IN WHICH a daughter of Asteria falls for a son of Nemesis.
Or
IN WHICH a daughter of Asteria can't seem pick a side.
Book I of 'Written In The Stars' [Wits] Series
Percy Jackson - Pre Heroes of Olympus
Ethan Nakamura x Fem!OC
Wits - plural n. mental...
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I'M A HORRIBLE PERSON, I KNOW OKAY AND—AND I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO ANYMORE.
Everything had gone to shit. Nico was in the infirmary, Ethan, Lee, Silena, just about any of Astra's close friends were nowhere to be seen. I was locked up in my cabin, trying my best to not break down and burst all the pipes around camp.
I was pacing around in my room, I could never forget the look on Ethan's face, when the black cloud of darkness left the air. He looked so heartbroken. Silena's loud sobs were engraved in my mind, the way she punched Lee's chest as he held her.
Lee trying his best not to break down, trying to stay strong for his friends. Castor and Pollux sitting there, looking shellshocked, motionless with tears falling from their eyes.
Annabeth looked like she could've been sick, she looked green. Connor and Travis sat there silently, staring at the wall, most likely processing everything.
Katie was the first to leave the meeting, Jake following behind her. Ethan had picked up Nico and took him to the infirmary, all of his friends following behind him.
Annabeth and I were the last to leave.
"She's not dead, right?..." Annabeth had asked Chiron.
Chiron looked like he was trying to swallow a rat, "she... she is in Chaos as we speak."
I didn't understand what he had meant. I laid down on the bed, and let myself break down into my pillows.
My last thought was I can't do Nico's plan without her.
─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
I dreamed Rachel Elizabeth Dare was throwing darts at my picture.
She was standing in her room... Okay, back up. I have to explain that Rachel doesn't have a room.
She has the top floor of her family's mansion, which is a renovated brownstone in Brooklyn. Her "room" is a huge loft with industrial lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows. It's about twice as big as my mom's apartment.
Some alt rock—that I knew was LINKIN PARK— was blaring from her paint-covered Bose docking system. As far as I could tell, Rachel's only rule about music was that no two songs on her iPod could sound the same, and they all had to be strange.
She wore a kimono, and her hair was frizzy, like she'd been sleeping. Her bed was messed up. Sheets hung over a bunch of artist's easels. Dirty clothes and old energy bar wrappers were strewn around the floor, but when you've got a room that big, the mess doesn't look so bad. Out the windows you could see the entire nighttime skyline of Manhattan.
The picture she was attacking was a painting of me standing in front of skeletons with my sword out. Rachel had painted it a couple of months ago. My expression in the picture was fierce—disturbing, even—so it was hard to tell if I was the good guy or the bad guy, but Rachel said I'd looked just like that after the battle.
