Sing, O Muse [Percy Jackson]

five

CLARION never wanted to be a cabin counselor – that, she had concluded. The stress of the meeting left her shaking as Travis led her out of the rec room; his face was decorated with a mischievous grin, one that made her stomach twist and cheeks flush. As soon as they were out of ear shot from the Big House, Clarion grabbed Travis's bicep, forcing him to stop, and hissed, "What did you do to that shirt?"

Travis shrugged her hand off his arm with an easy smile, like a soft spring breeze. He patted the top of her head, "It was just a little gift, Clarie – don't you worry about it."

Clarion raised a brow, but she wanted to get as far away from the peeling blue paint of the biggest building at camp as fast as possible, hoping that the distance would lock the memory of the meeting deep within her mind. She made a face at Travis before swiveling on her heel to march back to her cabin: she wanted to give Lee a piece of her mind. Who did he think he was, sending her in his place? There was no room for Clarion at the strategy table; there was no inkling she belonged.

But the cabin, as usual, was empty. Clarion examined the small space, half-expecting Lee and Michael to pop out from behind their beds – she wondered just how injured Ellis must have been, to occupy both of their healers for so long, but such thoughts weren't made for a daughter of the arts, and so Clarion took a seat at her desk and relished in the silence.

Her desk had been painted by her cabin-mates, oftentimes when they were bored they would whip out a paint palette, and the acrylic flowers and copious tigers (they were Faye's favorite animal) had begun to peel, just like the paint of the Big House – Clarion pushed away the thought that she had been at camp for so long the signs of age had already begun.

Charlie Beckendorf had fixed three slats of oak wood to the wall, which were covered in old books with faded and torn covers. She raised an arm and dragged her fingertips along the spine, passing three copies of the Odyssey – each with a different translation – and centuries-old copies of famous Greek plays, all in the original Greek. But she passed by them and instead fixed her gaze on the four leather-bound books with no titles.

Those were her epics, the ones she had written in the same format as Homer and Virgil (though a Roman, his stories were quite similar); they were her stories, her accomplishments, her pride. Clarion's worth depended on those four leather-bound books, with no titles perfect enough to fit. She often wondered if her characters knew they had been chronicles – Clarise, once she found out a story was being written about her, barged into the Apollo cabin at odd hours of the day and spent whatever free time she had detailing the entirety of her journey – but Thalia's tragedy, which had ended in her being turned into a tree, had been written only based upon second-hand accounts from Chiron and Annabeth Chase. Her best epic, or so she thought – the best grammatically and structurally – had been Percy Jackson's quest to recover the lightning bolt, though that, too, had been written mostly from second-hand accounts whilst Percy was unconscious in the infirmary.

Her epics all began the same, with Sing, O Muse – eerily similar to the prophecy. But she had adopted the beginning from the great Greek playwrights, who often called upon the Muses; Clarion's spine tingled menacingly, and she took in a deep breath and reminded herself several times that she would never be involved with any prophecies nor quests nor adventures.

Clarion would stay at camp, for as long as she needed, and would dawdle until she needed to detail yet another heroic feat (which she didn't mind – she liked writing, but it had begun to feel tedious) whilst the hero was unconscious, or... a tree. The perfect epic was just beyond her fingertips – Clarion knew this. She had watched her writing develop over the years, growing and flourishing until each epic she had written seemed awful, compared to her new skill.