It was numb to you by now, the pain biting against your every limb, gnawing at your every movement. The rain was relentless against the grass of Half-Blood hill, and against you, as you laid weak and limp as the few year-round campers watched, unsure of what to do— To help, to comfort, to accept. Only one person stepped up, in a hurried pace that was unusual for him, his hands— that would usually be occupied with making some bet on cards or another —quickly found their way to you, moving your hair from your face and clearing your vision as you looked up to see your father. Dionysus. The first face you saw after that terrible quest. Your first comfort in far too long.