Camp Half-Blood

by DDaughterofAthena

Here's a series of random, unconnected oneshots surrounding the characters of the Greek RiordanVerse, including high school AUs, poetry, a three-shots, drabbles, Theyna, Thaluke, Percabeth, and more. Come on in, there's something for everyone here! These are the products of my imagination, they have been inspired by the Camp Half-Blood forum's prompts, the link on my profile.

2. In Another Life

Hello to anyone that stumbles upon this fic, a collection of my submissions to the Camp Half-Blood Forum, the link of which can be found on my profile. Enjoy!

Prompt: The Smell of Books, New and Old; A Tragic Parting

Time Period: September 1, 2018 - September 15, 2018

Prompt Administrator: DaughterofHypnos17

Rated: K

Word Count: 316

Cabin Points Received: 56/60

Books. Portals into another world, A world where anything is possible.

Our world. A place only books would care to describe. A world where anything and everything truly is possible.

But everything isn't.

Because if everything was possible, what happened to us? Why weren't we possible?

We write stories. Tales of another land, far away, in the hopes that someone would listen to these tales, and believe them, discovering these lands for themselves.

But I didn't.

I didn't believe, because Books and Tales and Stories are only that; Books and Tales and Stories.

We hear songs. Praises of gods high above, and warnings of the creatures that lurk in our midst.

But that wasn't true for us, was it?

Because these songs never tell you that the real monsters and creatures and enemies are ourselves. That we can destroy ourselves sooner then someone else ever could.

We open age-old books, hoping to learn from them, hoping to understand what makes them so special.

But we never try to learn or understand ourselves. We never try to know what makes us who we are.

We write new tales, in the hopes that one day someone will be able to decipher our words, understand what we wrote for.

But we never try to truly say what we mean. We never try to speak outright.

We write the stories and tales of other people and places.

But have we ever tried to write the story of ourselves? Because my story would be about you, for you were my life.

Yet, now you aren't even a part of my life. Now, because of me, I must finish writing the tale of my past, and begin writing of what comes next.

Perhaps, one day, we will come together again.

Perhaps, one day, you will be my life again.

But that is in the future.

Now, I leave.

Let fate decide our tale.

How was that? Good? Bad? I interpreted the prompt the way I would. The lesson of this is also to be interpreted the the way you see it.