It's annoying to always be on the wrong side.

In kindergarten, try to be normal and fit in but you always have a natural bone to pick with the world and the leathery-winged man watching you walking home from school isn't helping any.

In grade school, get good grades. Study, don't ask questions, let the grown-ups 'handle' everything. Gets on your nerves after a while, and so does your mother who sees things that scare you. You run away, you run from the loonies and monsters and bad men and you find friends whom you trust, fully and completely,

A friend dies when saving your life. A tree replaces her, a reminder that she is dead, dead, dead, and you are forever scarred but still alive, alive, alive.

You go home, though the camp is where your heart is by now with your half-siblings and cousins. You can't bring yourself to introduce yourself to your mother—is she singing to her sandwich?

The camp becomes your home, and you're no more a sheltered little boy. You are growing up in war and you feel completely at peace.

You age, you grow, you learn. Father never talks to you. You're the outcast, and so you fill your time training. The three cabins at the end of the V are empty and you feel more alone than ever.

Finally, help comes. You seize the chance and take revenge—not for you, for everyone, for all of creation crying out. You take it and you're almost free.

Something goes wrong, something happens, and a friend and a cousin and a guide depart to find what you stole. But they can't accuse you; you don't have it anyway.

They blame it on you. It's black and white in their eyes and you crossed the line. Well, it's war now. You have to kill a friend and run to your masters, you coward, with bravado, and seek help and refuge.

You try to heal your master, they intervene again. Now you're on your own and you know what you have to do now because it didn't work—because of them. You know that doing it is death, and so you delay. Raise an old friend, try to escape, and try to hint to your old friends what you have to do now. Even meet with a friend to explain why you need it back NOW.

You've delayed too long, you coward. They beat you and brand you and rape you and force you until you break, a sniveling wretch, to do their bidding, and you put up the façade to your old friends because even though you have to live with the guilt of what you're going to do (and what you can't avoid any longer), you can go down with a smile. You're on the wrong side and you know it.

And then you do it. Encased in gold and bound in time, on a constant wave of agony, in which your soul cannot die and finally be at peace. You break free finally, your big moment, the denouement, and with a glance you know you still mean the world to her and her to you, and you have to finally suck it up and do the right thing for once.

You surrender to her but you have to do it yourself, because you want to be the hero for once, because you never were, not really; the pain and guilt and fear of what's to come in your eyes because you're leaving, leaving, leaving and she will be forever scarred but at least alive, alive, alive.

"We need a shroud…a shroud for the son of Hermes."