Chapter Twenty-Three:
The Wrongly Accused Pays.
— We are deaf, we are numb. Free
and young and we can feel none of it !
Panic flooded and shuddered through him.
Watching a girl you cared for with so much of your being collapse after straining herself to save her home, panic was the only emotion that you could possibly feel. And, boy, did Percy Jackson feel the pure fear that made his back shudder with every breath he took. He listened to Clarisse argue with Annabeth about where to take Colette, never once inputting. He didn't think he could. Not only did he know nothing about anything in regards to medicine, he also hadn't been there in the summer to make any commands about where to take an injured girl, and there was also the fact that he couldn't speak without a shaky gasp leaving his throat.
Clarisse argued that Colette would be safer in the hands of her brothers (the camp's resident medics) rather than the "traitor" that poisoned the tree, while Annabeth argued that Chiron had been alive a lot longer than any sons of Apollo and he would be better suited to heal the girl that he took under his wing and looked at like a daughter. Tyson was also in his ear, asking him about every little thing that they saw as they walked through the camp's open fields.
On the surface, the camp didn't look any different. The Big House was still there with its blue garbled roof and its wraparound porch. The strawberry fields still baked in the sun. The same white-columned Greek buildings were scattered around the valley — the amphitheater, the combat arena, the dining pavilion overlooking Long Island Sound. And nestled between the woods and the creek were the same cabins — a crazy assortment of twelve buildings, each representing a different Olympian god.
But there was a new air of danger then. You could tell something was very, very wrong. Instead of playing volleyball in the sandpit, the counselors and the satyrs were stockpiling weapons in the tool shed. The Dryads were armed with bows and arrows, talking nervously at the edge of the woods. The forest looked sickly, the grass in the meadow was pale yellow, and the fire marks on Half-Blood Hill stood out like ugly scars.
During their walk, Annabeth managed to compromise with Clarisse. "I promise, Clarisse! I'll make sure she heads over to her brothers after Chiron gets her to wake up."
Clarisse grunted. "Fine." She grumbled, reluctantly transferring the blonde girl in her arms to the Daughter of Wisdom's arms before stomping off in the opposite direction.
By the time they got to the Big House, Chiron was in his apartment, listening to his favorite 1960s lounge music while he packed his saddlebags calmly — nonchalant.
As soon as Tyson saw the centaur, he froze. "Pony!" He cried out in total rapture.
Chiron turned around, looking comically offended by the falsehood. "I beg your pardon?" Then his eyes landed on Colette's lolling head in Annabeth's arms and grew panicked, just as anxious as Percy. "What happened to her?" He dropped his saddlebags.
Annabeth explained what Percy couldn't. How they'd seen Colette's eyes remain gold in her rage, the way she would absorb the heat of every wave of fire from the bulls, how her veins turned the same shade as her eyes, and the blast of heat she'd returned to the bulls after basically saving Tyson and Percy's lives. With every detail, Chiron grew more and more worried. He'd placed the girl on the couch, grabbing every healing product in his pouch that he could. He listened carefully, eyes dancing fretfully.
"This is what her father feared." Chiron murmured, placing a hand on her forehead and grimacing at the feeling he received in turn. "She was just barely recovering from her mother's death, healing her heart, and now — with Luke — she's had to restart that long and painful process. Her father warned me when she first arrived. He told me she was every part of him, the good and the bad, and her fury would be just as volatile as his when her heart was broken."
