I do not own PJO.

Chapter 25

War

Smoke from burning cabins hangs thick and heavy in the air, burning your nose and throat, casting a foggy, orangey glow on the battle taking place, making the scene almost unreal. Shadowy figures dart in and out of the crackling glowing buildings, gold and bronze weapons clang and clatter, battle cries and screaming fill the air. There is chaos all around you, wounded Greek demigods fighting for their lives as the Romans advance.

The sight makes you sick to your stomach. It's so wrong. This entire war is completely unnecessary, brought on by the selfish, ignorant ways of one slimy coward, and is ending way too many innocent lives of people who could and should be allies.

Your hand clenches around Riptide. The thought of fighting makes your stomach turn and your hands shake, but what choice do you have? Camp Jupiter took you in and made you praetor, but Camp Half-Blood is your home. You have to protect them.

A blade snicks through the air, desperately close to your jugular, and you're snapped out of your thoughts abruptly. You uncap Riptide and whirl to face the culprit. A small boy stands there, armed and ready. Despite the determined look on his face, he's terrified. His weapon is shaking and he can't be much older than eleven or twelve years old.

Your heart sinks down into your sneakers, but you advance cautiously. Your body hasn't recovered from its Tartarus ordeal, and your joints creak alarmingly.

The boy makes the first move, slashing his blade up towards your face. You roll away, and the momentum of the sword throws him forward, off balance. With one flash of celestial bronze, his weapon clatters to the ground. You kick it away and turn back to where the boy now looks terrified, his shoulders shaking and teeth chattering.

You bend down and whisper urgently into his ear. "This was your first fight, huh?"

He nods furiously. "Please don't-"

You cut him off. "I'm not going to hurt you. But if any of my friends get a hold of you, they won't hesitate to finish the job."

His eyes go wide, he squeaks sharply.

"Get out while you still can. Head to the forest. You'll be safer there than here, at least."

He looks conflicted. "I have orders to stay and fight..."

"As your praetor, Percy Jackson, I command that you leave the battle and hide in the forest until it's safe. Those are your new orders, if anyone asks."

He nods again, snatches up his weapon from the dirt and scurries away. You scrub the hair from your forehead with a sigh, and resume the fight, engaging two Romans just before they snuff out someone's life. It's excruciatingly difficult; your body feels like half-baked dough, slow and gooey.

The Roman and her partner sense blood in the water and press forward. One of them lands a glancing blow across your forearm, slicing through your skin, while the other swipes in an arc, aiming for your neck. You duck at the last second, parting with several locks of hair but coming away with your head still firmly attached to your body. The blood runs down your arm, making the sword handle slippery. The scent of iron fills the air and you recoil, remembering the blood and the screaming and the plinkplinkplink of water dripping from black craggy rocks...

You snap yourself out of the memory abruptly just in time to swing your blade up and meet another blow. You lock your swords together and press forward with all of your strength. A horrible screeching noise rips from the weapons as the Roman attempts to free himself, sending sparks into the air. Your face twists up as you put more and more pressure on the swords, but the your opponent is just as strong as you, and he hasn't spent any time in Tartarus recently.

You groan with the strain and call on that familiar tug in your gut, calling on your father's power. A gush of water erupts, soaking the Romans, who stumble and curse in surprise, but maintain rank. You focus on the water, creating a swirling seawater tornado.

Your hands are shaking on your sword and your vision is growing foggy, but you have no other choice. You won't beat these opponents in a fight, not now when your muscles are screaming and your scars ripple and threaten to burst.

With a muffled scream, the Romans are sucked up into the swirling vortex. You start counting. You don't want to kill them, so you only have a few seconds, a minute at most. Guiding the tornado with your mind, you direct it through several fights, scattering Romans and causing general mayhem. You dump the water in the lake.

You watch for several seconds, waiting for the campers to surface. Finally they do, spitting water and cursing violently.

You turn away from them and weave your way back into the heart of the battle. Bodies dot the ground, most of them breathing. Blood stains the ground, pooling out in dark red circles, spattered up the trees.

The cabins are smouldering black ruins. You think of the Poseidon cabin for a second, cool and open, salty breeze coming from the open window, then bottle your emotion for the building and throw it out. There are more important things to be worried about.

The battle is still raging, people weaving in and out, battle cries filling the air. There are many more purple shirts than orange still standing. Your camp is losing and you're about to be overwhelmed.

Your mind is screaming, but your body is throbbing. Black spots dance in your vision and your world is spinning slowly. You blink several times to clear your head, then glance around to determine who is in need of your help the most.

Your gaze locks on a ferocious fight by the remains of the Athena cabin. Golden hair flying, dagger aloft, Annabeth advances on her opponent, who is losing ground rapidly. Another Roman is sneaking up behind her, spatha at the ready. You know she doesn't see him, know that her one weak area has always been her back, because you were always there filling that space, know that unless you do something, she'll be impaled on a long rod of Imperial Gold.

Your feet propell you forward before your mind has any say. You push through fights, shouldering past Greek and Roman demigod alike.

Your vision has narrowed to the Roman coming closer and closer to her unprotected back. His eyes are alight, as if he has solved the answer to the jigsaw puzzle worked so hard on. Dread is sending you flying forward, fingers clenched around a capped pen. You're getting closer, closer, closer, but his arm is pulling back readying himself for the strike.

The muscles in his arms bulge and ripple and then-

I'm back! I'm so sorry for the long wait. All I can say is that Real Life has taken its toll. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Reviews are always appreciated!