Chapter Text
One day has passed since the Battle of Manhattan.
Camp Half-Blood was the equivalent of a bustling street—campers celebrating in the dining pavilion, the remaining Apollo kids rushing in and out of the infirmary. And beneath it all, heck, the most important thing of all: the booming silence of grief.
It was no secret that the Apollo cabin had suffered the greatest loss, their numbers reduced to three. No secret that the eldest of them, Will Solace, wasn’t even fourteen yet. No secret that Silena Beauregard had been the traitor within camp, the impostor among them all. The Aphrodite cabin was quiet now—solemn, except for Drew Tanaka, whose anger was anything but subtle. It was loud and suffocating, like Jake’s was when he…
It was no secret that the Hermes cabin was working harder than ever. Connor had told him that he and Travis were helping the children of the other gods relocate. Of course they were. His cabin had been tasked with building the new cabins in the first place.
It was no secret that Malcolm Pace had lost one of his best friends the day before.
Michael’s absence was the biggest presence of them all.
Malcolm had been awake long enough that he hadn’t noticed the sky changing color, Apollo’s sun chariot soaring in the horizon. He held a clipboard smudged with sweat and dirt—names, numbers, injuries, damage, deaths. Things that could be measured. Things that were supposed to make sense.
He wrote quickly, efficiently, and stopped when his pen hovered over a familiar space.
Michael Yew.
Malcolm skipped the line and kept writing.
The pen scratched onward, filling the page with other names, other losses, other facts. He knew to himself that if he stopped, really stopped, he wouldn’t be able to start again. He… he just wouldn’t be able to.
Too many names, he thought. If Camp Half-Blood was cramped and overcrowded before, it surely isn’t anymore.
“Malcolm.”
He looked up automatically. Annabeth stood a few feet away, helmet tucked under her arm, hair pulled back in a way that meant she’d been awake just as long as he had. Her box braids weren’t tangled and knotted like it had been the past week, and she was wearing a new Camp Half-Blood shirt that finally wasn’t stained with her own or anyone else’s blood.
“We’re short on hands near the armory and infirmary,” she said. A report, not a question.
“I’ll send some people over,” Malcolm replied, already flipping to a different page on his clipboard. His voice sounded steady enough… hopefully.
Annabeth hesitated. Just barely. Malcolm noticed; he always noticed, but neither of them commented on it.
“Okay,” she replied. “Thank you.” and then left.
He exhaled slowly, then scanned the camp again. Apollo campers hovering near the infirmary, quieter than he’d ever seen them. Hermes kids darting back and forth with boxes and bedrolls, working with an efficiency that felt almost grim. He spotted Connor briefly, recognizable even from a distance, sleeves rolled up, mouth moving as he talked to another camper. Connor laughed at something, quick and sharp, and then stopped just as fast, like he’d surprised even himself.
Malcolm looked back down at his clipboard and sighed.
The list was already too long.
He told himself he would fix it later. Once things settled, once cabins were rebuilt and schedules rewritten and camp stopped feeling like it was held together by sheer willpower alone, he’d go back and fill in the gaps.
For now, there were too many things that needed doing.
Michael could wait.
Malcolm pushed himself off the porch rail of the Athena cabin, letting his clipboard hang loosely in one hand. His legs felt stiff from staying in one position too long, a pins and needles like sensation spreading throughout, but he couldn’t let himself linger. There was work to do. Always work to do.
He started down the path toward the center of camp. First stop: the armory. Several younger campers were carrying broken shields and splintered swords, trying to make sense of what had survived the battle. Malcolm called out instructions, precise and calm, his voice carrying over the hum of the camp: “Billie, take those shields to the armory and sort them by size. Valentina, for the swords and spears, sort them by the damage done to them. We’ll see which ones are still usable.”
Heads nodded and affirmations were shouted back at him; hands moved quickly and efficiently. Well, perhaps except for Valentina, who grumbled something about making an Aphrodite girl deal with weapons, but Malcolm’s glare shut her up quickly. He almost retorted that Aphrodite used to be worshipped—and still is, in certain places—as a war goddess, but he held his tongue.
Orders worked, hell, logic worked, just as his mother Athena preaches. And yet, the ache in his chest didn’t go away. He isn’t sure if it ever will.
As he made his rounds, he noticed Connor again moving along the perimeter of the Hermes cabin, directing campers carrying supplies from the ruined barracks. Connor’s movements were light on their feet, aware of every child’s step. It was so out of character for him that he almost assumed that perhaps he was actually looking at Travis. Malcolm’s stomach sank tightened at the sight; he wanted… he didn’t even know what he wanted. A word of thanks? A smile? Something small, maybe. They had just gotten out of a war and lost so much. So many siblings and a best friend gone.
He shook his head slightly, dismissing the thought as he turned toward the infirmary. He saw Austin and Kayla carrying bundles of bandages and clean sheets. There were a group of Demeter kids hanging around near them, looking unsure of what to do. Malcolm sent them over to the infirmary with a quick instruction: “You three, get more supplies and take those to the infirmary. Make sure to wrap the supplies neatly. Make sure nothing gets lost.”
As they hurried off, Malcolm paused for a moment, catching Connor’s eyes again. Connor’s gaze flicked towards him, and then he turned his head away. Malcolm felt a tug in his chest. He briefly wondered where Jake was—holed away in his cabin or the forges, maybe. He had a major outburst earlier in the morning, yelling at everyone in the vicinity. It took both Malcolm, Connor, and Nyssa’s combined effort to calm him down. He hasn’t seen him since then.
It was weird. Wherever Connor was, Jake was usually there too, and vice versa. Or one or both of them would be with him. Now, he could feel their distance, and it hadn’t even been a week since the war ended.
Malcolm swallowed, straightened his shoulders, and kept moving. There were cabins to check, lists to update, damage to catalog. There was always something to do. Then maybe, when there’s finally some quiet, he would bring himself to check up on Jake or visit Connor.
For now, there was only work.
Jake Mason shoved the forge’s door open, letting the heat wash over him like a tidal wave. He decided to use the more private rooms today, instead of the forge outside. He ignored the creak of the hinges as he almost broke the door. Nothing mattered except for the fire and the tools in his hand.
He swung the hammer onto a half-molten piece of celestial bronze; sparks flew and the metal groaned under his force. The first strike bent the metal wrong. The second did so too. He didn’t care. The noise of the fire raging and metal clanking was enough. He’d do anything to keep thinking at bay.
He struck at it again, harder this time, as if force alone could make it cooperate—It didn’t. The bronze warped and twisted beneath his hammer, turning misshapen and useless. Jake swore under his breath. At this point, he should just stop and start over. I mean, what’s the point? He thought to himself. Despite that, he lifted the hammer again, jaw clenched, his arms burning and aching with the extreme effort.
If he ever slowed down, he’d feel it: the aching hole left in his heart and the piercing rage that would fill his body from head to toe. He could almost sense it waiting for him, patient, calculating and cruel, waiting for the perfect chance to strike and sink its sharp claws into his very being. It was nauseating, keeping it all inside. He felt like throwing up.
And so he kept going.
And yet… he’s hurt so many people, and it’s only been a day since the war ended. Part of him is guilty, and strangely enough, the other part of him couldn’t give a shit. He had lost everything, even before the battle had even started. A brother, a friend, a—
No, he cut off his own thoughts, slamming the hammer down too harshly. The anvil grew cracks and groaned under the weight and strength of the hammer. Now’s not the time.
“Jake.”
The voice cut through the forge like a blade.
He flinched and spun around too fast, his hammer still raised. Nyssa stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression sharp and stern. Beside her was Connor, looking at him like he was a ticking time bomb.
Perhaps he was.
“What?” Jake snapped.
Nyssa’s eyes flicked to the cracked anvil. “You’re going to break something important.”
“I already did,” Jake shot back. He turned and slammed the hammer down again. The metal shrieked in protest. “Congratulations. You can leave now.”
Connor shifted uncomfortably. “You’ve been here since dawn, y'know.”
“And?” Jake’s voice rose, finally looking over properly at Connor. Really looking at him. “Is there a rule against that now too?”
Connor’s mouth opened, then closed. “People are starting to worry.” And starting to fear you went unsaid.
That did it.
Jake laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “People?” he echoed. “Or you?”
Nyssa shot him a warning look. “Jake…”
“No,” he interrupted, stepping away from the anvil. “Let’s get this over with. What, are you here to tell me to take a break? To just breathe? To talk about my feelings? Or maybe I’m starting to scare you,” he narrowed his eyes, “Because I’ve been told that one too many fucking times!”
Connor flinched, taking a step back. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant,” Jake snapped. “You always do this—hover and make sure the group isn’t falling apart. Guess what? Some of us don’t need a damn babysitter.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t even trying to–”
“Then don’t,” Jake cut in. His hands were shaking now, and he hated that Connor and Nyssa could see it. “I’m doing my job. The camp still needs weapons. Or did you forget that part? Too busy goofing off?” he paused, “Because lately, all you’ve been doing is pretending that everything’s fine when it isn’t.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Connor exclaimed, bewildered. “I can’t go on starting arguments with every person in the vicinity like you!”
Nyssa stepped forward. “Jake, Connor, that’s enough.”
Jake barely registered her presence. His eyes were locked on Connor, on that timid expression, that quiet concern that made his skin crawl. This wasn’t like Connor at all. Connor was careless and loud and full of jokes, not… not this. “You want to help?” he said. “Go help someone who actually needs it.”
Silence rose between them.
Connor stared at him for a long second, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded once, his eyes turning stormy and expression angry. “Fine. You don’t want a best friend’s help? Don’t take it, then.”
Nyssa exhaled sharply. “We’re leaving,” she said, and turned on her heel. “Actually, no. Connor, you’re leaving. Tell Cecil I said hi. You, Jake, on the other hand… well, there’s still more work to do.”
There’s always more work to do.
“Fine,” Connor hesitated before storming out. The door shut behind him with a loud, hollow clang.
Jake stood there, chest heaving, staring at the doorway like he could burn it down with sheer willpower. The fire roared on, uncaring, while the anvil creaked beneath the ruined metal.
He turned back to his work, anger thrumming through his veins and ringing in his ears. He lifted the hammer again and brought it down hard.
Jake lifted the hammer another time, but Nyssa’s presence this time stopped him mid-swing. She hadn’t left. Didn’t look like she was going to.
“Stop,” she said, voice calm but firm and edged with fear. “Look at what you’re doing; hell, look at yourself while you’re at it.”
Jake glared at her, letting the hammer hang heavy in his hands. “It’s fine,” he insisted. “I’m working; making things, fixing things.”
Nyssa didn’t move nor did she back down. “Work doesn’t mean destroying everything in front of you.” Even Beckendorf wasn’t like that, Jake’s traitorous mind whispered to him.
Jake slammed the hammer down on the next ingot, sparks flying. “Then maybe I do like destroying things,” The words came out sharper than he had intended.
Nyssa raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed. “Yeah? And what’s that fixing, huh?”
He froze. It was fixing… well... because it wasn’t fixing anything at all.
Nyssa took a step closer. “You’re not hiding from me,” she said softly, almost like an accusation. “I can see it. Just ‘cause I’m your younger sis doesn’t mean I don’t see it.”
Jake laughed, short and humorless, and swung again, slower this time. “I don’t really care whether or not you do.”
“Then you’re a masochist,” she replied. “But I’m not leaving. Not until you put that hammer down and actually talk to me.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue. He wanted to snap. He wanted to tell her to leave and leave him alone. Instead, the fire crackled, and he found himself swallowing hard, gripping the hammer like it could keep him standing.
“I don’t need anyone babysitting me,” he muttered finally under his breath.
Nyssa stepped closer, tilting her head. “No one’s babysitting you. I’m just...” Worried? Scared of you? the words went unsaid.
Jake stared at her, breathing uneven and chest tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but… he didn’t. He swung the hammer down again.
“I’m fine. Just– get out, okay? Focus on helping people get settled and well adjusted. Call me when there’s head counselor duties to deal with,” He lifted his head, gesturing to a pile of broken weapons. “I’ve got an armory to restock.”
Nyssa sighed. There really wasn’t getting through to him. She figured she’ll give him more time. “Okay,” She said, turning around to leave. The door squeezed shut behind her.
Connor Stoll was always a happy person.
He was the one who cracked jokes when things got tense and light rain turned into a hurricane. He was the one who dragged Malcolm out to let him have fun for once, who stole parts for Jake when the forge ran out of supplies, who convinced Michael to take breaks he never actually wanted to take. On the other hand, when Jake turned to self-deprecation or Malcolm disappeared into his own head… It was Michael who always stepped in first. Michael, who argued and snapped and cared loudly enough to pull them back together.
Now, that space was empty. And somehow, he was the one left standing between all of them, trying to keep everything together.
Connor stood silently at the porch of the Hermes cabin, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he bit and chewed on his bottom lip. He and the rest of his siblings had succeeded in helping at least half of the minor god children pack up, now all they need to do is deliver supplies left and right for the Athena cabin to use in constructing the new cabins.
Camp was loud, really loud, as per usual. Kids shouting at each other and some banter here and there. It was nice, practically normal even.
What wasn’t normal was Jake’s anger. That had almost taken him by surprise.
He could still hear the the clang of the door slamming, its sharp echo becoming a constant ringing in his ears.
Connor had only gone in there to help, is all. That was what he always did, it was basically a routine; go inside, tell Jake he needs a break, have some chit-chat with Nyssa and all of Jake’s other siblings, then succeed in convincing Jake to go out and have some fun with him and the rest of their friends.
That was not how it went earlier.
Fine, Connor had said before he left. He had meant it at the time.
Now, standing there with the sun still high in the sky, nothing felt fine at all.
Even Malcolm wasn’t talking to him much. Malcolm, the so-called goody-two-shoes, who had always stuck by Connor’s side even though he was a magnet for trouble. Malcolm, who he could barely coax even just a few words from now.
He forced his feet to move. Travis was already inside, organizing supplies and preparing things for the– the funeral. His movements were efficient, and yet it lacked its mischievous flair for once. Connor grabbed a needle and knelt beside his brother without a word.
Laid before them was Luke Castellan’s burial shroud.
He stared at it longer than he had to. Luke, who had been the cabin’s everything and had become nothing in a blink of an eye. Son, brother, traitor, hero, titles that piled up until you can barely even see the person beneath anymore.
He wasn’t sure if he even knew Luke; he knew him as a brother, maybe—his father’s son who had played traitor to become a hero.
They’d all lost siblings in this war. Malcolm had, even if the Athena cabin had the least casualties out of all of them. Then Jake, whose brother had left the world with only Percy Jackson as his living witness. Drew’s sister charged into battle sooner or later, her face melted right into her own helmet. And then there was Will, who…
“Most of the kids have packed up now,” Travis said quietly after a few minutes of sitting like this, stabbing his needle into the wool.
Connor nodded, folding part of the fabric carefully, almost methodically even, inspecting it for any mistakes he had previously made. If he messed things up, if his hands shook too much, if he let it all spill out so early… Well, he couldn’t afford that.
For a moment, he almost felt like Malcolm.
“Yeah?” He replied.
“They’ll need help moving,” Travis continued.
“But–” Connor swallowed, looking down at the shroud. “The shroud, Travis.”
“I can handle it,” Travis waved him off, the most fakest smile ever plastered on his face. Connor almost gagged. “Go help them.”
But I’ve been doing that all day already. Do you not want me to help? Do you want me gone? I just want to help you. I couldn’t help Luke, or Michael, or Malcolm, or Jake.
He didn’t say any of those. Just nodded. “I’ll take care of it,” he relented.
The rest of the afternoon blurred together—lifting boxes, giving directions, cracking jokes that earned him weak laughs, staring at the Athena cabin, staring at the forges, smiling at kids who looked at him like he had answers he didn’t actually have.
He kept moving, praying that no one would notice the stiffness in his actions or how his chest tightened at the mention of the Apollo cabin, how people would say their names like it was a chant and it would bring them back. It didn’t.
Work was tiring.
By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky, his legs ached from running back and forth and his throat felt raw from his pitiful attempts at laughing. Still, when there was finally a moment of quiet, his gaze couldn’t help but drift over to the Athena cabin and the forges.
Malcolm hadn’t come out. Neither had Jake.
Connor swallowed hard.
All he saw was Annabeth in Malcolm’s stead, ordering campers around with a tired expression on her face.
All he heard was the endless clinking and clanging of metal inside the forge, Nyssa alongside her siblings staring worriedly at the door.
All he tasted was the bitterness on his tongue.
Maybe tomorrow, he told himself.
Maybe tomorrow Jake would cool down. Maybe Malcolm would talk to him again. Maybe he’d find the right words to say to them this time.
For now, Connor continued moving.