Lazarus

The great pile of dust, dried blood, and cracked skeleton bones that the Arena sits atop is known as the Hill of Thorns. Gigantic thorns, some as tall as the Cyclops, protrude from the miniature mountains side and soar into the air above my head. I weave my way throughout the thorns carefully, minding each step as if my life depended on it. Temporarily, I forget about Percy Jackson and my attention turns to getting down from this death trap.

Some kind of substance on the ground causes me to have to yank my foot up and forward every time I step. I stop; glancing hard into the monstrous shadows created by the thorns, and I realize I'm stepping through the crusted blood that's become a part of this hill.

A growl comes from the oblivion at the top of Tartarus, and I look upward. The skies are moving; twirling in a massive funnel of opaque blackness and lightning. The low growl comes again, and this time I feel the vibrations from the sky travel down to the ground and shake the very foundation of this place.

I stumble forward, catching myself on one of the thorns.

My breath comes out in quick, light wisps of air.

Percy Jackson.

Electricity courses through the scar left by Sasha on my arm and I cry out in pain and rage. I look out past the monstrous thorns and see the glow of the Caves in the distance. They lie out by old King Tantalus, who will forever reach down for water that will always recede and reach up for fruit that will for all of eternity be out of his grasp.

I trudge down the Hill of Thorns, keeping my eyes on the Caves as I pass from thorn to thorn. The Phlethegon passes through those Caves, casting the glow of artificial sunlight throughout their walls. I've gone their many times to get the Hell-Fire, each time passing the King and trying my hardest to ignore his pleas for a cup of water.

I used to think that there was nothing I could do for the damned King Tantalus, or for the forever frustrated King Sisyphus and that huge boulder he's been sentenced to push for all of time. I used to think that all of these people were meant to suffer down here for eternity, the same way the Titans have had to do for eons. I'd hear of those thieves, those Half-Bloods and their parents, and I'd find my skin glowing and my body temperature reaching that of a miniature Sun.

This is all their fault.

Jackson.

I used to think that there was nothing I could do to ease the suffering of the Titans and the poor king's. But it was Margie's father who gave both me and Sasha a way.

Kill Jackson. Avenge your fathers.

At the bottom of the Hill, I run into the craters full of deadly vipers. I walk around them, listening to the hiss of hungry snakes. Chills run along my skin, because no matter how many times I walk passed them, the snakes will always be hungry, and I will always be fresh meat. I've heard of the camps for Half-Bloods up in the human world, where those brats have the luxuries of Strawberry Fields, a climbing wall, and their own cabins. Up there, the camp is all grouped to together in one small, confined area free of monsters. Here in Tartarus, we True-Bloods risk getting trampled or eaten by Cyclops or Giants every day when we head to the Mess Hall. If we want to have a recreational match in the Arena, we must be careful not to be impaled by thorns, or fall into twenty foot deep craters full of deadly snakes.

Our Territories, our sleeping quarters, are protected by our own guards; kids who are sometimes no older than thirteen years old in human years. (The sky has always been a raging storm of fire, lightning, and thunder. My father, Hyperion, cannot rise in the east and set in the west like he did many eons ago, meaning time can't be measured in days, months, or years. So no one knows their true age.)

But nonetheless, the guards are obviously too young to have to go up against monsters while on Guard. The entire Oceanus territory was almost completely wiped out by a Hydra once. It took the help of the camp's Overseer, Margie's dad, to finally send the thing to the very bottom of Tartarus.

Those Half-Bloods live lives of ease in their camps, while we fight to sleep in peace and eat without being eaten for our whole lives. I hate them. I hate them all and their prideful existences.

There's a wail coming from in front of me, and I look up. From the air surrounding a crater, a white form appears. It's an older man, with hair that would've been white even if he wasn't dead. He's bent over one of the craters, his arm reaching down into it as if he's trying to pull something up. I walk closer to the man with the white skin with no urgency. I look down into the crater, see the small girl who clings to his outstretched arm, and hear the hiss of the viper's as she dangles in the air. She struggles to hang on, her small white hands clenching onto the wrist of the old man. Her mouth opens along with his and I hear their wails, their cries of agony as he struggles to pull her back out. And I stand there, hopelessly watching their futile struggles, my eyes stinging with tears.

The old man can't hold on any longer, and the girl loses he grip, falling with wide eyes of terror into the crater. He screams.

I turn and keep walking. That man did something that didn't appease the Olympians in his life before, and now he's been sent here to experience the tragic loss of his loved ones for all of time. I turn back around one more time before I reach the end of the craters, and I see him bent low over the crater once again, his wails sounding into the air as he struggles desperately to once again pull the small girl away from the vipers.

Percy Jackson.

When I get my hands on you, I'll throw you into one of those craters myself.