A/N: As a bonus for waiting so long for me to find a computer that works with this website, I have uploaded two chapters in one day!

Gah, writing in first person is so frustrating sometimes! I'm sorry if my writing in this story isn't exactly brilliant; I am so much better at third-person. Nonetheless, this is a good writing exercise for me, and I figure it's better to honor the original writing style of the author.

Chapter 3:

-Geoffrey

Just ahead of me, my father's mount wove through the trees, its hooves obnoxiously loud against the twigs and dead leaves on the forest floor. My own horse – it was a pony, really, as my father had yet to let me on one of his warhorses, though I was nearing my thirteenth year – was much quieter, picking its way through the debris. The hounds were eager, tearing back and forth through the undergrowth, but they hadn't caught a scent yet. Through the leaves, I could see that the sky was streaked with gray clouds – it would rain soon, tonight at the latest. I had been hunting before, but never in this particular forest. My father said it was his favorite place to hunt, though it was a full day's ride from our home in Castle Delbray, because not only was it full of excellent game, but one could also find the occasional group of bandits roaming the trees. Father had once served as a Royal Knight of Crimea, before he had been awarded the care of the secret princess, Elincia, and returned home to raise her, and he still delighted in the chance to help protect his country.

For that reason, I held a stash of fighting lances on my saddle beside my quiver of arrows, and my heart was still pounding with excitement. I was paying close attention to everything so I could relay the story to my sister, Lucia, when we returned. For a moment, I felt a twinge of pity for her; she had begged Father to let her come, but Father has some very definite ideas on what a woman should and should not do. Deer hunting in bandit-infested woods was apparently not the kind of activity he imagined a properly raised fourteen-year-old noblewoman engaging in.

Suddenly, a hound started baying frantically, and I nearly leapt from my saddle. The rest of the pack soon caught the scent, and then we were off. We were accompanied by only a few other hunters, some friends of Father's from his time as a Knight, but it sounded as if a whole battalion was crashing through the trees.

I noticed that the hounds were behaving differently than normal; instead of the deep, excited howl they typically used while tracking game, they were yipping frantically, as if they had scented blood. Also, I could tell it was a scent in the air instead of a trail on the ground, because the hounds never once paused to press their noses in the dirt and reaffirm the trail.

After what seemed hardly a single minute but must have been at least fifteen or twenty, we reached a river bank, where the hounds were crowding around something caught in the shallows. Father gave a sharp whistle, and they backed away from their find.

It was a human boy, perhaps two or three years older than Lucia. His sword was gripped tightly in his hand, but his face was deathly pale, and he had a jagged cut from his shoulder to his hip, bleeding profusely.

Father leapt from his horse energetically and I scrambled to follow his example, winding my pony's reins around a nearby tree branch. The other hunters dismounted as well and tried to keep the hounds in check. I ignored them and rushed to my father's side.

He was examining the cut grimly. "Bandits," he said darkly. "This is an axe-wound – a lucky shot for the bandit that made it, I would guess. He looks like a fighter to me."

"Is he alive, Father?" I asked eagerly. What an excellent story this would make!

Father shook his head. "Not possible. This wound is at least an hour old. He's lost far too much blood…"

But I was sure I saw the boy's chest move. I leaned forward and put my hand on the vein in his neck, as Mother had taught me. "But, Father, there's a pulse."

He seemed shocked as he too felt the faint pulse of blood in the boy's neck. "How in the name of the goddess did he last that long with a cut like that, and in a river, no less?"

Before I could say another word, Father had pulled the boy out of the river and lifted him, sopping wet, onto dry ground. Calling for some bandages, he and the others bound the boy's cut and put him on a horse in front of Bastian, the eighteen-year-old Count of Fayre who was always talking in riddles. Father sent me with Bastian to get the boy to the nearest town for a quick healing, then back to Delbray. Father was very generous to those less fortunate than himself; he would make sure the boy got the best of care. He and the others mounted up and readied their lances, charging upstream with the hounds in tow, to find and kill the bandits.

I wished fervently that Father had let me accompany him to battle; I didn't want to play nursemaid to a half-dead boy, much less with Bastian the poet. But a Knight always obeys, so I followed the blonde Count without a word of complaint. He slowed his horse until we walked side-by-side and looked at me from the corner of his eye. "Come now, young Geoffrey, why so long and tragic an expression on your fair, young face? Surely your heart is yet too young and tender to be beset with battle lust, a longing for rage and foul havoc."

I ignored his question – not that I really could have answered it anyway. Why did he have to talk like that? "We should go faster." I was worried about the boy; his face was pale and creepily bloodless, and I was also worried about those clouds. I was careful to keep my face neutral – or, at least, I tried to. I really can't say how successful I was, but at least Bastian decided to stay quiet for the rest of the trip. It took us about a half-hour to reach a village, and luckily they had a reasonably proficient priestess on hand. She bandaged the boy and held a staff over his wounds, muttering prayers to Ashera under her breath. I wanted to move on quickly, but Bastian insisted we let the boy recover overnight before tying him to a horse for the day-long ride back to Delbray. Also, it was pouring rain.

I wanted to say, "A Knight never delays" but I figured Bastian would just laugh. Or, worse, he would lecture me (for hours) on the joys of youth versus the virtues of knighthood or something like that. His lectures were even worse than Father's, and Father always gave the exact same "Your honor is your life" lecture, which I could practically quote back to him by now (not that I ever would). At least Father made sense.

-Nico

Thalia was pacing back and forth across the clearing, bow in hand. Two dead rabbits were roasting in the fire pit, but she didn't seem to care. "Calm down," I snapped at her. "Annabeth said they'd be back by sunset. They still have half a day." I knew I was overreacting, but I was worried too, and that made me irritable.

She sat down for a moment, but soon she was up and pacing again. "We should go after them."

"No, we shouldn't," I corrected her. "We should wait. If they're not back by tomorrow morning, we follow them." I understood her frustration though. If there's one thing demigods are not good at, it's sitting still when your friends could be in trouble.

The minutes crept by. Thirty minutes later, Thalia snapped. "Okay, that's it," Thalia said. "I can't stand this. We are going after them now." I should have told her to wait. If I had known… but I didn't, and the waiting was becoming painful. So I just stood and brushed the dirt off my robes and followed her into the forest.

The portal hadn't taken away Thalia's tracking skills; she was easily able to follow Percy and Annabeth's trail. I looked up nervously; very little light was filtering through the canopy of leaves. For a moment, I couldn't even see the sun, and then I realized it was hidden by ominous storm clouds. Oh, well, that couldn't be good.

"Thalia. We should go back."

She glared at me. "Why would we do that?"

I pointed up at the approaching storm. "Can you track in the rain?"

She scowled at me and didn't answer. After a moment, she turned and started back towards our little shelter. But it was too late. The water came down in freezing cold buckets, and within minutes both of us were completely soaked. Then, the lightning started.

-Annabeth

I woke with a pounding headache. That idiot bandit had given me a nasty blow (my hair was crusted with dried blood) but I'd definitely had worse. I was tightly bound and slung over the back of a poor, dirty horse. Immediately, I realized why I had woken; it was pouring rain. I thanked Athena silently for this blessing; the sooner I woke up, the more I could plan. After about ten minutes, I changed my mind. The rain was freezing cold, and there was really nothing to plan. I couldn't cut my bonds, I couldn't see anything besides the wet debris covering the forest floor and the ragged brown coat of the horse, I couldn't smell anything except muddy, wet fur, and the only sounds I could hear were the muffled footsteps of my captors. All I could do was think. And, inevitably, my thoughts turned to Percy.

That gods-curst idiot! Why did he have to charge ahead? Why hadn't I thought of his Curse? I kept seeing that moment in my mind, playing over and over and over, like a broken record I couldn't stop. The axe plunging into his flesh, the red of his blood, that painful, agonizing look of shock on his face as he fell slowly, slowly, so slow I could see his eyes close and his skin pale and his blood flow –

I was crying, my tears joining the rain flowing down my cheeks.

I remembered the time when he had charged into Mount Saint Helen and I had thought he was dead. I remembered how, as the weeks passed with no sign, no one believed me when I said I knew he was still alive, until at last, even I was convinced. I remembered the shock, the joy and the fury I felt when he stumbled back into camp, stopped us from burning his shroud. This time I had seen his blood. But I still had never seen his dead body. The agony of ignorance gnawed at my heart. He wouldn't have died in a river. It wasn't possible. But I had seen…

This went on for a little while, or maybe a long time. All I know is that, eventually, my eyes started to slip shut and I came to a final conclusion.

He was probably dead. I accepted that. But I would never forget, no matter how many years passed, the possibility that he was not.

-Thalia

The rain lightened up after a few minutes and we were making decent progress through the woods when there was a blinding flash and a wave of heat. I knew the feeling quite well, actually, thanks to my dad. It was lightning.

When my vision cleared, I saw that lightning had struck a tree not ten feet from us, and despite the rain, a fire was coming to life. I grabbed Nico's hand (believe me, not something I would normally do) and ran for my life. I knew forest fires quite well – Artemis had brought us to California once to see the idiocy of men in the woodlands. They could travel almost as fast as a Hunter jogging– around 15 miles per hour. At full sprint, I could go 35 mph, but I was still weak and I was dragging a much slower son of Hades. The rain would help, but not much.

In other words, we were in trouble.

A/N: Okay, I feel like I should explain Percy's miraculous survival. Yes, he has lost the Curse of Achilles, just like Nico and Thalia have also lost their powers, and he can no longer breathe underwater. Here's the thing; he still has an affinity for water. It won't heal him completely, but it stopped him from dying, and he is still an excellent swimmer, even when half-dead from blood loss. He is, after all, a Branded, and they can have all sorts of interesting powers. As for Thalia and Nico… You'll just have to wait and see. Please review!