PERCY'S POV
Battle had always been something else for him. Maybe it was just in his blood, born a demigod, a hero of Olympus. One to serve, one to slay. He had seen the bloody battlefields where thousands fell- and then the streets of Olympus when his comrades had been struck down by the mighty hands of Kronos's army.
Yet it was strange he found his purpose in the art of the blade. It could of just been residual from the Styx curse- but he suspected it went beyond that. It was in his blood. He was a son of Olympus, one who was born to fight. The way of heroes had been that of the sword, the way of the warrior.
He enjoyed it to a extent- atleast as much as he allowed himself to. It allowed him to be desensitizing to the other emotions that flowed through him- none of them had been good. It seems like the fates had struck down his hopes of a good life just like he had struck down many monsters before- quickly without any remorse. Couldn't they throw him a bone for once? All he had was suffering, all he had to show for, after shedding so much blood, his sweat, his tears, all his bodily strength, was an another quarrel between the two Olympian gods.
His sanity had slowly detiorated ever since Olympus. He could not get a single good night sleep- his memories latched onto him, dragging him down. It was ironic he found such a purpose in combat, while it was likely the thing that was driving him insane.
He had served without question though, and what god had rewarded him? He was pawned of as another part of the Olympian Arsenal- only one of many blades. But he did not blame them. He was not stupid, and he recognized that the best way to use him was at one. He was not in much position to complain anyway. But he wondered, what if he had not found such a purpose. What if he wasn't so unlucky? He had always fought for others, taken the blow, and the bullet, as any warrior would.
Just like the knights of medieval old, he had no sense of any desire to put others in the line of danger. Such was the way of the blade anyway, himself and his sword first against the danger, others second. It was a part of his fatal flaw he could not get rid of- but seemed to be his most persevering trait.
Yet the light that had shone in his eyes, that twinkle was gone. Instead it had blown, like the quiet last days of a star, not bursting into a Super Nova, but slowly being extinguished into a white dwarf. It remained, but a shell of what its grandeur once was. His friends, most of them dead. He knew pondering on these everlasting questions of life would do him no good, but sometimes his optimistic side- and sometimes the calm shores would come back- even if it was very briefly. Such was the nature of the sea- even the most violent oceans had some days of quiet.
On those days, he was more of his former self. It seemed to come and go, his mood swings. He had not seen anyone about his condition, and planned to not make it public. A warrior did not show his weakness. He only appeared strong, as dictated. His mission was forefront, his goals later.
He did not know how he had come to be, just molded to be one of combat, and combat alone, with a few bright spots in a bloody and brutal life- but it seemed like it was just his blasted trait- inherited, and one of the hero.
Now he was sent back to reality.
The long march had muddled his thoughts, but now they had reached the camp. He nodded in acknowledgement towards one of his lieutenants- as his officers filed into the room. He cleared his throat and began to speak
"Now, you may understand what you are marching into. Heavily entrenched forces, with archers at the rear. It will be hell. But you must close the distance." He pondered for a moment. "I shall led the right Echelon, and we will crash into Zeus's forces from the centre. He will have fortified it, but he will not expect such a direct attack." He was glad that Athena was on another front, as he did not wish to face the goddess.
He now continued. "You all will have to launch a diversionary attack at the flank- and you all know how bloody it will be. Its critical you close distance and divert there reserves towards the rear- so we can spearhead through the centre. It is a simple plan to be sure, and I expect you to execute it well."
His officers cried a chant of Atlantis now, before filing out. On his signal with the Conch horn, his forces would begin moving forward, to engage Zeus head on. His allies would strike from the Left flank.
And he blew the conch, and his men quickly filed into a double Coloum, shields at the ready, with spears locked. They marched to close distance- to bridge the gap between the archers and them. He led them at the front, shouting orders, and moving forward.
The battle was brutal, and he would not remember much after it. But he had that familiar feeling- the one he had always known. The rush of adrenaline, as his sword cut down any foe that came in its reach. The thrill- the enjoyment- and the fulfillment of battle. The way of the sword was ingrained with him- the mind of the warrior- the only place where he felt alive- the battlefield.
He had performed a intricate dance around it, Riptide in hand. No one in his sight saved from his blade. His life purpose, what he had trained for. To serve, and to battle. He would have a horrible PTSD attack afterwards, he knew, but right now he was engrossed in the thrill of the fight- and the motivation to destroy those in his way. It was not a anger against his foes- not any feelings of Maliciousness- but the feeling of adrenaline goading him on, and his ideals. He did not kill unless necessary, sure, but this was the battlefield. Every single kill was necessary. The field of engagement for him, was separated from the rest of life. He lived by the way of the blade, and that was one of honor. He would not spare his enemy for the sake of his morals. Combat was something that he held in a different light entirely.
His forces had been exhausted, but they had broken though the defenses of Zeus. And now he led his remaining men into the breach, crying guttural warcries of Atlantis. He blew the conch every once in a while, sending the forces of Zeus back at the sound of his men thundering towards there line. Here he had made his mark- Hacking, slashing ,jabbing, cutting, slaying twenty foes in the span of 5 minutes. He alone was sending the forces of Zeus back in his rage. And then he heard the sound of a route- the screaming and shouting combined with the forces of Zeus pulling back- and now he had a decision to make- pull back now or counting on the offensive.
He may of been one with enjoyment to combat, but it was not a lust. He was not a fool. He knew nothing good would come from perusing there forces. Instead he ordered a halt and reorganization. But the day was done, and he had won for now. The first stage of the battle. There reinforcement would come in the night.
But for now, riptide, bloodstained, would be put away for now. He had to rest for tomorrow. He felt the thrill of victory upon him- the feeling of ecstasy he was not granted anywhere else- the joy of the win of the day. Something he had not felt since that dreaded day when Gaea had risen.