War was never an easy affair. No one won in war, not really. And the heroes? Heracles, Perseus, Jason, Achilles— none of them ever had any happy ending, and Percy feared he was becoming another piece of that woeful chain. Ever since he had lost you in the war, watched the red crimson leak from your body as you died a teenage soldiers fate, he had never been the same. He woke up in cold sweats, and any loud noise triggered a battle response in him— even the clanging of forks against plates in the dining hall had become torturous— He stopped eating at the dining hall altogether, and while this was noticed among the other campers, no one truly dared to interfere, in fear he would snap.

He still talked to you, like a mad man, really. Whispered words to the air, silent tears, sometimes even lengthy conversations in the wee hours of the night— you never responded though. You were dead. Your only remaining grip on the world being your grave, kept real nice by Percy and the occasional wood nymph looking to do charity, and the empty space beside him wherever he went.