perhaps when one becomes too familiar with war,
they forget that peace exists.
[ book one -- storming universe ]
[ Sierra Machisse -- book one ]
[ sea of monsters -- titan's curse ]
{ 03 / 29 / 2020 -- ? }
( Percy Jackson x Female OC )
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"YOU WANNA LOSE JACKSON, BE MY GUEST, IF NOT GET OVER THERE AND SHAKE HER."
"Why don't you do it? She's your sister!"
"The last time I tried that I got this" clothing shifted.
Sierra blinked her eyes open. She rolled over to find Sherman had pulled his shirt over his head and was pointing to a jagged scar on his shoulder. He'd made the mistake of jumping on Sierra's bed to wake her up like the annoying little brother he was a few weeks after she first came to camp. Little did he know she slept with a knife under her pillow and woke up violent.
"Sherman," Sierra sighed, and her brother turned to her, orange t-shirt still dangling from his fingertips. "How many times do I have to remind you; not everyone wants to see your scars. And you don't have to take your shirt off to show them."
Sherman wasn't exactly hard on the eyes by any means. He was a big burly Chinese kid and like most Ares kids had defied his mother's side of the genetics almost entirely. Sherman's mortal brothers were all around 5'3, his mother barely pushing five feet zero. Sherman hit six feet easy and his arms were as big around as his six year old brother. The guy was ripped, like all of the Ares kids. And like all his siblings those muscles were covered in scars.
They all liked to show off their war wounds, it was a point of pride for an Ares kid to have taken away a mark from a battle. John and James had a running tally of who had the most, they marked down every time a new one was received, and if they spotted a new one. Sierra couldn't count the amount of times they, as a cabin, would stay up late into the morning recounting the stories.
The thing no one ever considered about the war god cabin was that they understood emotional scars better than most. War wasn't a peaceful endeavor, and it wasn't something that left anyone unlucky enough to fall into it's throes unmarked. Surviving a war was never a victory, it was always a loss of battle in your sanity.
They weren't just born of and for war, but they found it everywhere they went. Sherman caused them in his household of about a million little boys. Clarisse always sought out a fight to try and ease any emotional pain she found herself in. And Sierra, well, Sierra had a talent for causing internal battles. The kind of wars fought in your soul where either side wielded insults and pain rather than weapons. They were made of war, and they understood the trauma caused by conflict better than anyone. They all had some form of PTSD and they'd never escape it. Because those thrown into war came out the other side traumatized. To seek it out, you had to already be pretty fucked in the head.
Everyone thought of Ares as the cruel cabin. Sure, they could all be quick to anger, and most of them had a mouth that would make a sailor jealous. But Sierra knew they all had another side. Respect was earned here, not given freely, but once you had it, they'd all die for you, kill for you, rip the world apart for you. Sierra had never shown off any of her scars, and none of them had ever pushed. It wasn't a fear thing, it was a recognition that she wasn't scarred because of some petty cat fight, her scars were fracture lines from a broken soul showing themselves in raised pink and white lines that would never fade.
