An Elegy Sung in Cricket Chirps
A part of her died today.
It's bittersweet.
They both had known this time was coming, but she wanted him to be able to spend one last summer with her. One last stolen moment of normalcy before the inevitable tide claimed him.
It's hot outside. In the beautiful, sticky, golden, laughing way. So to the lake she went. Seaweed in mind.
Camp Half-Blood flitted around her. Voices echoed from the cabins, the rhythmic clang of sword practice a familiar symphony. She helped a couple of campers wrestle a monstrous mattress across the dusty road, the shared struggle offering a fleeting distraction from the storm brewing inside.
At the lake's edge, a young camper, a son of Hephaestus, if the grease smudges on his cheeks were any indication, tinkered with a strange contraption. It looked like a modified sundial, an array of bronze gears and wires jutting out at odd angles. He muttered under his breath, fiddling with a glowing blue crystal nestled in the center.
She paused. She beckoned him over and he told her all about the thing. He called it a sphere of some sorts. She couldn't make sense of it. The camper left.
Lots of sounds were in the air. The Sun too. But she longed for the night, the quiet symphony of crickets chirping under a blanket of stars. She missed the darkness. There was none of that right now.
Taking a deep breath, Annabeth dipped her toes into the cool water. The sting chased away some of the numbness. As she gazed out, happy memories rippled in her mind. The curve of his smile. The saltiness of his scent.
The reflections of the lake turned blurry. Rubbing her eyes, she made a promise. Got up. And left.