He knew. All along.
Thalia's hands clenched and unclenched. She couldn't think of his name… for now. The wound was too fresh, too gripping, too devastating.
Thalia remembered the last time they were alone after she'd became a huntress; the only time they were alone after he'd turned evil. His eyes – the last thing she thought about before she went to sleep – dark and agonized underneath that malicious mask of sarcasm and self-destruction – they reminded Thalia of her own in the mirror rather than the horrifying golden eyes when Kronos possessed him. And so the ascent was dark, she thought painfully, and the descent is bright, blinding bright. But never repelling, though; it pulls you closer, spiraling, every day. Then you just fall, into the fields or the pits or the islands. Or maybe you just land in the sea, and swim, swim further and further into the deep, merciless ocean. And maybe after a thousand years, you forget. You always forget. That's one of the many flaws of human nature. It's soothing. It's regrettable, yes, but soothing as you drown in your own pain, lost in the darkness of black and red, screaming, maybe high-pitched screams of utter terror, or maybe a long, soundless scream, with your pupils dilated as you are blinded into bliss about the unending cruelty of our human world.
Pure temptation doesn't get more tormenting that that.
Thalia wanted to forget, but desire balanced it out. Well, he will forget, the girl thought tiredly. Rebirth is ugliness disguised as beautiful gifts of cleansing. Harm disguised as help. No lessons learned.
The Fates weren't cruel; Thalia realized this the first second she was resurrected from the pine tree. They were morbid and sadistic… no true words could describe the horrifying dilemma she was in.
I don't want to forget, Thalia decided. But I want to be painless. I wish I could turn time backwards and change everything. If I was never turned into a tree, then this would never have happened.
Now the girl realized; she was probably the rebirth of the Helen of Troy. She created a war with her looks, and Thalia created a war with her death and resurrection. Both daughters of Zeus seemed like they had no do in it, but truly they were the spark of the destroying fire. In the end, Helen and Thalia had to live with the pain that thousands had died in the war they started. Both had men in their lives – Helen had Paris, Castor and Pollux – Thalia had Luke, Percy and Nico. Paris and Luke had died, so none of the girls had a happy ending.
They were the fodder of the Fates. Fodder never had happy endings.
Why couldn't she have been the rebirth of some human mortal? Thalia leaned against the wall, dropping her crutches with a heavy, defeated sigh.
"Thalia? We have to go," Phoebe called from outside.
"I'm coming," Thalia answered back, closing her eyes so as not to see Luke's burning pyre as she scooted towards the exit. "Just give me a moment."
She paused, her irises only opening as she walked to the pyre and kicked the ashes.