ᴾʰᵒᵇᵒᵖʰᵒᵇⁱᵃ [ᴶᵃˢᵒⁿ ᴳʳᵃᶜᵉ]

κ.

ABOUT eight years ago, in one of her hospital's group therapy sessions, one of the therapists finally said something which struck her. While it was true that her spot – the blue chair in the corner, which she claimed each time – could've very well been occupied by someone who needed it more and it was very true she spent every waking moment there miserable, it wouldn't be accurate to say Aza-Everett Malin gained nothing from her multitude of stays.

"A dialectic," Katheryn wrote the word on the board, "is the idea that two opposing ideas, or truths, can be true at the same time. The key word is 'and.' I can be angry at my husband, and still love him. You can be anxious to go to school, and still, you will be okay. The world oftentimes isn't as black-and-white as it first appears."

Awful memories taunted her, scratching at the barricade Aza prided herself on. Shoved in the depths of her mind, kept under lock and key was her own Tartarus; just as there was for everyone. Awful thoughts threatened to spill from the depths, which once seemed infinite.

The temple radiated some indiscernible power; an undercurrent of energy within the room, charged and crackling. It crushed her throat with an iron grip. She drowned in it. Tidal waves crashed over her, and she could only relish in a single second for breath before there was another one. Another wave, another painful memory, another spectral hand washing against skin. Aza-Everett could safely say she experienced fear like never before – karma, she thought bitterly – and she thrived in the sensation of drowning.

Frozen, Aza took in a deep breath; the sweet, sulfurous scent was intoxicating. With each breath, another of her friend's most horrific memories flashed before her eyes. She almost didn't feel guilty that it was their very will, smoldering in her chest. Her breath was ragged, her heart beat like a hummingbird's wings. She almost felt light-headed, and she relished in the way her eyes unfocused just a fraction.

The giant and she watched each other, slowly and carefully. A gentle smirk played at his chapped lips; his cautious gaze skimmed her for the slightest hint of movement. She played it off, though it was hard to stay frozen when each face flashed in the forefront of her eyes, and the phantom fingertips of the dead traced up and down her arm. She felt fear's icy fingertips brush against her chest, talons tracing the outline of her heart. And, that was okay. She would be okay.

The giant's pinky twitched. His beetle-black eyes, shimmering with self-satisfied confidence, squinted at her, and his smile widened a fraction. Hubris was far too often a giant's tell, and it reflected the gut-churning golden eyes which haunted the back of her mind.

He hefted his sledgehammer above his shoulder. Her friends, still paralyzed beside her, stared death in the face and cowered in acceptance. As the weapon arched towards them, Aza grabbed Piper's bicep and together they tackled Annabeth to the side.

As they fell, Aza stretched her arms as best she could and cushioned Annabeth's head. Still, the three smacked angrily against the vibrating stone floor. The cavern shook angrily; the force of the blow rippled through the stone, nearly toppling Aza as she clambered to her feet. As she did so, she briefly clasped a hand on each of her friend's biceps. She tried to numb their fears, to pull whatever thoughts tormented them and store them instead – but their minds were too wild.

"Get up!" She hissed, before wheeling around and pointing her sword at the giant. Regrettably, she couldn't help them to their feet and defend them. She should never turn her back to the enemy: that was Rule Number 1.

The giant's chuckle, accompanied with the patronizing shake of his head, made Aza's blood boil. He clicked his tongue, "Oh, that wasn't fair!"

She twisted her lips into a smirk and straightened, shifting her shoulders back. "Try it again, and that'll give me two fair smacks. I think I'd like that pretty hammer."