It's been about three years since the last war; three years since we burned the corpses of brothers and sisters beneath funeral shrouds as their souls made their journey to the underworld. Three years since our generation's greatest heroes and possibly the greatest heroes of all time rose up and became symbols of hope for us. Perseus Jackson, Annabeth Chase, Jason Grace, Piper McLean, Frank Zhang, Hazel Levesque, and Leo Valdez, these are the names that have become immortalized and loved not just by us but by gods and probably generations to come. They will be remembered as the seven and become legends passed on for their heroism, bravery, and determination as well as their great feats. They do not deserve anything short of this recognition. It's the least they deserve for all they lost.
Then there's us, the expendables, the canon fodder, the foot soldiers fighting under the banners of our heroes. It was hard to be on our own without the so called gods. It was rather upsetting really. Here we are fighting their battles while they hid in their mountaintop safe and sound. We watched as brothers, sisters, lovers fall while we fought. I still have nightmares watching them die. I saw Lee Fletcher get smashed by the giant and being frozen unable to shoot the arrow that could've saved him. I saw him and keep seeing his horror filled face while everything played in slow motion in an endless loop. At times it would change to that time where Michael Yew was washed away by the currents never to be seen again. Then at times I see Silena Beauregard , the one who lost her lover to her own treason and redeemed herself by fighting on the battle field with us. I forgot which war killed which but I can remember their faces as they struggled. I can remember the countless nameless demigods like me who were far too young to die, I can remember the nameless ones who were simply described as "Son/Daughter of _" or "the kid from _ cabin" or, the most painful of them all "The unclaimed demigod".
I can feel my heart ache with the pang of grief as my pen moves across the page drawing their faces the best I could and writing their names hoping that somehow.. somehow.. they would at least be more than just the "_ kid", and that even if they don't get the same treatment as our messiahs they'd somehow be remembered. I recall the faces of the brothers and sisters that I grew up with in this camp, the friends, the acquaintances, and even the less friendly demigods who lived with us. I recall the sound of their laughter and the smiles painted by the light of the bonfire as we sang silly tunes we'd otherwise be ashamed to sing. I recall the smell of fresh strawberries and the mildly humid air. I remember the cold mornings and at times cold showers after a game of capture the flag. I remember our spirits being lifted at the end of the war. Most of all I remember the grief and loneliness that hung over our hearts as we buried what we could of our dead brethren.
Still I wonder, would demigods like us. Ordinary, ungifted, demigods who had a less than legendary tale to tell. Demigods who'd die in the front lines. Demigods who may never be anything more than a face in the background of legends be remembered. Will we be mourned? Will these gods we died serving even notice us? Will they remember how we fought for them. Will we at least be a dot in the canvas of history? We'll never know I guess. We probably never will. We'll never be remembered by those that take our place in this struggle we call life. We will never be remembered by these self-serving gods we begrudgingly have to call our parents. Never.