eclipse [j.grace 1]

xxviii. i'm pretty when i cry

The sun rose gently over Camp Jupiter, casting a soft, golden light over the assembled legionnaires. Despite the morning's serenity, an air of somberness hung over the camp. The battlefield's aftermath had left deep scars, and today, the camp was gathered for a solemn funeral to honour the fallen heroes.

The ceremony took place in the heart of New Rome, where the camp's memorial had been set up. The once vibrant plaza was now filled with the hushed murmurs of grieving demigods and allies. Flags draped at half-mast fluttered gently in the breeze, and the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut flowers and burning incense.

Eira stood near the front, her posture rigid and her expression distant. The recent battle had been brutal, and Marcus's death felt like a personal blow. He had been a steadfast leader, and the loss of him left a void in the camp that was palpable.

Her gaze was fixed on the casket draped with the Roman flag, a symbol of Marcus's service and sacrifice. The ceremony's solemn tone only deepened her sense of loss. Memories of Marcus's leadership and the camaraderie they shared weighed heavily on her.

Jason, standing beside her, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Eira leaned into the gesture, her breath hitching slightly. The shared grief between them was a silent bond, one that spoke of the trials they had endured together.

Reyna stood a short distance away, her face a mask of stoic determination, but her eyes betrayed her emotions. The loss of Marcus had hit her hard. He had been not just a comrade but a close friend, and the weight of his absence was evident in the tightness of her jaw and the somber expression in her eyes.

As she looked out over the assembled crowd, Reyna struggled to keep her composure. Her thoughts were a turbulent sea of regret and sadness, mingled with the confusion of her unresolved feelings for Jason. The battle had shifted everything, and Reyna's internal conflict was now a poignant part of her grief.

Jason was a focal point of the ceremony, his presence both a symbol of hope and a reminder of the cost of their struggle. He stood tall, but his eyes were shadowed with the weight of loss and responsibility. The weight of Marcus's death was heavy on him, compounded by the realization of the leadership he would now have to assume.

Jason's thoughts were a jumble of emotions—grief, guilt, and determination. He had fought valiantly, but the cost had been high. The ceremony felt like a moment of reflection, not just on the loss of a comrade but on the future they now had to face without him.

Octavian's presence was almost a dark shadow at the ceremony. He moved among the mourners with an air of practiced solemnity, his face an impassive mask. But there was something unsettling about his demeanour. His eyes, cold and calculating, seemed to survey the crowd with a detached curiosity.

As the ceremony continued, Octavian made a point of positioning himself near the center of attention, subtly drawing the focus towards him. His comments, though seemingly respectful, carried an undercurrent of self-interest. He was quick to praise the fallen but equally quick to highlight his own contributions and offer his visions for the future.

Occasionally, Octavian's gaze would linger on Jason and Reyna, his thoughts unreadable but clearly assessing. It was as if he were already calculating how to manoeuvre within the shifting power dynamics, taking stock of who might be vulnerable or influential.

The ceremony proceeded with a series of traditional rites. The camp's bell tolled slowly, each chime a reminder of the loss and sacrifice. Eulogies were delivered, each speech a tribute to the courage and dedication of those who had fallen. The mourners paid their respects, each in their own way, with some laying flowers and others simply standing in quiet reflection.