Sunburn- phoebus apollo

--ix. it's me, hi, i'm the problem it's me

RHEA JACKSON

The thing about funerals was that Rhea had been to many of them. She'd seen her friend's  grandparents laid to rest, the greatest heroes of old succumbing to their downfalls, friends and family and strangers alike. But Luke Castellan's was different, because she'd seen him die long before he ever had a chance to truly live, and she'd been quietly mourning him her entire life.

Luke Castellan, the boy who was born to die.

She hoped he found a kinder place in the next life to live in—one where he had parents who cared for him and weren't afraid to show it, one where loneliness and hatred didn't plague him like a sickness, one where he had a home to return to.

One where he never had to doubt he was loved.

Because, although Luke Castellan had been far more of a villain in this life than a hero, he'd made a difficult choice in the end, and he'd saved the world. A part of her wished that she could have spared him of that decision, given him the guidance his heart had always longed for—but the Fates were cruel, and there was nothing she could do.

Even her own path would not be a kind one. She knew that the moment the Three Fates themselves took Luke's body away, and one of them looked straight at her.

She had only ever seen them in person once before, but their presence had always been felt in her visions, and now that they were finally in the same room as her after all those years, she saw her immediate future play before her—in tatters, in glimpses, in sunlight. Barely distinguishable, running too fast for her to grab hold of anything, but she managed to catch sight of a few select scenes.

A flying ship, with a masthead of a bronze dragon.

A blond boy, with a white toga and eyes that hurt to look at.

All of those images whizzed by, like a slice of light, and in the blink of an eye, it was over.

Rhea suddenly felt bereft, lost at sea, and left with only a life jacket and a rickety raft to keep her afloat. She felt as if the Fates had just given her the confirmation that she would live to see more adventures, but they had given her no indication as to whether or not she would ultimately get a happy ending.

But she supposed that was the way life worked for most people—you weren't allowed to know the end until it came. The whole point of being alive was the journey, not the destination, and sometimes, that really wasn't so bad.

Sometimes, you didn't really need to know the ending to live a happy life.

And maybe the future didn't matter, Rhea thought. Maybe the present was more important. Maybe the here and now, her breath and her pulse and her heart, were what counted. Knowing she existed, and knowing she was taking up space unapologetically.

Being alive. Being alive. Being alive.

Rhea was still alive. She'd lived to see the end of this war, and she hoped, just maybe, she'd live to see the end of her prophecy, too.

Because she'd made it this far, hadn't she? History had repeated, but the second Trojan War—the second Titan War—had ended differently. Rhea had been Cassandra and Patroclus in equal measure, and she'd lived when they'd died.

So had Percy.

So had Annabeth.

So had Ethan and Michael and Thalia and all her friends she loved like family—Nico, Lee, Grover. Rachel. Will. And the hazy faces left to come.

'I know what you have seen. I know your mind is clouded with dark thoughts,' Pan had once told her, all that time ago in the Labyrinth. 'But do not despair. You are, and will continue to be, very, very loved.'