Alright! This chapter is sorta depressing, and hopefully the narrating in this chapter doesn't bore you to death...but it was inevitable to get my picture across. Anyways, I hope you like the slight suspense in this chapter.

You should also know that this takes place the moment "Jack" wakes up previous to the prologue. You'll see why...

Next chapter will be in the point of view of either "Jack" (oh heck with it, we all know it's Percy), Zach, or Cassidy. You'll begin to know what the OC's God parents are in the coming chaps...so enjoy!

I don't own anything.

Annabeth~

The silence reigned over the once cheery camp like a dense fog, the grief overshadowing the land. Campers walked with slow shuffled steps, shoulders sagged. Many were wounded, the infirmary full with victims of blades and bows. Romans kept to there tents that were set among the hills, the Greeks harboring the main cabins.

Sounds rang over the dense silence, the mournful cries echoed through the woods, the ringing of sharpened weapons against rock; all proof of the battle that passed, now the survivors left to welter in pain and panic.

Three days had passed since the fateful battle between not only Gaea and her children, but also between the Roman and Greek's short feud before the prophecy demigods arrived. While victory was endgame for their side against the evil mother-earth, too much blood had been spilled, too many lost to celebrate with smiles and relief.

The strawberry fields didn't smell sweet, the taste of the food was bland to the tongue, and the feel of the sea breeze only brought bitter reminders of a lost hero. To add to the atmosphere, whispered cries, like a suffering lullaby, danced on the wind as the trees shook from the nymphs that harbored within.

Hardly anyone spoke, no Stoll twins up to their mischief, no fun spars between Clarisse and others, no blooming buds brought from Katie Gardner's finger tips...even the Aphrodite girls showed up to events without makeup, for any that was placed on their face was eventually smeared off in tears.

Lunch in the outside pavilion echoed with words unspoken.

While the sorrowful events unfolded through the once alive and proud lands, a cabin that smelled of the sea was occupied by a figure.

A lone figure with blonde curls and swelled gray eyes that shook from silent sobs, perched on a bunk with knees and arms curled close to her body.

Annabeth Chase.

No one knew what to do with her, how to approach her.

How could you mend someone so...broken?

Her eyes, wise stormy eyes, had seen her best friend, her boyfriend, in his finalizing strength, close the doors from Tarturus with an overpowering earthquake, trapping the essence of all monsters, titans, giants...and locking Gaea into another deep sleep, never to be heard for another millennium.

Having to endure all of this, just minutes before seeing the daylight again, having been trapped in Tarturus for many days and nights.

The horrors kept her awake, the tainted memories locked her in nightmares. Her brother Malcom had once tried shaking her awake during a nightmare, and ended with a large deep gash on his leg from Annabeth jumping awake with her knife gripped like a vice in her hand.

Ever since, no one had bothered her, figuring it would be better to leave her for a few days. The only one who dare appear to the fragile daughter of Athena was Chiron, who's warm caramel eyes had turned a dark shade of brown, sadness enveloping the iris so potently.

Clutched in one hand was a horn, the calloused edge rough to touch, in the other, she held a cloth, the feel of a long cinder like shape that she couldn't bare to look at. It only reminded her of the final moments before sea green eyes were locked behind the Doors of Death.

His eyes had held despair, a lost purpose to live. Tarturus had drained his limits, just as it had hers. It was in that moment, as he stood at the threshold of Tarturus, his eyes met hers, and she understood just exactly what he intended to do. Before she had a chance to run forward, to drag him away from the abyss, he capped Riptide and tossed it right in front of her feet.

The ground had quivered violently beneath her feet, and being still week from her trip through darkness, she fell easily, gingerly plucking his pen from the earth as she began to scream for him to stop, to stay alive, to come back and help her heal.

But the shaking continued, and by the time she stood with wet and red eyes, Riptide clutched in her sweaty palm and limbs shaking from disbelief and stress; Percy was gone.

And for that...she hated him.

He left her. He cowardly faced death instead of fighting to live. He left her. How dare he play hero when she needed him so badly?

He. Left. Her.

And she missed him so badly, it physically hurt. The last few nights, having awoken from a dream in which he still lived, she hated the moment reality shattered into place, leaving her to run for the bathroom and dump the contents of her stomach, which happened to be lacking necessities.

So here she sat, clutching onto items that brought her any part of him, anything he had touched, anything to keep him here, even if her sanity was lost in the process.

She sat in the Poseidon cabin, not caring whether it was disrespectful to the Sea God, in-taking heavy shuddering breaths.

The worst part of her grief, was the childish and naive hope that he would return. Just as he had after Mt. St. Helens. Her boyfriend was powerful, seemed invincible, had literally been indestructible at one time; it seemed impossible to her that he could actually be gone.

Yet he was.

And another sob wracked her body.

Licking at her cracked wet lips, Annabeth finger-brushed the hairs that stuck to her face. "Annabeth, get a hold of yourself. Stop...crying!"

Any onlooker would have assumed her crazy for yelling at herself, but as close as she was to breaking, the daughter of Athena didn't care, for she knew she was alone.

Alone.

Biting her lips to lock the mournful cry that pleaded against her teeth, Annabeth shakily reached for the handkerchief that she had wrapped his pen/sword in.

Hesitantly, her fingers hovered over the material, mentally and emotionally stabilizing herself to retain from being swallowed into another fit of crying.

It seemed the minutes stretched long, before she finally willed herself to unravel the wrapping, narrowing her eyes in a wince as she was about to see the silver trimming of a familiar ballpoint pen.

…

Gray eyes popped open, her sob choking in her throat at the sight of empty air.

Nothing. Riptide was gone.

Chiron~

Chiron sat in his enchanted wheelchair, heaving sighs as he sifted through pointless papers and documents to entertain his mind from the internal struggle.

It was sadly ironic, how merely a year ago, he would have relished in the peace and quiet of the day, no longer bothered by the complaints and yells of the very active and mostly ADHD demigods that filled his role in life.

Now, he would give anything to quench the uneasy silence.

It was unnatural, so full of ruefulness was this type of quiet, that tension seemed to be inhaled further than oxygen.

His most troubling issue was of grief, and consuming concern for his surrogate daughter, whom seemed too shattered, like a mirror in particles of dust, to be put back together.

In fact, it looked to be near impossible.

But the wise old centaur did not lose hope. He had seen Annabeth overcome many things, and while they had not been as severe as the present conflict, he grasped at the possibility that her pride would pull her to her feet, get her moving until she was whole again.

Another sigh, shoulders sagged.

A heavy burden lay on his shoulders, a decision that will either lighten or resolutely destroy the remaining contents of a certain daughter of Athena's heart.

Should he show her, tell her what was found by Nico, Son of Hades, tucked away for the future? A future that a laden hero knew was unlikely, but let himself dream anyway. The Son of Poseidon, ever trying to be the optimist, no doubt held onto this object with hopes that it would one day come true, knowing that fate played him as a toy, and the next day could very well be his demise.

For sitting, tucked in tender care beneath papers of campers lost, documents of death that Chiron dreaded to sign, was a small box, specially made by request of Tyson's nimble fingers.

The box was engraved of trident, a large-eyed owl perched on its hilt, along the edges intricate architectural patterns of silver, green and blue, made from rare metals only found in the deepest trenches of the sea.

And placed neatly in the fold of velvet, a diamond ring gleamed.