Disclaimer: Don't own.
JASON
He can't help but see their faces when he closes his eyes. Roman soldiers, loyal troops, and he led them to their deaths. Even now, years later, he can't stop seeing their faces. It's his fault, he thinks bitterly. He was their commanding officer. If he'd done better, there wouldn't be so many of his friends dead. He shook his head and rose. He had work to do.
A few hours later, he collapsed back at his desk. He had been working on tasks for both camps all day, and now he was exhausted. But he didn't want to go to sleep. His ghosts haunted him each and every night. The visions of the battle on Mount Tam never seemed to leave him. He pulled out some paperwork and got started.
"John, take your century and seize that ridge! We won't be able to storm the stronghold unless you seize that outpost up there, their archers have us pinned!" Jason ordered.
He was horrified to see 1st Century, 1st Cohort, 12th Legion Fulminata, surge up the hill only to be cut down. John led the charge, and they fought bravely, but John died within two minutes, and the cohort suffered losses equal to half of its strength, many of them Jason's friends.
Jason woke up from his memory, jerking upright at his desk, covered in a sheen of glistening sweat. He wiped his brow and sighed. Maybe someday he'd have peace.
Jason is the commander who can't get over the deaths of those he led in combat, believing if he had been better, maybe they wouldn't have died.
PERCY
Percy is tired. The exhaustion seeps from his body. They sent him to war at 12. He's 17 now. The PTSD was bad after the Titan War; it only got worse. He was used by the gods, and now visions of Tartarus, of the Battle of Manhattan, of the Labyrinth are permanently scarred into his brain. Each time he thinks he can rest, another quest, another prophecy, another war pops up, and the gods call him. He just wants to be left in peace.
Percy is a lot like Luke: he's disenchanted and weary, angry and a bit disgusted. But he's a loyal soldier, and the thought of betraying his cause, no matter how poorly it treats him, is worse than death.
A/N: Like I said, a hard story to write. Too many of my friends in these pages. Let me know if you want me to continue.
Very respectfully,
Charles Basilone
