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War crept upon them like a blanket in the night, tucked gently over their shoulders by a mother who loved them dearly but only in pursuit of the child they were no longer; though their days were filled with silent tension simmering into explosive arguments, the nights were filled with a quiet melancholic nostalgia of met expectations and childhood peace.
Neither Silena nor Clarisse were children anymore. The war was here, and its brutality dribbled in with spurts and splatters — some days, it was all too easy to forget anyone had seen the line of fire at all.
Then Percy — always Percy, the doomed hero — would stumble home with grief and horror in his sea-green eyes, and Silena would be struck with remembrance so sharp it ached just the same as love did.
For love, she would sell her soul on a receipt made of secrets, and keep her friends safe until she killed them with her weakness.
For love, she would carry her best friend's armor into battle and die at the hand of a drakon to keep her friends alive.
Clarisse swore and slashed her way through camp, stood proud — spine stiff and straight — when she protected her cabin. No war was worth fighting if it meant losing this battle of wills, but Clarisse was familiar with violence and not war, and had forgotten (or had she ever known at all?) that war came with nesting dolls of death — she won this battle but lost Silena, and was left with nothing but blood on her hands.
For love, she would kill the last drakon, tears blurring her vision as she fought for the ideals she had long scorned: kindness, justice, friendship.
For love, she would set aside her pride so no one else had to die.