Anna's POV

There is darkness all around me. Not a sliver of light. I am surrounded. Surrounded by darkness thick as butter, robbing me of all my senses. I cannot smell, see, touch, hear, but only taste the bitter flavor of hatred and contempt that radiates off of the cold stone walls. I am numb from the frigid temperature of my prison that constantly seeps into my fragile, nude body. My only emotion left, the only one I have ever felt, is fear.

This is why I hate the night

I hear rustling. I can only expect what will happen next. I will be taken out again into the next room by the cruel monster who keeps me here, abused and abandoned as punishment for being born. It was she who brought me into this world, and she who should be punished, not I. I cannot help my accursed raven curls and pointed nose. It is she who gave them to me.

As I shiver, to my surprise, I am met with something I have not before ever seen. It is something my mother once taunted me with. She called it "light." Something she made sure I knew I would never see. I scream. I cry. But I do not call out for my mother.

It is the shape of a sphere, glittering and violent, giving startling heat to the room and burning my eyes which have been in the dark so long. I curl away from the surprising warmth, rejecting it. At least the cold is familiar.

The sphere soon takes a different shape, a shape similar to my mother's. I flinch at her supposed presence. I pray she will have mercy on my poor, dilapidated figure, for it is winter, and I am most cold and hungry. My tiny, young body cannot take much more.

But instead of my mother, I am met with a man.

He has hair of a color foreign to me, golden, like the light he seemed to have been born from before my eyes. He has a shirt of grey material, and blue, frayed jeans. His eyes shine like the light he makes, and he has slight freckles peppered lightly across his small nose. he frowns at the sight of me.

"What are you doing here, kid?" He speaks, it seems, like my mother. Does he know her? I hope to the heavens he does not.

"I live here, sir. Please have mercy on me. It is winter. I am so cold. I don't know if I can take much more." He looks confused for a moment, then narrows his eyes.

"Who takes care of you?" I don't want to answer, but for some reason, I do.

"My mother, Sir." I am naïve. I answer innocently, as that is all I am able to do.

"Who is your mother?"

I tell him reluctantly, and his eyes widen in shock, then fear. "I think I'll take over her job. Seems like she's getting sick of it already." He pauses. "How old are you, Honey?"

"I'm not sure, Sir, but I think I might be seven or eight. It's hard to keep track." My speech is halted and choppy. I am...nervous? What is this feeling? It is strange, and I am not sure I enjoy it. But the strange man seems to understand. The odd emotions flowing from me seem to almost be...triggered by his presence.

"You can just call me Apollo, sweetheart. None of that formal stuff. We are family, after all." He smiles, and reaches his hand through the bars to warm mine, and for the first time, I feel something other than fear. An emotion I am, miraculously, now able to name.

Happiness.

I woke up.

I often dream of my past, as many resurrected soldiers do. My dreams were especially haunting, though. The only time I was ever happy was with Apollo, but he could never stay very long. If he did, my mother would surely notice. The moments we spent together were precious to the both of us. He was the brother I never had; I was the sister he wished Artemis would be.

I dream of seeing him again, just as any little sister would. Even though I haven't seen him in 200 years, he still is, to this day, my very best friend.

I got up and rinsed my face off, as I usually wake up either crying or dragging my fingernails down my cheeks. The latter often drew blood, but people stopped asking about the scars long ago.

Today I just had a few tear tracks and some goose bumps from the setting of my nightmare. Goose bumps were easy to get rid of, just some hot water on my arms and a few deep breaths and I was set for the day. Tears, however, were the real chore. I had to rake the little crumbs from my unnecessarily long lashes, wash my face off, and wait for the red in my eyes to disappear. I had gotten used to it, though. Just the regular morning routine.

I dressed in my usual outfit, a long sleeved blue V-neck tee along with loose chocolate bermudas (I think that's how they're spelled) and canvas flip-flops, with a violet messenger bag slung over my shoulder. I'd have to start inspection...oh, right. Josh was doing inspection. I had to train the brat and show him around camp. Oh goody. I just hoped to Nyx he didn't smell like throw-up when I got there. That little incident of his cost me my favorite Converse, and the LEAST he can do is smell nice. I mean, honestly.

I actually found him rather...*cough*attractive*cough*...but GODS, was he ANNOYING. All gallant, swooping in and saving everybody all the time, always being so selfless, never once thinking about how he's going to come out in the end. I mean, seriously? Was this guy shooting for America's Next Top Jesus or something? He's so goddamn perfect, it makes me want to puke, but also makes me want to make out with him at the same time. Which is frustrating. Especially for a girl like me.

And now I get a whole afternoon with that arse of a new Supreme Commander, and, oh joy, I get to explain EVERYTHING. All of it. Every last detail. And then I had to follow under his command, which was going to be hell, since I'd be following someone with less brains, less experience, and less knowledge on the Chaos Army than I had. So it was pretty much going to be a weird version of singing in the rain, but you never find me behind the curtain, even though I'm not behind a curtain.

I couldn't help but feel rather mortally betrayed by Chaos. All my hard work, all the years I've spent, recruiting thousands of soldiers, going on millions of important battles, even sometimes singlehandedly leading our troops to victory, along with bullies and rogues knocking me down on my ass a million times a day for 6 years straight because of my sign of resurrection. All of that work my blood, sweat, tears, hell, my whole LIFE, and the Commander position is shipped out to some hunk of a Big Three kid who didn't even have to lift a finger. Go figure.

"My walk to the infirmary was basically a death march. All that work gone to waste." I narrated my emotions out loud pointlessly, a habit of mine, on my way to the bathroom.

It didn't help me deal with my crap at all, but I had my daily staredown with my reflection anyways, good practice for battle, I guess. My glare could've knocked down Zeus himself, but the mirror didn't falter.