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It is after the war.
Life is less desperate, now. Life is steadier, now.
Will has time to think and to feel.
He doesn’t.
. . .
The infirmary is mostly empty, now.
There are a few patients, from the everyday activities of Camp Half-Blood.
An Ares kid got to rough in a spar, one of the Athena kids tried to climb the lava wall on a higher difficulty than the should have, et cetera, et cetera.
Will doesn’t know the new kids’ names.
He doesn’t bother remembering.
The gods use them as cannon fodder. Always have, always will.
They’re going to die anyways and it will be his fault, his fault, he wasn’t good enough he didn’t get there fast enough it was a tragic accident I’m so sorry Will--
He breathes.
. . .
Will wants to learn to fight.
He wants to know how to protect himself, wants to know how to protect others.
Wants to ease the responsibility of others protecting him.
He wants to be less useless.
. . .
“Will, I can teach you how to sword fight, but I don’t know why you want to,” Nico says.
It’s sunny today. No clouds. The last strawberry harvest was a few days ago.
The blood has faded from the plants’ leaves.
“Well, darlin’, simply put, I’d better know how to protect myself.”
There isn’t enough to do in the infirmary, anymore.
Will has too much time to think and too feel.
He doesn’t want to acknowledge it.
. . .
A new camper brought in, today.
Daughter of Apollo.
Ten years old.
She’s so young, what did she ever do to deserve this.
“Hey, I’m Will, your camp counselor. I know things must be pretty overwhelming right now, but I’ll show you around if you want.”
She nods, glancing around. “I’m Mila.” Scared. Small. Desperate.
Will doesn’t want to have to love another sibling.
He doesn’t want to have to parent them, be the big older brother, to protect them.
He doesn’t want to lose another.
. . .
Will isn’t good at sword-fighting. No matter Nico’s protests of it just takes practice, he is once again useless at practically everything.
It is cathartic to swing a sword, though. It lets him shut off his brain, if even for a second.
There is rage under his skin.
Against his skull. His heart.
Rage at the gods, for killing them over and over and over again.
He is scared and he is angry and he doesn’t want to feel.
. . .
So he doesn’t.
. . .
There is rage and anger and fire in his bones and he ignores it.
He treats the wounded and the sick and he buries his thoughts under it.
He rolls bandages and refuses to think.
. . .
It is night and it is raining. The sound against the rooftop is grating, but all of the others are asleep, Mila included.
She’s so young, and so small, and refuses to talk with anyone unless she has to. Will’s heart aches for what she must have gone through, but he ignores it.
Buries it with the anger under his skin.
It is raining.
Will breathes. Tries to settle the boiling in his mind.
It is raining, and tomorrow it is Wednesday. In the morning, he will go canoeing with Nico and his siblings, and run Arts and Crafts during the afternoon. In the evening, he will work on his online courses.
He has no reason to be angry, right now.
He doesn’t need to be scared, right now.
Will breathes.
His bones hurt.
. . .
He wants to scream, to shout, to rip and tear until he is empty.
. . .
Will wants to be happy.
He ignores it.
. . .