Chapter Text
The sky over Manhattan was the color of a bruised plum, choked with smoke and the screams of dying monsters. The air smelled of sulfur, rotting garbage, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Below, the streets of New York were a gridlock of shattered taxis and terrified civilians, but up here, on the precarious ledge of a skyscraper near the Empire State Building, it was a war zone.
Percy Jackson stood knee-deep in a pile of Hyperborean giant dust, his sword Riptide glowing with celestial bronze light. His lungs burned. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass. Kronos’s army was endless—a tide of dracaenae, telkhines, and hellhounds that seemed to regenerate the moment they fell.
"We can't hold this flank forever!" Percy shouted, his voice cracking.
He looked around frantically. Annabeth was coordinating the defense of the Olympus Gate, her gray eyes stormy as she barked orders into a magical radio, her blonde curls matted with sweat and grime.
Behind her, clutching a bow that looked too big for his slender frame, was Connor Stoll. He was sixteen, the same age as Percy, but in this moment, he looked painfully young. His mischievous grin, the one that usually signaled a impending prank or a stolen item from the Hermes cabin, was gone. In its place was a mask of terrified determination.
"I have a plan," Annabeth had said ten minutes ago, her voice tight with that dangerous sort of intellect she got when the odds were impossible. "The giants are trying to flank us from the 40th floor of the Chrysler building. If we can collapse that walkway, it will create a bottleneck."
She had pointed a shaking finger at Connor. "Connor, I need you to get to that ventilation vent. The structural weak point is right behind it. If you plant two Greek fire bombs and detonate them simultaneously, the walkway goes down."
Connor had nodded, swallowing hard. "Consider it done, wise girl."
"It’s precise, Connor," Annabeth had stressed, looking him in the eye. "You have to be quick. Don't engage the enemy. Just get in, plant, and get out. We’ll cover you from here."
Percy remembered watching Connor run. He remembered thinking, "He’s fast. He’s a Stoll. They’re slippery."
He was wrong.
Now, Percy stood frozen on the adjacent rooftop, the distance between them feeling like a chasm the size of Tartarus.
The plan was flawed. Annabeth had calculated the enemy's movement patterns based on standard monster behavior, but Kronos was leading them now. The Titan Lord didn't care about standard patterns. He was adapting.
As Connor sprinted across the girders of the Chrysler building’s spire, a massive shadow detached itself from the smoke. It wasn't a regular monster. It was a Lydian drakon, a serpent with iridescent scales that shifted colors to match the smoke, hiding it until it was too late. And flanking it were two hyperborean giants, encased in ice armor that would shatter any bronze blade.
"Connor! Wait!" Percy screamed, the sound tearing at his throat.
He raised Riptide, water swirling around him, ready to blast a wave across the gap to shove the monsters back. But the air pressure was wrong. The magic protecting Olympus was fluctuating, fighting against the Titan’s siege. The water hesitated, sputtering into useless mist.
Connor reached the vent. He skidded to a halt, his hands fumbling for the Greek fire canisters strapped to his belt. He looked up, and for a split second, his eyes met Percy’s across the gap. There was panic there, pure and unadulterated.
Then, the Drakon struck.
It didn't bite him. It didn't need to. It coiled its massive, shimmering body around the steel girders Connor was standing on and squeezed. The metal groaned, a horrific screeching sound that drowned out the battle cries. The walkway didn't just collapse; it crumpled like a soda can.
"NO!" Percy roared.
He watched, helpless, as Connor lost his footing. The son of Hermes scrambled, grabbing for a lever, his fingers white-knuckled. He managed to jam one of the fire bombs into the vent—a final act of defiance, a completion of the mission.
"Drop it, Connor! Drop and roll!" Percy yelled, knowing it was useless. They were forty stories up.
The Drakon’s tail lashed out. It wasn't a lethal strike aimed at the heart. It was casual. Brutal. Efficient.
The impact caught Connor square in the chest. Percy heard the sickening crunch of ribs shattering even over the roar of the wind. Connor was blasted backward, off the walkway, into the open air.
He didn't scream.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. Percy saw Connor flailing, the boy’s natural thief agility attempting to find a purchase that wasn't there. He saw the Drakon turn its attention to the Greek fire bomb Connor had managed to prime.
The explosion was blinding. A ball of green and orange fire erupted from the vent, consuming the Drakon and the two giants in a holy, chemical inferno. The structural integrity of the spire failed completely. The metal groaned and sheared away.
And Connor, falling past the debris, was caught in the wash of the superheated air.
The fire didn't kill him instantly; the fall did. But the blast ensured he would never be found.
Percy stood paralyzed, his sword hanging limp in his hand. He watched the empty space where Connor had been. There was no body. No last words. Just smoke and the fading echo of an explosion that had saved their flank but taken his friend.
Annabeth ran up to him, grabbing his arm. "Percy! Did it work? Did we stem the flank?"
Percy looked at her. Her face was smeared with soot, eyes wide with desperate hope.
"He did it," Percy whispered, his voice sounding hollow, like it was coming from a stranger. "He planted the bomb."
"Good," Annabeth breathed, relief washing over her. "Where is he? Is he coming back?"
Percy looked back at the smoke swirling where the Chrysler building’s spire used to be. The reality of it crashed into him with the force of a physical blow. Connor Stoll—class clown, head counselor’s brother, pranking prodigy—was gone.
The battle raged on for hours. It felt like days. Percy fought like a man possessed, cutting down monsters with a viciousness that scared even himself. He didn't speak. He didn't cheer when Kronos was finally forced back. He just moved, a vessel of rage and grief, numbing himself to the world because if he stopped to feel it, even for a second, he would shatter.
When the dust finally settled, when the sky began to lighten from bruised purple to a pale, weary dawn, the Titans were retreated. Olympus was saved.
But the victory felt like ash in Percy’s mouth.
***
Returning to Camp Half-Blood was usually the best feeling in the world. The smell of strawberries, the protective hum of the pine trees, the warmth of the amphitheater—it was home.
Today, the border felt like a prison gate.
The campers who hadn't fought were gathered at the Big House, looking anxious. As the wounded and exhausted defenders trickled in, a cacophony of cheers broke out. Chiron wheeled forward, his face grave but relieved. Mr. D was lounging on the porch, looking bored, though his eyes darted nervously toward the wounded.
Percy walked at the back of the procession. He couldn't bring himself to smile. He couldn't high-five anyone. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean on the inside.
He saw Malcolm Pace standing near the steps of the Athena cabin.
Malcolm was Annabeth’s second-in-command. He was sixteen, with wispy blonde curly hair and glasses that were always sliding down his nose. He looked thin, having worried himself sick during the siege, his fingers stained with ink from revising battle strategies that Annabeth was too busy to read.
Malcolm’s eyes scanned the crowd, frantic, darting from face to face. He was looking for the messy blonde hair of the Stoll brothers. He saw Travis, who was leaning heavily on a satyr, his arm in a makeshift sling, crying silently. Travis had made it back.
But Connor wasn't with him.
Percy saw the moment the hope died in Malcolm’s eyes. He saw the boy’s posture stiffen, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the strap of his backpack. He detached himself from the Athena cabin steps and walked toward Percy.
Percy stopped, wanting to turn and run, but his feet were leaden.
"Hey," Malcolm said, his voice trembling slightly. He forced a weak, terrified smile. "Hey, Percy. Good job out there. Everyone’s saying you saved Olympus."
Percy looked at the ground. He couldn't look Malcolm in the eye. He saw the way Malcolm’s hands were shaking. He knew. Malcolm was a child of Athena. He deduced things. He saw the patterns before anyone else did. But he needed confirmation. He needed to hear the words spoken aloud to make the nightmare real.
"Thanks," Percy mumbled.
Malcolm took a step closer, lowering his voice. The noise of the camp celebration seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them in a bubble of suffocating silence.
"Where's Con?" Malcolm asked. It was a simple question. Just three words. But the weight of them crushed Percy's chest. "Travis is back, but I don't see Connor. He usually... he usually hangs back with Travis, or he's the first one to the mess hall to steal the brownies."
Malcolm let out a short, breathy laugh that was more of a sob. "I told him to be careful. I made him promise."
Percy looked up. He saw the tears threatening to spill over Malcolm’s glasses. He remembered Connor telling him once, in a rare quiet moment after the battle of labyrinth, that Malcolm was the only person who really knew him. Not just the prankster, but the guy who was scared of disappointing Chiron, the guy who read engineering textbooks for fun.
They had been dating for three years. Since they were thirteen. A lifetime at camp.
"Malcolm," Percy started. His voice broke. He cleared his throat, trying to find the strength to be the leader, but he wasn't a leader right now. He was just a witness to a tragedy.
"Please," Malcolm whispered. "Just tell me he’s in the infirmary. Just tell me he’s being healed."
Percy reached out and placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. It felt inadequate. It felt useless.
"He didn't make it," Percy said softly.
The effect was immediate. Malcolm didn't scream. He didn't collapse. He just... stopped breathing. The color drained from his face until he was as pale as a sheet of parchment. He stared at Percy, his mouth opening and closing, like a fish out of water.
"What?" Malcolm croaked.
"Annabeth... she sent him on a mission," Percy said, guilt rising in his throat like bile. "To the Chrysler building. To set charges. It was... it was a trap. The structure collapsed."
Percy had to force the next part out. "I saw it, Malcolm. I saw him fall. There was nothing I could do. The water... I couldn't control it."
Malcolm pulled away from Percy’s touch as if it burned him. He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his chest tight.
"No," Malcolm said, shaking his head violently. "No, he’s Connor. He gets out of things. He’s... he’s slippery. He’s a Stoll. He probably used a parachute. He probably grabbed a gryphon. He..."
"He's gone, Malcolm," Percy said, his voice firm but gentle. "I'm so sorry."
Malcolm stared past Percy, looking at the woods, but his eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing. "Three years," he whispered. "We had three years. We were going to... we talked about getting an apartment in New Rome. After college. He said he wanted to study mechanics."
Percy felt his own tears stinging his eyes. He wiped them away angrily. He needed to be strong for Malcolm.
"Malcolm, listen," Percy said. "The Hermes cabin... they’re going to start cleaning out his bunk soon. They don't have a lot of space, and with the refugees..." He trailed off. "If you want anything of his. Before... before they pack it away. You should take it."
It was a clumsy offer, a terrible intrusion into a relationship that had just been severed, but it was all Percy had.
Malcolm looked at Percy, his expression unreadable. It was a look of absolute vacancy, the kind of shock that protects the mind from shattering too soon.
"Take his stuff?" Malcolm asked hollowly.
"I know it's soon," Percy said quickly. "But he would want you to have it. You know he would. He loved you."
Malcolm flinched at the past tense. He looked down at his shoes. "I can't... I can't go in there right now, Percy. I can't see Travis."
"Just think about it," Percy said. "I’ll make sure they don't throw anything out."
Malcolm didn't respond. He just stood there for a moment, shivering despite the warm summer breeze. Then, without another word, he turned around.
He didn't go to the Big House. He didn't go to the Athena cabin to find Annabeth. He didn't go to his brothers and sisters.
He walked toward the woods.
Percy watched him go. He wanted to follow, to make sure Malcolm didn't do anything stupid, but he knew Malcolm wasn't the type. He was a strategist. He was logical. He needed to process the variables, and the variables had just shattered his world.
Malcolm walked past the strawberry fields, past the climbing wall, and into the shadows of the forest. He kept walking until the sounds of the camp celebration were just a dull hum in the distance. He found a clearing near the creek, a spot where he and Connor used to meet secretly before they told everyone about them.
He stopped.
He stood perfectly still, listening to the wind rustle the leaves. He looked at the ground, expecting to see Connor step out from behind a tree, grinning, holding a stolen bag of marshmallows.
Three years.
The grief hit him all at once, a tidal wave that smashed through the dam of his shock. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the forest floor. He didn't try to soften the fall. He let the dirt and rocks dig into his palms.
A sound tore from his throat, an animalistic wail of pure agony. He curled into a ball, clutching his stomach, and screamed. He screamed until his throat was raw, until his vision blurred with tears. He pounded his fist against the earth, cursing the Titans, cursing the gods, cursing Annabeth’s plan, and cursing himself for not being there to protect him.
Connor was the light. He was the chaos that balanced Malcolm’s order. He was the one who stole Malcolm’s highlighters and replaced them with glitter pens. He was the one who held him during nightmares after the battle of the Labyrinth. He was the one who promised that he would always come back.
Malcolm lay there for a long time, sobbing until he was empty, until there were no tears left, just dry, heaving gasps. The sun moved across the sky, casting long, stretching shadows through the trees.
Eventually, the crying stopped. The shock returned, settling over him like a layer of frost. It numbed the pain, turning it into a dull, aching throb in the center of his chest.
He sat up slowly. His glasses were askew and smeared with dirt. He fixed them mechanically.
He stood up. He brushed the leaves and twigs off his jeans. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine and earth.
He couldn't stay here. He had to go back. He had a promise to keep.
Malcolm walked back to camp. His movements were stiff, robotic. He ignored the campers he passed, moving like a ghost through the living.
He headed straight for Cabin 11.
It was the ugliest cabin at camp, looking like a paintball bunker with its mismatched brown boards and barbed wire on the roof. Usually, it was overflowing with noise, laughter, and music. Today, it was quiet. The door was open.
Malcolm stepped inside. The air smelled like old leather, stink bombs, and boys. There were backpacks everywhere, weapons scattered on bunks. A few younger campers were huddled in the corner, whispering. They looked up when Malcolm entered, then quickly looked down, intimidated by the look on his face.
Malcolm didn't look at them. He walked down the center aisle.
He knew exactly which bed was Connor's. It was the bottom bunk in the far corner, closest to the window. It was covered in doodles Connor had drawn on the wood—pictures of Hermes, caricatures of Chiron, and, drawn small in the corner, an owl wearing a beanie.
Malcolm stopped at the foot of the bed.
The bunk was messy. The blanket was half-kicked off. A pillow lay on the floor. On the nightstand, there was a stack of comic books, a half-eaten bag of dried apricots, and a photo in a cheap wooden frame.
Malcolm picked up the photo. It was of him and Connor at the campfire last summer. Connor was making bunny ears behind Malcolm’s head, and Malcolm was laughing, looking at Connor with undisguised adoration.
Malcolm stared at the photo for a long time. He traced Connor’s face with his thumb.
He didn't cry. He was done with crying. Crying didn't bring him back. Crying didn't fix the math equation that now ended in zero.
Malcolm sat down on the edge of the bed.
The mattress squeaked. It smelled like Connor—a mix of grape soda, leather, and that distinct, sharp scent of ozone that always clung to the children of the gods.
He looked at the wall. Carved into the wood right above the pillow, barely visible unless you were looking for it, were initials: M + C.
Malcolm ran his fingers over the carving. The wood was smooth. Connor had carved it there only a week ago.
"I'm here, Con." Malcolm whispered into the empty room.
He sat there, rigid, his hands resting on his knees. He felt like a statue. He felt like if he moved, the reality would rush back in and crush him again. So he just sat.
He sat on Connor’s bed, in the cabin that was too loud and too crowded, but in that corner, it felt like a tomb. He looked at the dried apricots. He looked at the comic books. He looked at the empty pillow where Connor’s head should have been.
Malcolm didn't cry. He just sat, staring at the wall, waiting for a thief in the night to come and steal the pain away, just like Connor would have done.
But Connor wasn't coming back.
And Malcolm remained there, a silent sentinel in the house of Hermes, guarding a memory that no one else could touch.
camp half blood barely knew him at least not The real him and The mortal World had never accepted him as one of their one....
In a few years there would be a vague memory of a son of Hermes who had died for the cause and then That would be forgotten too.
Goodbye Connor Stoll,they barely knew you.
History really does hate lovers.