Chapter Text
Loneliest
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The camp doesn’t feel victorious; nonetheless, the stars shine as bright as they did every other day, the wind is cold, blowing through the fire as specks of heat float through the air and float to a place unknown. The prophecy has been completed, but the weight of a certain cloak of death, and the weight of a certain mythomagical Hades figure, burns holes in my pockets as guilt slowly tears me apart. A titan one step ahead to tear the world into pieces and rebuild it piece by piece.
Even though Atlas may be back on the mountain holding the heavy sky, I can and could still feel the heavy ghost of the sky on my shoulders and the callouses from gripping my hefty sword, although it might not be the ghost of the sky at all. Expecting the ground to tilt beneath my feet, my breath hitches as if I were held underwater against my will until there was no air my tired lungs could take.
Wouldn’t that be nice? The peaceful ending of not having to go through the tiresome motion of eat, sleep, fight, train, eat, sleep, fight, and train again and again and again. Don’t stop; never stop. This is the price I have to pay for living. If only there was another way. If I didn’t have to be here at all. No more hurting Annabeth;
the pain in her stormy gray eyes filled with hurt. Grover, oh sweet Grover, would continue to dream of his quest for Pan. He imagined his mother's sweet brown eyes enveloped him in a warmness that made him never want to escape; he would sob into her shoulder, gripping the fabric of her shirt tightly, nearly ripping apart the fabric with his nails stained with dirt and far too much blood. It hurt, didn’t it?
I slowly stood, my eyes mirroring the campfire in infront of me. The once bright blue eyes turn dark and dangerous, although no one seemed to notice. Sidestepping away from the campfire. The voices of the Apollo kids still linger as they sing about how life is tough and make stupid jokes about their past and present and their hopeful future. They hug each other tightly and don’t let go. Just like he would do with his own friends, or maybe the kids he would help out after the bullies wedged them, often making them drink the nasty water.
Walking towards the water of the camp, I look for nice round stones, purposefully ignoring the deformed and bumpy pebbles.
Zoe Nightshade was gone.
I tried not to think about her at all, I really did, I promise! But my eyes kept drifting upwards to seek out her constellation anyway. Angrily tossing the pebbles located on the small beach. Water faintly rippling, not changing the tension of the water it had before. It reminded me of myself. So faint and insignificant that even the hardest, angriest toss would never really affect the pebbles under the water, the seaweed and the fish all living in the deep of the lake. All doing something to help and change the world around them.
Insignificant—that’s what I am. Nothing but a lonely demigod that has always caused nothing but problems for the demigods living in Camp Half-Blood or the Olympian gods. Hell! He was even a burden to his mother, getting kicked out from school to school.
He chuckles. Is there really any value to this thing we call life? Or at least is there any value for someone as detestable, disgusting, and humiliating as a thing like me?
If meaning exists, then why does it keep trying to destroy the ones who uphold its facade?
The prophecies don't help or solve anyone's problems except for the selfish desires of the gods. Though a prophecy isn’t written in stone.
“Five shall go west to the goddess in chains,
One shall be lost in the land without rain,
The bane of Olympus shows the trail,
Campers and Hunters combined prevail,
The Titan's curse must one withstand,
And one shall perish by a parent's hand.”
I was supposed to go and dismantle the giant robot. It was Bianca's first quest, and I had no right to be as selfish as the ones I hate, letting her go for me. The prophecy isn’t written in stone, and it could be anyone. If only it would have been him. His life feels like too much and too little at the same time. He needs to stop being the problem; I’m going to leave and pull myself together, better and stronger. To become a shield, not because of the gods or the hell of a prophecy, but to protect and be a protector like the people he once lost and now still loves. To not commit the same mistake again.
That night I packed up all his essentials. The watch and shield he was given from Tyson mon, some flash notes with his mother's secret recipes; the picture of Annabeth that was mailed to him last summer; and a digital camera that he has brought to every quest, which has seen better times. Filled with blurry videos of their trio having fun and board game nights with Grover and his birthday cakes throughout these three years. All of them with a special memory that he clings close to his cold, empty heart. And finally, of course, his trusty pen: Riptide.
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(The way I left camp was a hell of a ride; get this: he calls Argus (the CHB bus driver) to pick him up, and… he steps onto the bus. Woah woah woah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sorry, I had a small stroke. Anyways! Also I feel like you guys need to know that “Argus” is the CHB bus driver, believe it or not my dumb ass actually…. A round of applause: investigated. HELL YEAH!!!! You can clap now, btw... Guys?... Guys?
I left CHB the same way I left all the other mundane times I’ve done before. As he stepped away from Thalia’s old tree and down the hill where the relatively small black bus sat. He lingered long enough to say his “goodbye.” Argus had a seemingly furrowed brow as he let me in; the frown on his face was prominent, making me want to roll my eyes. There was nothing wrong with this. He was going to go home through the large staircase at the side of the building into his room and grab his stuff.
Documentation, passport, all that shtick, and leave. I placed my first foot onto the bus’s stairs, fighting the urge to look back and scream and run at everyone, “Look at me! Look at me! I’m leaving! Won’t you miss me at all? Are you going to try and stop me?” He wants to scream at the top of his lungs and cry; he wants to glance back and realize that Anabeth was there the whole time holding her open arms that he can fall into. But there was no scream or crying; there was no Anabeth there to stop him.
So without looking back, he sat down in the farthest seat of the bus and pulled his headphone earplug on as he hummed to the tune of “THE LONELIEST” by Moneskin.
Argus stopped right in front of the old and trashy apartment his mother and he live—lived in. I guess I’m not going to live there for much longer, am I? After he stepped out of the sleek black bus, I stared straight ahead, a stance that someone drifting through life would have, not in a bubbly way but as if his ankles were holding chains as heavy as the sky he once held. His right hand clutching his backpack strap, his chipped black nails look appealing next to his bright orange shirt. Clutching so hard, he feared if he let go he would fall into the pits of darkness with no one to hold onto but the stray memories of the happiness I can’t find anymore.
One foot forward at a time, he stepped into the alleyway. Trash and dirt, and if you had a keen sense of smell, you could also sense the classic cigarette smell with a tint of weed lingering in the air. His hand grips the lever to pull down the cold metal fire escape stairwell, and he starts climbing.
The fire escape metal rattles and creaks as I slowly step on each staircase, my fingers dragging themselves along the railing, nails scraping dirt and staining my fingers. As I reach my apartment, the window directly leads into my room. I grip the hard, cheap wood and strongly pull up. I’m not as lanky and skinny as you might think I am; I have enough muscle for it to count, and I think I'm a pretty decent fighter. My build allows me to only look raggedy, long and skinny, and ; that’s what it was. The window slides (begrudgingly) with a quiet scrape as I slowly step into the creaky wood of my home.
Everything seems lighter, better somehow,brighter even!
Until I heard music.
I didn’t want to get close; I really didn’t, but recently my body has had a thing where it controls itself, and there’s no stopping its decision. (If I were in a movie, I would like to believe that there was a screechy musical number faintly in the background. You know? Like when they're about to find the killer in a closet or find the dead body of a friend they hold dear. Tragic stuff, you hear me?)
Filtering through the small crack in the door, I faintly grab the doorknob, slowly twisting and cracking it open even more.
My mother (Sally) is humming and singing to the song playing on her phone, wiping down the table of breadcrumbs. The air is so, so clean and peaceful it makes me sigh. Which wasn’t the best idea, but I have no excuse. My mom turns around to the sound; she always had a sharp mind. Her eyes were as hazy and beautiful as those shining brown eyes could be, but the second they landed on mine, her smile faltered. Which sucks, really. Moms aren’t really supposed to react like that the second they see their only son coming back from fighting literal monsters and experiencing the death of many, many people, but I digress. I wouldn’t have noticed if she had masked her smile a second earlier, strained and fake. Hand gripping the cloth.
That’s when it dawned on me: No matter how much you love someone or how much you do for them, you can't make them love you. Sometimes the more you give, the more they take. And sometimes that is the consequence for believing that you could be loved at all.
That night I died.
And became what sharp men, women, and all of the above would know to call as a star child.