Whimsical Mortality - SEQUEL OF THICKENING SHADOWS

Chapter 7

The remembrance of Harley had concluded about three hours ago, at eleven o'clock, and everyone had flocked away for the night. Jack had laid on his bed for about half an hour, mind running at a million miles an hour, skin itching as he attempted to lie still. Below him on the ground, five of his cabin mates where playing a game of Poker (betting with various low grade fireworks), while a couple stayed up chatting. The spirit winter was going to wait until everyone was asleep, but he knew from experience that everyone wasn't sound asleep until around one o'clock in the morning, and he found he couldn't wait.

Jack jumped down from his bunk and landed on the hardwood floor. Those who were awake looked at him as the floor board creaked, but then just shrugged and looked back to their games. The Guardian found he had no trouble leaving the cabin.

The camp fire was now no more than embers, and nearly everyone was asleep, dreaming without the aid of the Sandman. The camp was quiet, except for the anguished cry of Harpies who lost their hand at cards, and the occasional braying from the Pegasus stables. The air, as always, was warm, with a hint of a cool breeze coming off the sea. The smell of strawberries, pine needles and the ocean filled the air. It seemed like a paradise. Certainly if this was a normal summer camp, parents would be waiting for years just to get their kids in.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, however you wished to look at it,), this wasn't a normal summer camp.

For a moment, Jack gazed around, trying to think of a place where he could be by himself for the night. He looked at the forest in the distance before jogging lightly and soundlessly towards it. He breathed a sigh of relief as he was encompassed by the trees. In this camp, he didn't feel right, he knew he didn't belong. The epitome of winter didn't like being kept in one place, he didn't like walking everywhere, and he most certainly didn't like what Percy had told him.

The Guardian of Fun knew that children died. Not only was Nico a prime example (he did after all cater for dead children), but Jack had been present through many wars and political corruption. He'd seen teenagers pretend to be men in the Civil War, he'd been present in the concentration camps in World War Two, and he even was very aware about child labour around the world. What struck him though was that these children died because of what they were born into. From the moment they were born, they didn't have a chance.

Jack knew that they trained to defend themselves and he tried to convince himself that should make himself feel better. But it only made himself sadder. They fought other children! They injured themselves and played war games. While they considered it fun, Jack considered it concerning. Part of him told himself not to be surprised. Nico died when he was thirteen and lost a sister due to godly related situations. Sometimes he found himself wondering if demigods ever got to experience normal childhoods.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he sat himself a top a giant collection of rocks, partially remembering Percy saying something about it being called 'Zeus' Fist'. He didn't think it looked like a fist. If anything, it looked like a pile of dog poo. Sighing to himself, Jack gazed up as snow began to flitter into the clearing. Without his staff, he had relied solely on his inner strength to stop frost from spreading and snow from falling within the camp. Now, alone, he let out the power stored within him. Frost cracked out along the rocks and grass, while the snow continued to fall, dusting everything within a seven metre radius of Jack.

"That is so much better," Jack sighed in relief as he played with a newly appearing strand of brown hair, "why hasn't Hermes found my staff? I'm sick of being here!-"