"I don't even know if I should say they
ruined everything or if they did save us"
children are not meant to fight in wars, but they are no longer children. the sons and the daughters of the greek and the roman gods have fought one too many battles...
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" tell me i'm still innocent even with the blood on my hands of those who died before me of those who died for me and of the monsters that thought they'd get the best of me "
SHADOWS CREEP UP THE WALLS, the pitch-black bedroom would have been completely silent if not for the bustling city of New York below, and their hurried breaths filling the tense air. Darkness surrounds two people in an excruciatingly tight embrace that is neither comforting nor terrifying. Sally Jackson sits on the floor with eight-year-old Myrlande Grayson Jackson shaking in her arms. Tears brim at the edges of her eyes, but Sally refuses to let them fall. Bruises began to flare with violent colors on her cheekbone, he had hit her again, and in front of Grayson this time. She could only sigh in relief that Percy was far from the carnage his stepfather brought. That was the only relief Sally Jackson had though, her daughter had been caught in the same wrath her husband had, before that night, only brought upon her.
Grayson huddled closer to her mom's chest, fear in her every breath. Pain and panic had forced her eyes shut, but she wanted them wide open because all she could see was it happening over and over again. The stench of alcohol lingers over her. His handprint blooms in varying shades of red and pink across her cheek and her eye begins to swell, raging at the strike. Stuck in the moment...
CRIMSON HAS DRIED ON TO GRAYSON'S FOREHEAD, but that is no different from the rest of the kids around her. Kids, that's all they should've been, not soldiers. Not go-betweens for monsters and gods. Not the only thing separating their parents from the fates.
So many dead, again. The second war of her life and she hasn't even turned seventeen yet. Every damn star lining up in that frustrating order that screams over and over and over again that she hasn't fought her last fight yet, oh and her heart aches in a wish left unspoken. Sharp pains burst in her chest again, wounds left untreated from the war raging against her decision to wait for everyone else to be cared for first.
He could see her, eyes glazing over as though she was lost.
"Percy is alive, Grayson. He and Annabeth and everyone else are fine."
"He can't say that!" the voices in her head shout, making her flinch at the sounds and jumping tenser than before. Looking up at the amber eyes of the son of the war god, Grayson challenges him. "Not everyone's alive, Damian," but the way her voice breaks as she says it makes his heart twist.
"I know," he whispers sitting beside her, he presses the canteen of ambrosia into her hands. (Will had found him while he was getting one of his worse wounds wrapped and ordered him to get her to drink or eat anything. The whole camp knows that Grayson and her brother are two of the best, but that means they act like they have to put themselves in harm's way more often than not and that leads to more injuries.) Damian places his arm around her and he pulls her closer, blushing as her head falls against him because she's just that exhausted.
