A girl asks, shoving away a book she hadn't been reading in the first place.
You sigh, of course it was time. The next words out of the second head counselor confirmed that.
"Where are we headed?" You ask, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing miserably.
"Manhattan," they say in unison. "We're going to help Percy. So come on, get your armor on!"
A few shivers fell from the crowd, but they all get up and move anyways. And yet, there you sit, feet propped up against the board of your bed, unable, or unwilling to move. Only one other person remains with you. He's sprawled out on a bean bag, staring you over curiously. You don't know his name, you just refer to him as, "The traitor boy."
"I know why I'm sticking around, why're you?" He asks you, there's something in his voice that ticks you off, a sort of nonchalance that shouldn't be there.
"Why are you?" You shoot back, failing to find anything wittier and you struggle to figure out his question yourself.
"I need to stay and convince my girlfriend and her cabin to fight. She can be a real pain."
You snort, "If she's a pain, why are you dating her?" A brief flash of your lost love crosses your mind, and the way you used to bicker, but you shove it back as best you can.
"Because, I've known her most of my life. Well - the parts of my life the actually matter, and I love her." He spoke the words as if they were the easiest thing he'd ever said. Maybe they were. "But that doesn't answer my question. Why aren't you out getting your armor on- um, what's your name?"
"I don't know," you whisper.
"Your name? Or why you aren't fighting?" He asks. Maybe he has a good reason to be so calm. Maybe it's easier to fake an emotion then show what your truly feeling. Unfortunatly, you're still not good with that.
You gasp slightly, "I almost said 'yes'!"
Somehow, he knows the exact meaning behind your words. You can tell by his expression. That doesn't stop the shock coursing through your veins at his next words. "What's your point?"
"I almost joined Kronos's army!" You shout, you wonder how he can be so blunt, normally he seems quiet, and relaxed. . . and a little lazy.
"Yeah? And I did join Kronos's army." He says, anger tinted in his words, but not enough to be noticeable. "So here we stand. Two unclaimed half-bloods, both received the same opportunity, one said 'no', the other said, 'yes', one will always be known as, 'That traitor boy,' while the other is free to have any title they receive. Let me ask you," he leans forward in his seat, eyes roaming over you slowly. "Who do you think was the smarter one?"
"That's the thing . . . I didn't say 'no', I was interrupted before I could answer."
"Well, that certainly changes things." He whistled. "But hey, if you wanted to join. Go ahead. I would make the decision now, because the war is almost over. For better or for worse."
"Why are you being so neutral about this?" You ask, unable to help yourself.
He shrugs, "because I can't stop you." With that he jumped up, crossing the cabin in a few strides, but as his hands pressed against the doorknob, he turns back around. "Like I said, I can't . . . stop you, from making a decision. But I can tell you what it's like on the other side, which is – not much different. You're still unclaimed, still invisible. You're just plagued with a tiny bit more self-loathing every night when you go to bed, and there isn't anything to distract you from your own head." With that, he's gone.
"Hey! Wait a moment - " You call out, jumping from your bed. The words died on your throat, because you realize you really don't know his name. You really do only know him as, "The traitor boy," somehow, he made the biggest mistake in his life, but you never took the consequences for your decision. He's been there, he regrets it. Despite how fast and slightly confusing the conversation was, you could understand each other.
He's right, every night in the quiet of the dark bedroom, your mind wanders to every little thing that bugs you. You think of your mother, of him, of Blake. You can't have betraying your own home on your conscience as well. Because this is your home, you chose it the day your mother was pronounced dead, and you decided you couldn't leave.
You realize you've lost everything that matters, by either death or shutting them out. You turn can't turn on the people who were there for you at your worst.
Death . . . such a simple thing. It's easy to understand, everyone dies. If you're good, you go to some beautiful place. If you're bad, you shudder to think. But once it's over, it's over. Sure, you could try for rebirth, but what good would that do to patch up the sins in this life?
The roles are reversed. Webbed, green hands draw a sword. Cold red eyes stared down at you blankly, uncaring that you're a human and won't come back after a few hundred years. This time, it won't stop. And that thought scares you. As the beast moves, getting ready to strike, everything around you seems to move in slow motion - as if on purpose.
Because, you don't want it to end. Maybe, maybe, it wasn't so bad. Trying to pick yourself back up again. Sure, you've tried it three times, just to get shoved back down to square one, but how hard can one more try be? It's not like it's nothing you haven't done before. It's not like it will hurt anymore a fourth time. . .
And just like that, you were back on your feat. You dodge her attack, kicking her sword out of her hand.
It was so easy, to give up, to say you wanted it to be over. That isn't the way, that shouldn't need to be the way, and you know it. You've been told things always get worse before they get better, maybe this time they won't get worse again. It's a tiny hope but it's enough.
Three years ago:
Swish!
You groan loudly, tossing your head back, as the arrow misses the mark. Swishes come from all directions in the training arena, followed by loud whoops or curses. The sun seems to glare right at you, and the sweat makes your clothes stick to you like a second skin. Another hour, another day. They told you practice make perfect. They told you it would only be a matter of time before you learned. You haven't gotten any better.
It's been two weeks. You haven't set a foot outside the border since the day you came here . . . You still aren't wanted.
Another sigh, your hand unconsciously reaches up and tugs off your breastplate, throwing it to the side with no real intention of retrieving it anytime soon. Your black shirt does a good job of hiding the moisture proving how exhausted you are. You could hear raised voices behind you, but you didn't bother to turn around.
You've barely relaxed, before a snarl breaks out through the day. "What about you?" You recognize the speaker vaguely, Michael Yew, a kid from the Apollo cabin, also the loudest one. You find it funny he turns to you, the one person who wasn't paying any attention to the brewing fight. "Are you a coward?"
"Go ask someone else. I wasn't paying any attention." There wasn't any call to be rude, especially not to someone with such a huge ego, but you were tired and upset, and didn't see any reason why you had to join in something so pathetic.
"Ahh, you see, I would. But now I'm curious, did you honestly not pay any attention to the fight? Or are you unable to answer the question?" You wish you could say Michael was really stepping in it, but honestly, the guy could probably knock you to the ground in a few seconds, tops. Despite his height.
Exhaling, you viciously stomp your bow into the ground, "Alright, what's the question?"
"Are you a coward? When we're out on that battlefield, staring the enemy right in the face, will you stand and fight, or turn and run?" He asks again, eyes glinting.
And for how simple the question is . . . you find yourself unable to answer it.
It should be easy, to tell him, 'Of course I won't run!' But . . . you've never actually fought anything worth fighting before. So you say the only thing you can think of, "I will fight this war through to the very end. No matter what happens."
For once, Michael grins broadly, "That's the spirit," he whispers.
But you've already turned around, notching another arrow into you bow, aiming it carefully. And for the first time in your life, you hit the mark dead on.
The fight continues brewing from all directions. For the smallest of seconds, your eyes meet with another mirror, it's not untouched, small cracks outline it. But it's not shattered. Your reflection isn't smiling, but you can see yourself again. You aren't whole, but you aren't broken. This is the final fight, and you will win it.
Whoa, 5,000 words! This is the longest fic I've ever written. Also, the first time I've written in second person, so I hope I did good! Quick thing, really pay attention to the timelines, the story could be confusing if you don't.
The challege for the round was to write a fic inspired by a quote, and I used a line in Breaking Benjamin's "Until The End" that is shown up above. I would highly recommend listening to the song, because it is extremely powerful.
Thanks to the judges for letting me continue, and I hope you're proud of this!
Reviews are read, loved, and read again:D
-Ash
P.S. Here's some useless trivia: Blake is the name of my snake, I didn't even realize until after I had written it down:D