The chill gusts of wind rolled violently off the sea waves, turned an ashen grey by the ominous and stormy clouds above, and buffeted the large group of men and women huddled together and shivering upon the beach. Typhon was drawing near. Faces, pale and thin, eyes bloodshot, all turned upon two figures in the center, a man and a woman, arms thrown about various others in tight, sobbing embraces. Leo and Calypso were bidding farewell to their close friends, their family, and despite the fate that awaited them, their expressions were calm, their eyes firm, and it was those who found themselves forced to remain upon the beach that were ravaged with overwhelming sorrow.

It seemed no time at all had passed as their final mission approached and they turned to the last member of the group, standing on the edge, fists clenching and unclenching as his eyes bored into the sand, fighting hard against the bloodshot red of eyes stinging madly with tears. He only raised his head when the voices before him faded to the haunting, hollow wind. The group seemed to part before him, revealing Leo and Calypso, hands clasped, eyes kind, old, as they fell upon their friend.

Percy broke, and Leo did too, and they embraced then, Percy holding as tightly to his friend as he could, begging him in a broken, sobbing voice to stay, but Leo's eyes were sad, fixed upon Festus before him, steaming in the cold air, watching the group with large, amber eyes.

"Don't go," Percy choked, and Leo tightened his hold one more time, before he let him loose, standing back, eyes searching his friend's.

"I have to," he answered simply as Calypso came to stand beside him.

She placed a soft hand on Leo's shoulder, looked up to him with a sad smile, then back to Percy, her hand slipping from Leo as she moved forward, taking the slouching, despairing Percy into her arms, stroking kindly the tangled black hair as Percy sobbed into her shoulder. Leo's brow furrowed as the wind picked up; behind him, whispers rippled through the crowd, and he turned to the grey and violent sea to see Typhon's terrible form, like a gigantic tornado, roaring high, drawing dangerously close. Percy himself sensed the change and looked up as Calypso loosed him. His eyes met Leo's, and a shared dread ran between them. Calypso sucked in a deep breath, and muttered the words they were all thinking.

"Time to go."

Leo's eyes fell to her, and he nodded, his face hardening. Percy forced himself to still, repressing the wretched sorrow that still churned within. He took one step aside, forcing his head high. Leo held out a single hand, barely shaking, and took Percy's in one last, firm handshake.

"See you on the other side, mate," he nodded, his lips pressed together, before he dropped Percy's hand, the man simply grunting, not trusting his voice. Leo turned back to Calypso, took her hand once more, and together, they advanced toward Festus, growing antsy beneath the pier, glancing continuously at Typhon, then to the sky.

Leo heaved himself high upon the dragon, hissing a little at the heat of Festus's body compared to the chill in his limbs from the raging, mourning winds. He felt Calypso's arm slip about his waist then as she leapt nimbly behind him, and he relaxed into the familiar, comforting embrace of her warmth.

"You ready?" she asked, her voice low in his ear.

Words failing, he simply nodded and commanded Festus forward.

- - -

"I stayed with Maz Kanata for a time," Luke said lowly. About them rested the sleeping forms of Baze, Jyn, and Chirrut, overcome with exhaustion at the battle they'd barely escaped from. Rowan stood with him and the satyr, whom she now knew to be named Clover, beside the U-Wing's door. She looked up to him, concern flashing in her eyes.

"Is that where you heard the prophecy?"

Luke nodded, eyes darkening at the mention.

Understanding flashed in Rowan's expression. "I couldn't get into it," she told him, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to speak. He redirected his thoughts.

"What do you mean?" He cocked his head.

"The room," she clarified. "I couldn't get into it. I tried, but it wouldn't let me."

Luke tasted this new information upon his tongue, processing it slowly, realizing the implications it meant for him. His brow furrowed. He realized Maz had said something akin to that when he'd gone to find her, but in his hurry to get to Rowan, he'd bypassed the comment.

"It means it's for you," she pressed, a sudden smile flashing over her lips, nostalgia piercing her heart. "Like in the old days. For a specific hero."

Luke flinched perceptibly at the term. "I don't know if that's what we should go by," he muttered, and Rowan simply frowned in response, shaking her head slightly in concerned protest. "But she gave me something of yours," Luke continued, fishing within his shirt for the familiar feel of the cold chain, before drawing from about his neck an oddly-shaped necklace, ornamented with small, shiny pieces of what Clover could only term as trash, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Rowan's eyes seemed to tighten a little at the corners, a profound sorrow and loss stinging in them as she met Luke's gaze, kind and gentle, but no less emotional.

"Keep it," she told him, waving it back, her voice tight, forcing down the ball in her throat. "I made it for you. It's why I left it with Maz."

Luke's expression read a profound gratitude, his eyes lost in memory just as she was, to their days on the streets, together, fighting each obstacle and monster with a determined glee, innocent and free of the troubles that soon swallowed them. He cleared his throat, slipping the necklace about his neck, forcing his mind to more pressing matters.

"Do you know what we're getting into?" he asked, his lips tightening grimly.

Rowan shook her head, and began to recount all that she had learned of the war brewing beneath them on her journeys with Cassian. Their mumbled conversation sunk lower and lower with each passing comment, till all Cassian caught, standing up beside Morpheus, whom he recognized, and Romulus, whom he had just met, in the cockpit, watching the navigational screen with a growing wonder as they sped beyond everything he'd ever known. Occasionally, he'd glance back to Rowan, catch her glances toward him, smile reassuringly, though he wondered whether or not he was reassuring himself more. The smile was always returned, however, and he found his heart warming a little, rising to meet the fears that formed within him, and he would return to watching the screen and the universe outside with a renewed courage.

He tried not to focus on the life he'd left behind, the planet, the fears of what had happened after they'd fired off into lightspeed, directly from the ramp and their battle with the manticore. He hoped beyond hope that the Rebellion had gotten the plans, that they were now formulating some attempt to take down the Empire and its terrible weapon, and he promised himself that he'd return once his battle here was over. It was the only comfort he could rest in, and he embraced it as Romulus muttered in his growling voice that they were nearing their destination. Nodding, Cassian straightened, and picked his way through the sleeping forms of his companions to Rowan, Luke, and the strange creature called a satyr, named Clover.

Rowan brightened a little when he arrived, and he met her eyes momentarily. She faltered when she saw the troubled expression there.

"We're almost there," he told them, then looked to Rowan, pausing. "But you were exiled; what does that mean?"

Rowan's face fell as she remembered the mark burned into her palm. In the heat of battle, she'd forgotten its existence, but at the thought, the despair seemed to settle into her bones, and she wondered how such a fate could have slipped her mind. Her thoughts then turned to Romulus, and as if the werewolf could sense the turn the conversation had taken, his ears twitched, and he glanced backward. She realized he had already made peace with his fate, and an expectant look upon his features gave her the sense that he was waiting for her to.

"You were exiled?" Luke's voice was low in dread, and his eyes fell from scrutinizing Cassian's face to hers. She looked back at him, her hand falling to Cassian's forearm, a wordless thanks for his reminder despite the hopelessness it brought her.

She nodded in response to Luke's question, lifting her palm and revealing the mark there, dark against the pale and calloused skin of her palms. "Octavian," she told him, and his expression darkened.

"But what does it mean?" Cassian interjected, looking to Rowan with hard eyes.

She shrugged, swallowing hard against the ball in her throat. "It means I die," she told him, and he blanched.

- - -

Jason woke to darkness. The small, hour-long respite after thirty-some hours of fighting was over, and not much had changed. Grimacing, gripping his side, where the faithful, if clumsy, venti he'd named Stormfly had thrown him into the condensed air of their small tent, he stood. Far below the battle that raged high above, him and his troops had been sent to play containment, pushing back any of Ouranos' forces that broke loose from Zeus' and the Winds' defense. It was messy work, and he'd lost ground, though not as badly as Zeus had.

With a groan, he slipped out of the cot to the clouded floor beneath him, darkness swirling about his eyes for a moment as he struggled to regain focus, steadying himself against the rack of armor beside him. He wished he was high above, with his father. The loneliness of his outpost here was almost more than he could bear, his ears ringing, day and night, with the battle he was helpless to effect high above. Stumbling a little away from the cot, he moved to his sword, leaning against the tent pole, and took it up, strapping it with fumbling fingers to his belt before he sucked in a deep breath, steeled himself, and advanced outside. Stormfly waited in the company of a few more venti, each with exhausted features and burning eyes.

One of them hurried toward him from a small group clustered about a new venti, this one looking singed and desperate.

"Sir," the approaching venti called, waving a hand to catch Jason's attention.

From his position beside Stormfly, hand upon his mane, ready to hoist himself upon his back, Jason froze and gave his attention to the venti.

"We've just received news, sir," he rattled off breathlessly, and Jason nodded, urging him to continue, glancing upon the singed venti with concern. Their eyes met, and he read there a hopelessness he would rather have not seen before he wrenched his eyes back. "Krios is loose, sir. He's got a force moving this way, and Boreus doesn't have the fighters to pursue him. We're on our own."

Jason forced down a sigh, knowing full well not to instill hopelessness in his ragtag troop. "Is Krios himself coming?" he asked, hoping beyond hope for an answer that would lessen the sinking dread in his gut.

"No, sir," the answer came from the singed venti, limping forward, away from the others that tended to him.

Jason nodded his thanks, and his respect, before gesturing to his tent. "Rest there," he commanded, his heart softening for the spirit. "You've done enough."

The venti inclined his head, dignity limiting what gratitude he could show, before he limped into the tent, followed by a few more spirits that bore what clinical materials they still had. Jason watched them go, postponing as much as he could the meeting of his troop's eyes. When he turned back, they were all standing, dead silent, gazes fixed like lightning bolts upon his face, reading it for some sign. Above them, distant but loud, came the roar of battle, filtered down to them.

Jason steeled his face. "Prepare yourselves," he commanded. "This is one we can win," he promised, "And we'll regain some ground."

There were a few half-hearted cheers. He couldn't blame them. They'd been stuck here, fighting this battle, for weeks on end, and each hour brought only heartache and despair. They were facing an opponent old as time, and the odds seemed impossibly stacked against them, but hope was their only option, and so he forced it into his eyes, pulling himself high upon upon Stormfly, staring his troops in the face, instilling what confidence he could into them.

As one, they moved forward, eyes fixed upon the spreading, foggy movement of something that appeared to be cloud down toward them: Krios' advance. As they drew closer, Jason pulled his sword from his sheath, the Imperial Gold glinting coldly in the chill air, and he urged Stormfly through his troops, muscles tensed and ready, prepared to lead the charge. He glanced back to his men, met their eyes, a shared, but exhausted respect lingering there, before, with a breath that left his lungs, seeming amplified in the still air, he rose to meet the approaching challenge.

In something of a blur, they moved forward, meeting head on the troops of Krios. All the world, time itself, seemed to still as the distance between them lessened and lessened. Jason focused only upon his heartbeat, forcing it to still as he raised his blade high in the air, and with a cry, brought it down upon the first of Krios's venti. With a shriek, the creature dissipated into the cold air, and all noise came rushing back to his ears like a great cacophony. The battle had begun; he could only pray that it would end in their victory.

The fighting pushed him to the perimeter of the battle, where he suddenly found himself side-by-side with one of his commanding venti. The spirit looked to him, grinning wildly, the light of battle flaming in his eyes, greeting Jason with a nod. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a war cry before them, and together they turned to the small mass of venti that charged them, and rushing forward into battle, leaving Jason with a lingering sense of curiosity. Despite their great help, Jason found himself unsettled fighting alongside the spirits. They were fast, flighty, deadly, but unnerving in their bloodlust. He longed to be beside his fellows below, remembering with fondness now their battles upon Earth.

They sliced through the venti easily, for this group was small and weak, lurking on the edges of the battlefield only to pick off those of their troops that had lost their fire, and then found themselves immersed in a strange silence, so far removed were they from the fighting nearby.

"I suppose our allies have lost hope," the venti told Jason, moving forward, his grin losing its luster, falling into a confused frown. Jason cocked his head, confused, but the venti simply gestured downward in elaboration, and Jason's gaze fell to where the venti pointed.

His heart dropped as he did so, and a great helplessness filled him as he beheld the sight he never thought he would have. It was Festus, the great metal dragon climbing agonizingly higher and higher through the atmosphere toward them, two small silhouettes of figures upon his back. He knew then that they had lost, and the realization numbed him. Eyes empty, Jason looked to the venti.

"We're not retreating," Jason told him, his features hardening, for they both knew full well the implications of what they had seen. The venti simply inclined his head, eyes grave and cold, and turned, moving off toward the battle.

Alone, Jason watched the dragon's approach, steeling his expression. He had feared this; when their defenses had failed a few days ago, and their communications cut off, he'd worried, though it verged more on a dreaded expectation, that his fellows on Earth would assume the worst, for they had no other choice but to do so. Yet he had never expected the simple calm inside of him. He could not react in panic; he could only accept the fate that now lay before him, and with that revelation, he turned back to the battle, urging Stormfly into the fray, readying his sword.

He moved quickly, intentionally, for a group of venti on the outskirts of the battle, preying upon a few of his men, hemmed in on all sides, and raised his blade as his vision tunneled and he neared them. In a breath, he broke through their lines, scattering them, sending them rolling back in reaction, before they discovered their assailant to be one in number, and promptly flowed back, eyes burning. Jason steeled himself, felt a snarl form on his lips, and threw himself into battle, hacking and spearing as he maneuvered Stormfly through the horde.

His venti followed his lead, their strength and courage renewed, forming a spearhead behind him, moving through their opponents now with vigor and speed till they broke loose, looking out upon the battlefield before them, heaving with the effort of their fight, till all their movements stopped, and they froze in disbelief and terror.

Before them, descending from on high with fury, was Krios himself. He'd broken through Boreus' lines, a massive titan with icy skin storming through the troops of both sides, eyes blue, cold, and dead, fixed with a maddened rage upon Jason, his steps carrying him easily toward the demigod through the raging tides of battle, his sword, tremendously large and deadly, raised on high for a killing blow. Jason met his gaze, his own steeling, hardening, burning with an intense, reckless determination as he readied his own blade, daring the titan forward, knowing they were lost either way. It was either the frigid steel of Krios' blade or the inferno of the Greek Fire borne aloft, directly for them, by Festus, and with that revelation, Jason urged Stormfly into a fey charge across the battlefield, closing the distance between himself and the titan.

Suddenly, Stormfly veered violently to the right, throwing Jason off balance in the saddle, forcing him to grip hold of the electric mane, hanging off the venti and scrambling for a foothold. A bang like a gunshot cracked through the air, and Jason's eyes shot to where the titan charged, undaunted, only to watch with a strange horror its head broken by the sudden appearance of a massive object that fell through the air, a fiery, burning deadweight. As it collided with Krios, the fire dissipated, extinguished with a hiss and a profusion of steam, and revealed itself to be something like a spaceship, battered and worn, and wildly unfamiliar to Jason.

He paused in his attempts to regain control of Stormfly, still running madly about the battlefield, his brow furrowed in confusion, his heart pounding till he regained awareness, and pulled himself upon the back of the venti with a great heave, directing the spirit toward the spaceship, now hovering in the open air. A door on its side was suddenly flung open, and there appeared a face Jason had, of all the faces he'd ever known, least expected to see. It was Luke Castellan.

The man scanned the battlefield, hair whipped about his face by the strength of the engines and the free air of the high atmosphere till he met Jason's eyes from across the battlefield, and then began to gesture him madly toward the ship, eyes wildly alight with both hope and anxiety.

"Bring ambrosia!" Jason caught roared over the wind as he approached at a gallop. "Rowan's dying!"