I DO NOT OWN PJO/HOO. ALL RIGHTS GO TO RICK RIORDAN. I ONLY OWN THE PLOT.

I ran. There wasn't much else I could do, ashes of my prematurely discovered hiding spot floating up to the solemn yet furious red-grey overcast sunrise as the aura of the gods thundered behind me. And yet I knew, in whatever direction I was heading, I'd be running back to the battlefield. The gods had me surrounded.

And so I stopped in front of a birch tree in a clearing of the forest, surrounded by small thorn bushes, and I hid. Death was certain - no outrunning prophecies, if the legend of my namesake ever meant anything. I had given up everything I ever had - friends, family, dreams and futures - all I ever wanted to keep, was gone.

Controlling the water particles in the air around me, I masked my location from the gods. It wouldn't do much, Poseidon would find it and tear through it within an instant - but it wasn't meant to last. It was meant for me to have some time to heal.

The hope I had, just over half a century ago - it seems such a small number, just two characters - when I staged a betrayal, when I acted like I hated all my friends - I knew it was foolish. But I had a dream, a vision. Terrible things. Me, a helpless bystander. And I knew I could not let it pass. Or at least, not try to prevent it.

Athena once told me, "to save a friend, you would sacrifice the world." I don't think she meant it as metaphorically, but it works.

So I tried to change the course of history. And somehow, at least, I think I succeeded.

The some time I had now, I used to write my real story in the little tree that I once planted in the name of Hestia. And maybe, one day, these words will be decoded by a similar child, like me. A overpowered son of the sea, lonely, and needing a little place to remember that Elpis stays while all other spirits leave. The birch tree that my powers had allowed me to carve hollow on the insides and write upon, keeping me sane as I hid unbeknownst to the gods that, once upon a time, praised me as a champion I never wished to be, who now swore never to speak of my name, of the traitorous misdeeds that I had done, to save their reputation upon the world. And in some sense I didn't hate them - the world needed hope, to believe in something permanent, and I was not as truly permanent as they were, in that regard. Perhaps the best story would be for them to tell the world that everything would be fine in the end because they would be there - all demigods would be safe. Maybe all I fought for - the rights of the demigods, who had been force fed an alternative story, no doubt - maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe without their freedom, hope would thrive better at the hearth? It was all I could hope - I didn't want to believe the world would be worse off without me as I gave a final stand as the last demigod of the Seven - I lived too long either way, and I grew weary, even with the unnatural partial immortality I had accidentally bound myself to, that I never wanted.

I counted to ten. There was no way out, as I sensed Poseidon's presence right outside the little bubble shield of water particles masking the scent that had monsters hunting after me since I was twelve, and would now lead the beings I had once fought the monsters for to kill me. And yet I heard them turn away, seemingly fooled by the shield I had surrounding me and the tree.

A soft crackle behind me, and I pieced together the clues. The one goddess I had never bothered to learn the scent of, who I had no fear of finding me. Whose birch oak tree, I had planted so long ago at the start of my half-century of exile in the middle of a clearing in the forest, whose birch tree, grew from parent trees I had once cut down so long ago for firewood for fleeting periods of warmth in the cold winters of northern Alaska, whose birch tree, I now stood in the shade of, whose birch tree, had shielded my scent from the gods.

I knelt, too weary to keep standing and bow, respectful of the goddess, who had followed her brethren to the land they had no power within, to whom I owed my life to. "Lady Hestia," I spoke in a dull, cracked voice, that hadn't had anything to say since I had been marked for execution, a long, long fifty-four years ago.

"Perseus Jackson," the warm comforting crackly aura of the familial hearth, that I had tried as best I could to remember to keep within me, spoke softly. "Come. Eat."

LOOK, I know this mightn't be my best piece of writing.
I haven't written in a while, and also my writing ability has sort of dipped because of the lack of practice - sort of, being an understatement. But I needed to write something to sort of remember who I am, or even just who I was. Whether there'll be a follow up to this, I don't really know. I might make this sort of a fic that I use when I feel like my writing ability is going to short, although I might end up doing some editing here and there to let it sound more legit. Either way, if you're reading this... thank you. Feedback is appreciated as always, and I know the description might not be exactly all mentioned in the story as of yet, but they will be coming soon! (i.e. nothing is clickbait here. we don't do that here.) I hope you enjoy even if the quality is subpar at best, and no matter what, keep hope alive. There is a fire within us all, that crackles as our little piece of home. Keep hope there, in our little safe space, and it'll thrive.

Peace out.