Blood of Olympus

XIII-- Frank

Disclaimer: Don’t own PJO or HOO. . . Rick Riordan does. . .

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XIII—Frank

Frank fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow.

Which was proof as to how exhausting being a demigod was—kids, don’t try this at home.

He should have known better.

As soon as everyone had separated after encountering Aletheia, Frank felt guiltily glad that Hazel had asked for some time to be alone. Because really, with the negligible hours of interrupted sleep that he’d been getting, he didn’t think he would be able to stay awake much longer.

He kissed Hazel good-naptime and headed to his room, plopping down on his bed and allowing the waves of sleep to wash over him.

A stupid mistake.

Naturally, people needed proper sleep to function. Unless you were a demigod, then proper sleep was practically inexistent. The second you closed your eyes, you were bound to fall into a fitful sleep plagued with horrifying visions and disturbing dreams.

That’s exactly what happened to Frank.

Even worse, his dream was about people that he knew. People that he didn’t particularly like.

In the back of his subconscious, he thought: Really? Why couldn’t he ever dream of Hazel or something else equally attractive?

He wanted to wake up, all wishes of getting some rest flying from his head; but he wasn’t able to hold onto that thought.

In the dream, he found himself on the peak of a tall hill, the noontime skyline of some countryside spread around him. A warm breeze whipped through his clothes.

The sky was overcast with thick, dark, grey rainclouds, except for a clearing a few feet away, where the sky was bright blue, as if the area was exempt from the rest of the world’s weather conditions. Lightning flashed. The air was metallic with the smell of oncoming rain.

On the peak of the tall hill stood his old comrades from Camp Jupiter: an array of demigods in combat armour, their Imperial gold weapons and shields glinting in the gloom.

He saw Dakota and Gwen and other members of the Fifth Cohort, milling slightly further away from the rest of the legion, as if they were planning a different strategy from everyone else’s.

Octavian stood in front of the crowd, thin and pale, his eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness or anger, a string of sacrificial stuffed animals around his waist. His usual augur’s white robe had been replaced with a royal purple Praetor’s robe, draped over a purple T-shirt and cargo pants.

Upon seeing him, Frank felt a raging fire of fury. Octavian had always been a conniving little meerkat. He was clever, too clever for everyone else’s good. . . but he had that natural aura of confidence that defined a born leader.