this, my excavation
you ask who you are, and the universe stutters out an answer. your identity bleeds out in rivulets for nobody to see. why do they care? why don't they? it shouldn't feel this exhausting to be young. every night when you relax your guard, bleak visions play out behind your retinas. half-blood dreams are just hollow reflections of the absent future and the aching past, but gods, why do they have to suffocate your sleep?
you remember your mother in your worst nightmares. tremors rack your cold body, and you hide in the cupboard from everything that glows green.
trepidation sinks into the marrow of your bones. you ask, why does the campfire burn the wrong colour? ripples of apathy cross their blank faces, and you wonder why you bothered coming here—after all, safety is relative, and you've already sacrificed too much. you'd never even heard of the god who sired you, but it isn't long before the calluses on your palms thicken. you want renown, you want to be seen, you want something more. be patient, you're not ready yet. when will you be ready, then? you leave. you ruin everything.
the new scar on your cheek speaks of remorse and failure, and your hands grasp at gold in your sleep. all the heroes around you cower in the gods' shadow. you see chilling potential in their reticent fury, in their unquiet rage, but only you seem to be aware of it. you want to show them all what the world could be, but none of them notice the repulsive rust that has settled deep into the valleys of the earth. maybe this makes you a radical, but sometimes you want to swallow olympus whole. oh, the fucking state of it.
this twisting, breathing maze you're trapped in is not quite as dark as the recesses of your mind. you need to find Him a body, because you don't want it to be you. water submerges—you have come too far to go back now. the faces of your old life fade into bleak nothingness, and you decide you'd like your skin to be iron. maybe then, the ghosts that scrape at you won't be able to dig their nails in anymore.
the river is a half-death. all your nerve endings disconnect as bubbles burst from your mouth. your lungs begin to fail, and you wish someone would show you which way is up.
when you finally breach the surface, He is the only one waiting. you feel like a puppet that believes itself the master, but that delusion is the only warm thing left to cling to in this hellscape of ice. you turn your bronze wrath towards the faces of the gods, screaming look at me. look at me. look at this monster you've made. you want to burn them, you want to blind them, but you forget your reasons as He seizes control of your sinew. why is it so fucking difficult to ascertain which thoughts are His and which are your own?
every day, you struggle to feel your fingertips. every night, you sweat slowly in the vicious dark. you'd figured it might hurt more, having a titan in your head, but it doesn't. you're already so numb. it's terrifying to bear witness to the aeons-old bitterness and hatred that stems from His unholy logic, but you've already chosen this path—and gods, it would be a long walk home.
in the fragile moments before your death, your vision clears. the world is blue again. you look around at the destruction you've caused, but there's no emotion left—He took it with Him. elysium is nothing but a pale imitation of a hope as the dagger stings your side. you exhale, wondering if hades receives villains.
you suppose it's enough just to feel human again.