The Lost Prince of Olympus

This isn't fair/I'm sorry my son

The day Harry almost died had not started off well.

He had burnt the bacon and left the eggs charred. He had trudged to school in the rain as his cousin drove past, his hands bandaged with a ratty cloth hiding the burn marks and blisters underneath and his cheek red, throbbing and tearstained.

He had spent the day staring into space, the numbers on his page smudged and the words jumbled. The teachers had screamed, their eyes wild and mad, posing an odd resemblance to his aunt as they raged.

"Stupid," "clueless," "worthless," they had whispered when he left thinking they were talking softly though they knew in their hearts that they weren't.

Dudley had chased him, left his nose bleeding and his eye bruised, blamed the incident on him and left. The children had laughed when he left the classroom, their eyes following him as he walked reluctantly to his therapists office.

His therapist had frowned, his eyes ablaze as Harry told him about another creature.

His headteacher had sighed and his teacher had laughed, the students had giggled and his aunt had cried.

This wasn't fair.

He had been dragged home by the ear, his hands trembling and tears leaking out of his eyes yet his expression fixed. He had been dragged home and threatened, thrown into his cupboard hungry and full of anger, thoughts swirling in his head.

This wasn't fair.

His uncle had come home from work, his breath smelling of alcohol as he spoke, the scent travelling to his nose as he resisted the urge to pule. He had opened the door, the cupboard exposed to the light and the hinges creaking and protesting as they were ripped off. His fingernails dug into his arms, the blood coming so easily now.

This wasn't fair.

Punches had been delivered, heavy fists banging against his skin, digging into his stomach. The sole of his uncle's shoe smashed into his face, his nose twisting and cracking until blood streamed out, a river covering his mouth. His arms dragged him up, the his head thrust backward until the back hit the wall, flecks of red and brown and orange painted on.

This wasn't fair.

He couldn't breath. The air in his lungs had left and the hand on his neck prevented him from gasping and reeling more air into his body.

This wasn't fair.

The world around him spun, the edges of the room fraying and giving way to black specks, the room smelling of sweat and tears and blood, the tangy metallic taste of pain filling his mouth as he coughed. This was it.

This wasn't fair.

His eyes closed slowly, the eyelids lowering until he had no willpower to keep them open and even less to live.

This wasn't fair.

Poseidon had been jolted awake by a fire burning in his chest.

His skin prickled, the dulled sensation of pain spearing through his body as he groaned. He drank water and walked, he rubbed pain relievers on skin and fell into a fitful sleep, awaking the next day feeling the same. The bed became his inhabitance the entire day, his muscles groaning each time he moved and his heart aching.

He reached out to grasp the blankets next to him, his nails clutching the fabric and his face burying into his silk. The bed beneath him became damp, his tears soaking into the sheets as he shook, no thought or comforting word reaching his ears.

This was his fault. If he had gone earlier, if he had ran faster, if he had stayed for longer; the ache in his body would not be persistent, the pain no longer a normal twinge that erupted and the heartache a distant memory. How could he have let this happen? How could he lay here, his face in the silk blankets, his every need tended to, the pain bearable when he knew that for his son none of this was true?