My body tensed involuntarily, a chilling wetness on my face and a haze obscuring my vision. Paralyzed, I found myself unable to move or utter a single word. A slow realization settled as I gently rubbed my eyes – I was a spectator in my own memory, an observer to a heart-wrenching scene. The focus sharpened, revealing a solemn tombstone before me. The inscription carved into the stone unveiled the harsh reality: Johnathan Alexander Pierce, 14th February 1964 – 6th December 2008. Beloved son and father, Amor animi arbito sumitur, non ponitur.
The Latin phrase resonated in my mind, translating into a poignant truth: "We choose to love; we do not choose to cease loving." The reason for the wetness on my face became clear – I was crying. I stood in front of the freshly dug grave of my father. Downcast, I glanced at my shoes, recognizing the same attire I wore on the plane. A weight on my shoulders confirmed the presence of the familiar backpack. My mouth opened, and I began to speak, my voice trembling with raw emotion.
"I'm sorry, Dad..." I choked out, tears welling up once more. "I did what you said. One week after your death... I bought a plane ticket, with the money you left me... and I packed my bag. I'm going straight to Westover Hall... Just like you said..." My voice broke, carrying the burden of grief.
Amidst the emotional whirlwind, I pulled out a device resembling a phone. With a code – 2460 – I unlocked it and navigated to the camera roll. There, a picture of myself and an unfamiliar girl puzzled me; her face remained elusive.
A subtle sound behind me interrupted my reflections. Swiftly turning around, my fingers clutched my necklace. Before me stood a woman, a vision of beauty tall and imposing. Despite the weather, she wore a tank top and jeans. Her storm-gray eyes mirrored Annabeth's and the flight attendant's. Brown hair cascaded in a classic Greek braid over one shoulder.
"Who are you?" I inquired, fingers firmly wrapped around my necklace.
"You know who I am, child," she replied coldly. A shimmer of battle armor briefly adorned her form before vanishing.
The realization hit – Areia Pallas, the flight attendant, was a mere cover. This woman before me was Athena. Her eyes, reminiscent of Annabeth's, her visage akin to battle armor, unraveled the mystery. In the temple of Ares at Athens, her statue stood alongside those of Ares and Aphrodite. The name Pallas, intertwined with hers in Homer's works, now held significance.
"Athena," I uttered coldly, easing into a slight relaxation. "What do you want?" My voice wavered, a blend of tension and heat.
"Child, I'm only here because your father asked me to help guide you," she explained, approaching. As she spoke, tension crept back into my frame. "I will help you, but remember, everything has a price." She raised her finger, almost touching my forehead. "Sacrifice something for me when you remember. Good night."
With a gentle poke between my eyes, everything plunged into darkness, and I jolted awake, drenched in sweat.
The night enveloped my cabin in a serene hush, the rhythmic breaths of my fellow campers signaling their deep slumber. A quiet resolve gripped me, coaxing me to don my clothes and step out into the chilled air. My fingers curled around the comforting weight of my phone as I slipped outside, careful not to disturb the tranquility within.
The ambiance outside was defined by the soft crackling of a hearth, its flickering flames casting a gentle glow. The cold nipped at my skin, propelling me closer to the warmth emanating from the fire. As I approached, my eyes caught sight of a little girl seated by the flames. A mere five years old, she seemed lost in contemplation. Instinctively, I halted my steps, contemplating a retreat. However, her gaze lifted, locking onto mine. With a tilt of her head, she gestured to the seat beside her, inviting me to join.
An uncanny warmth enveloped her, as if the fire's essence had been absorbed by her and radiated outward. Silently, I acquiesced, taking a place by her side. Her attention remained fixed on the dancing flames.
"You're not a camper, are you?" I inquired, breaking the silence. She offered no verbal response, only swaying her feet from the bench. The warmth persisted, intertwining with the enchantment of the scene.
"You're Lady Hestia, aren't you?" Recognition dawned upon me as I recalled the tales of Hestia, the Goddess of the Hearth and Family. Stories of her post-Titan War decision to protect Prometheus and aid mortals at hearths flooded my thoughts.
With a gaze filled with warmth, she acknowledged my recognition. "It's not often campers speak to me." The vague memory of her presence during my arrival at camp surfaced.
"You have questions for the hearth; ask them, and you will receive answers," she encouraged. As I gazed at the fire, an inexplicable sensation swelled within my chest, seeking release.
"What do you..." Before I could articulate my query, she vanished, leaving me with a soft sigh and the dancing flames. Turning back to the hearth, I questioned, "Who am I?" The flames held their silence, yet the inexplicable feeling within me dissipated.
A gentle voice, resonating in my mind like a paternal whisper, filled the void. "Look at the stars." I raised my eyes to the night sky, where city lights dimmed the brilliance of the stars. The Big Dipper emerged faintly. I had received an answer, and now the task was mine to decipher its meaning.
My fingers fumbled in the dim light of the cabin as I reached for my phone. The device felt cool against my palm, and for a moment, I hesitated, staring at the dormant screen. The prompt demanded my attention, "Enter code." With a sense of familiarity, I swiftly punched in the digits: 2460. The phone responded with a soft hum, awakening to a world of possibilities.
The screen displayed a collection of apps, mundane in their existence. Yet, a glimmer of anticipation lingered as I navigated to the camera roll. A cascade of images unfolded, capturing moments frozen in time. Among them, the picture of an unknown girl stood out. Her features, delicate and captivating, evoked a strange familiarity, as if she existed on the periphery of recognition.
"She's cute. Is that your girlfriend?"
With a sudden, almost instinctive motion, I spun around, my senses heightened by an inexplicable presence. The air seemed to crackle with an energy that had momentarily disrupted the quietude. Yet, as I pivoted, there was no tangible form to meet my gaze. The emptiness of the space around me belied the vivid impression of a presence that lingered like a whisper in the air.
A peculiar combination of reality and illusion left me momentarily disoriented. It felt real—the sense of someone or something being here, just out of sight. The void persisted, and the area remained devoid of any corporeal form.
Turning back to the hearth, a surge of emotion welled within me. Silent tears traced a delicate path down my cheeks as I grappled with the overwhelming uncertainty of the encounter. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows. The inexplicable experience left an indelible mark, a complex tapestry of emotions woven into the fabric of the quietude.
YOU ARE READING
Forgotten memories
FantasyHymenaios "Neaus" Pierce is a confused 14 year old. Wakes up with no memories, no idea what he's going to do and a sense of anger. He can see thnigs that are out of the ordanary. Will he get his memories back? Percy Jackson, The Titans Curse, Semi...
