Where You Go ― Jason Grace

iii. ophelia's beef with a statue

OPHELIA WATCHED AS Annabeth paced a trench in the floor of the Argo II. She busied herself with double-checking the ballistae, the crossbows, the white truce flag, the others' positions—every tiny detail. It might have seemed a little excessive, but Ophelia understood Annabeth's anxiety and need for everything to be perfect. If even one little thing went wrong today, everything could blow up in their faces. Literally. 

"We're going to be fine," Annabeth mumbled under her breath like a chant. "We're going to be fine." 

Ophelia was relieved when Annabeth convinced Coach Hedge to go to his cabin and watch his reruns of mixed martial arts championships, leaving the slightly more sane and far less bloodthirsty members of the ship's crew to greet their Roman neighbors.

A few feet away, Piper, was pacing back and forth across the deck in a similar fashion to Annabeth, practicing her charmspeak in a voice too low for Ophelia to hear properly, which was good since her friend's charmspeak had gotten a lot stronger since she first discovered it, and Ophelia didn't fancy being mind-controlled this early in the morning.

Leo, for his part, was running around like a headless chicken, checking and double-checking gauges, wrestling with stubborn levers. He had a familiar delighted glint in his eyes, deep in his element as he piloted the Argo II, his pride and joy.

On the raised crossbow platform, Jason stood tall, perfectly visible to the Romans. He looked every bit a son of Jupiter and praetor, and it reminded Ophelia of their life before everything with the exchange and quest to free Hera. But instead of a purple shirt under his toga and purple praetor's cloak, he donned an orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt, identical to the one Ophelia wore.

He'd be the first thing most of the Romans would see—after the warship, of course. Jason was the more recognizable of the two as the camp's former praetor and the famous son of Jupiter who'd defeated the Titan Krios in hand-to-hand combat. Everyone was hoping the sight of his face would make the Romans hesitate to blow the ship out of the sky.

As the layout of Camp Jupiter became visible beneath them, her stomach twisted into a knot.

The Roman camp was her home—she'd spent her childhood in the glittering city of New Rome with her mother, then Matt and Gianna. She'd grown up running around with the other young legacies and dreaming of joining the legion. She'd spent half a dozen years in the legion, training and fighting alongside her fellow soldiers, being forged into a hero through blood, sweat, and an abundant amount of tears.

But now, when she looked at the places that had raised her, she couldn't stop thinking about the daughter of Neptune that had been such a big part of her time in the legion.

She could see the lake where Maren had first taught Ophelia how to swim—appalled that at twelve, Ophelia still didn't know how to swim—before she swore never to set foot in another body of water. There was the café that Maren dragged her to whenever they were in New Rome, never leaving without a cup of the city's signature hot chocolate. There was the grassy spot at the foot of Temple Hill where the girls would relax underneath the shade of a redwood tree, where Maren had first kissed her and Ophelia thought she'd somehow found the love of her life at thirteen years old.

She could see the opening of Caldecott Tunnel, where Ophelia had stumbled back into camp after her quest with Zoë Nightshade and cried in Jason's arms over a betrayal that hurt even worse than the burning scar on her stomach.

Don't let her haunt you, Annabeth's voice murmured in her mind—one snippet from a hundred conversations about their dealings with betrayal and loss. She's dead. You're not. Remember that.