A/N: I know I said I wouldn't do anymore. But then I was thinking about how everyone glorified being a half-blood, and then this popped into my head.



Many children think it would be cool to be a half-blood.

You envy them.

The blood of people that used to be your friends drips from your fingers, and you can vividly recall sticking swords in their guts, sending arrows into the chinks of their armour.

They deserved it, you tell yourself. They were on the Titan's side.

It matters not. You had known these people. A couple years ago, if someone had told you that you killed them, you wouldn't have believed it. Shaking, you drop to your knees.

Surrounding you are the shrouds. The shrouds of the friends who had stayed on the gods' side the whole time. And died for it.

You scream, digging your fingernails so hard into your palm that you watch your blood trickle across your hand.

You still do not know which god's ichor goes through your veins. Even now, after all you've done. After all you've lost.

Another body is being brought up, and her face catches your eye. And you stand up, face blank, refusing to comprehend.

You know that face. You love that face.

And now you are running. Running faster, faster than you ran in battle. But the truth is snapping at your heals like a hellhound, but you can't out run it, and you fling yourself down on the body, because if she sees you here she will wake up, she must wake up, because she can't be dead. She can't!

And now you are back on your knees, staring at the heap of blood, armor and flesh that used to be your best friend, and you are screaming louder than before.

You are screaming at the Fates for cutting the string.

You are screaming at the Titans, for taking so many lives, and ruining yours.

You are screaming at the gods, and their arrogance that led to all this death.

And you are screaming at yourself, because no matter how many monsters you kill, and kill, and kill again, how many half-bloods-that-used-to-be-your-friends fall to your knife, you cannot always save those closest to you.

Now someone is dragging you away, and someone else is walking up to the body and covers her with a golden shroud.

No! That simple action proves that she is dead, and you cannot let that happen. You are still screaming as you claw at the face of whoever is holding your arm.

All around, people are declaring victory. And you don't care, though just minutes ago you would have been happy.

But now it is too late. It is too late for victory, because your world is ended. You don't want to know who else is dead, but a morbid force makes you look at the other still, lifeless faces under the colorful shrouds.

And for the first time you understand why someone might go over to the Titans. Before, even though the gods could care less about you, you have never waivered in your loyalties. The Titans had killed some of your friends, and you had always seen them as what they were; evil.

Now you hate them all. The gods, the Titans, Chiron, and Western Civilization.

You hate the world.

And, for now, nothing can change that.

Even when, a few days later, a golden bow hovers over your head, and you find out you would have been her sister. You were her sister.

Especially when you crawl into her old bunk, hugging her old pillow.

It will be many months before you allow yourself to feel truly happy, many years before you can appreciate the miracle of how things turn out.

It will be many decades before her face starts to fade in your mind, and you stop asking yourself how you could have saved her.

It is many more decades before you stop feeling guilty for surviving.

So you are envious of those that fantasize about being children of the gods. They think of the excitement and the glory.

But with glory comes death, and as you stand next to her grave at the funeral, you pray for her safe path to Elysium.


Yes, I know, morbid.

I also started a book-and-other-things review site, at fyir dot webs dot com.

And I- finally!- updated my other personal writing site with all my non fanfictions, stormsspot dot webs dot com.