Maze of Memories

Goodbyes

There were too many good-byes. That night was the first time I actually saw camp burial shrouds used on bodies, and it was not something I wanted to see again.

Among the dead, Lee Fletcher from the Apollo cabin had been downed by a giant's club. He was wrapped in a golden shroud without any decoration. The son of Dionysus who'd gone down fighting an enemy half-blood was wrapped in a deep purple shroud embroidered with grapevines. His name was Castor.

I was ashamed that I'd seen him around camp for and never even bothered to learn his name. He'd been seventeen years old. His twin brother, Pollux, tried to say a few words, but he choked up and just took the torch. He lit the funeral pyre in the middle of the amphitheater, and within seconds the row of shrouds was engulfed in fire, sending smoke and sparks up to the stars.

The image of the fallen demigod, his lifeless eyes staring up at me with accusing gaze, burned itself into my mind with searing intensity. I could still feel the weight of my blades in my hands, the metallic taste of blood on my lips, as I struck him down in a fit of blind rage.

But even as the flames danced before me, casting eerie shadows across the amphitheater, it was not the memory of my own actions that haunted me the most. It was the faces of those who had fallen, their names and stories lost to the annals of history, their voices silenced forever.

I closed my eyes against the onslaught of memories, my chest tightening with a suffocating sense of despair. How many more lives would be lost before this war was over? How many more would fall victim to the senseless violence and cruelty that seemed to pervade our world?

And then, just as the darkness threatened to engulf me whole, a warm hand slipped into mine, grounding me in the present moment. I opened my eyes to find Christine standing beside me, her gaze soft and understanding as she silently offered her support.

I squeezed her hand tightly in mine, drawing strength from her presence as we stood together in silent vigil, watching as the funeral pyre burned brightly against the backdrop of the night sky.

***

We spent the next day treating the wounded, which was almost everybody. The satyrs and dryads worked to repair the damage to the woods. At noon, the Council of Cloven Elders held an emergency meeting in their sacred grove. The three senior satyrs were there, along with Chiron, who was in wheelchair form. His broken horse leg was still mending, so he would be confined to the chair for a few months, until the leg was strong enough to take his weight. The grove was filled with satyrs and dryads and naiads up from the water—hundreds of them, anxious to hear what would happen.

Juniper, Annabeth, Percy, Christine and I stood by Grover's side.

Silenus wanted to exile Grover immediately, but Chiron persuaded him to at least hear evidence first, so we told everyone what had happened in the crystal cavern, and what Pan had said. Then several eyewitnesses from the battle described the weird sound Grover had made, which drove the Titan's army back underground.

"It was panic," insisted Juniper. "Grover summoned the power of the wild god."

"Panic?" Percy asked.

"Percy," Chiron explained, "during the first war of the gods and the Titans, Lord Pan let forth a horrible cry that scared away the enemy armies. It is—it was his greatest power—a massive wave of fear that helped the gods win the day. The word panic is named after Pan, you see. And Grover used that power, calling it forth from within himself."

"Preposterous!" Silenus bellowed. "Sacrilege! Perhaps the wild god favored us with a blessing. Or perhaps Grover's music was so awful it scared the enemy away!"