eclipse [j.grace 1]

xvii. i'm the eternal optimist

The early morning mist clung to the camp like a shroud, veiling the familiar landscape in an ethereal silence. Eira walked along the edge of the training field, her steps deliberate, as though each one carried the weight of her thoughts. The camp was just beginning to stir, with the distant sounds of chatter and laughter filtering through the mist like the echoes of a world she no longer belonged to.

Eira paused by a cluster of ancient oak trees, their gnarled branches stretching skyward like silent sentinels. She wrapped her arms around herself, her breath fogging in the cool air, but it was the ache in her chest that she wished she could shield herself from. The isolation she felt had become almost tangible, a shadow that followed her every step, growing longer and darker as the days passed.

The events of the past few weeks had chipped away at the fragile sense of belonging she had tried so hard to cultivate. The rumours, the failed training sessions, the subtle glances that followed her like whispers in the wind—it all added to the growing sense of alienation. She had once been able to brush off the cold shoulders and whispered conversations, but now, it felt like every look, every word, was a reminder that she was different. Other. Alone.

Eira leaned against the rough bark of an oak, its surface cool and unyielding beneath her touch. She closed her eyes, trying to quiet the storm of emotions churning within her. It wasn't just the camp that felt different—it was her. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt truly connected to someone, the last time she had laughed without reservation or shared a moment of genuine camaraderie.

The isolation was like a hollow ache in her chest, growing more pronounced with each passing day. She had always prided herself on her strength, her ability to stand alone in the face of adversity, but this was different. This was a loneliness that seeped into her very bones, a sense of being adrift in a sea of faces that didn't truly see her.

As she stood there, the wind stirred the leaves above her, their rustling a soft, almost mournful melody. It reminded her of Tartarus, of the eerie stillness that had pervaded that dark place, broken only by the distant wails of the damned. Eira shivered, not from the cold, but from the memories that resurfaced, unbidden.

Her thoughts drifted back to her parents, to the fractured relationships that had shaped her. Nox, her mother, had been a figure of shadows and fear, a presence that had loomed over her childhood like a dark cloud. 

Eira's earliest memories of her were filled with cold detachment, the kind of indifference that cuts deeper than any blade. Nox had never been nurturing, never cradled her with the warmth of a mother's love. Instead, she had treated Eira like a burden, an aberration in a realm where power and ruthlessness were the only currencies of value.

The other children—her golden half-siblings—had been favoured, their cruelty a reflection of Nox's own nature. Eira, with her more human emotions and vulnerabilities, had always been the outsider, the one who didn't belong. Nox had ensured she knew it, with every cold glance, every word of disdain.

But it was not just Nox's indifference that haunted her; it was the darkness within her, a darkness she could never quite shake. There had always been something different about Eira, something that set her apart even from her golden siblings. 

A shadow, perhaps, that lurked at the edges of her consciousness, waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce. She had never spoken of it, not even to Apollo, but she felt it, a silent, lurking presence that whispered of powers yet untapped, of abilities she couldn't yet comprehend.

Apollo. Her father had been her saviour, rescuing her from that dark place, offering her a chance at a different life. But even that rescue had been bittersweet. Eira loved her father, in a way, but Apollo was not a constant presence. His visits were sporadic, his affection real but distant. He had his own world, his own duties, and Eira often felt like a footnote in his grand narrative—a beloved footnote, perhaps, but a footnote nonetheless.