FEABY @glassonionsoul - Tumblr Blog

BLOOD OF ARES | PART.2

paring: clarisse la rue x daughter of aphrodite!reader

description: you live the devastating pain of the sudden and cruel breakup with clarisse, who abandons you with cold words and leaves you believing you were never truly loved. clarisse is consumed by guilt, fear, and ares' direct manipulation, who convinced her that love is weakness and a threat to her loyalty, until she realizes she could no longer run from the truth. she would confront ares and take you back, even if it cost her dearly.

warnings: !angst!

[part.1]

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The night had fully fallen, a dark mantle speckled with indifferent stars that twinkled high above, like distant eyes watching human suffering without pity. The air smelled of damp earth, resinous pine trees, and a faint trace of campfire smoke drifting from the distant pavilion where the other campers gathered for dinner, laughing and talking as if the world hadn't collapsed for someone nearby.

You didn't know how you'd ended up on the porch of the Aphrodite cabin. Your legs seemed to have moved on their own, trembling and mechanical, driven by a survival instinct that dragged you away from the dark path where everything had shattered. The porch floor was polished wood, cold against your curled-up body, and the soft glow of lanterns hanging from the columns cast shadows that seemed alive, like ghosts of memories refusing to leave.

The scent of night-blooming flowers, jasmine and roses growing around the cabin, hung in the air, sweet and comforting, but tonight it only intensified the nausea in your stomach, because it brought back nights when Clarisse had held you right there, laughing softly against your neck, saying she hated the "sticky" smell but deep down loved it because it was yours.

You were resting your head in Silena's lap, lying on your side, body curled up like a lost child, knees pulled tight against your chest as if trying to protect whatever was left of your broken heart. The tears still slid down your face, but now they were slow, almost exhausted, tracing paths already dry and irritated on your reddened, swollen skin. Each drop fell with painful slowness, dripping onto the soft fabric of Silena's skirt, leaving dark stains that spread like invisible blood.

Your body gave only faint spasms, too tired from the hours of intense, guttural crying that had started as a primal howl on the path and turned into ragged sobs, hollowing you out until only a trembling, empty, aching shell remained. Each spasm was like a residual wave from an ocean of sadness, making your shoulders quiver slightly, your chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, as if air were too precious to waste.

Silena ran her nails gently through your hair, a repetitive, soothing motion like the sway of a hammock in a light breeze. Her nails were painted a soft pink, and the touch was light, almost ethereal, tracing slow paths from your scalp to the tangled ends damp with sweat and tears. At first she said nothing, just stayed there in silent solidarity, letting your weeping dissolve into the night air.

The silence between you was heavy, but not oppressive, it was a silence of empathy, from someone who knew empty words don't heal deep wounds. Silena had found you on the path to the cabin, kneeling on the cold, uneven gravel, hugging your own body as if it were the only anchor in a hurricane. Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, fingers dug into your own shoulders, nails leaving red marks on your skin, as if physical pain could distract from the agony tearing through you inside.

All you could manage to say, between hoarse, broken sobs that made your whole body convulse, was: "She left me." Over and over, like a shattered mantra, a desperate prayer that came out in gasps of air, interrupted by sniffles and low moans. "She left me… She left me…" Each repetition grew weaker than the last, but carried raw grief, as if saying it aloud made the loss real, inescapable, carving it into your soul like an eternal scar.

Silena had knelt beside you without hesitation, her dress brushing the dirty gravel, her arms wrapping you in a warm, protective embrace. She didn't ask what happened, she didn't need to. The state you were in told the whole story: swollen red face, glassy empty eyes, body shaking like a leaf in autumn wind. She pulled you to her, carrying you with surprising strength for someone so delicate, murmuring softly.

"Come on, love, come with me. I'm here."

Now, on the porch, with your head in her lap, you smelled the gentle lavender and vanilla that always drifted from Silena, a scent that blended floral and sweet, like an olfactory hug that usually calmed you. The memories hit like a sharp, unexpected stab, bringing a fresh sob up your throat. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block the images, Clarisse lying in your bed, face buried in your neck, strong arms holding you as if you were the only shield against a cruel world. "Just a little longer."

The sob came out weak, almost a muffled whimper, echoing in the quiet porch. Silena felt the tremor in your body and pressed her fingers a little firmer into your hair, never stopping the rhythmic motion, as if she could stitch the broken pieces of your soul back together with that simple gesture. The night breeze slipped through the open porch, carrying the damp coolness of the surrounding forest, raising goosebumps on your exposed arms and legs, but you barely noticed, the outer cold was nothing compared to the ice settling in your chest, an empty chill threatening to swallow everything.

"Breathe, love," she finally whispered, her voice low, soft as silk tearing through the silence with a tenderness that hurt because it was so gentle. "Just breathe. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You tried to obey. You inhaled slowly, the air entering your aching lungs in shaky bursts, coming out in short, shallow puffs, as if every breath were a battle against the invisible weight crushing your chest. It hurt so much, a constant squeeze, as if someone had reached inside and crushed your heart into a shapeless, throbbing mass. The tears came again, hot against cold skin, and you murmured, your voice so hoarse it was barely audible, scraped raw from hours of crying.

"She said she never really loved me. Said it was just… a distraction. A stupid weakness."

Silena stayed quiet for a long, drawn-out second, as if absorbing the pain of your words. You felt her chest rise and fall deeper, slower, as if she were holding back her own tears, fighting not to break along with you. Her eyes glistened in the dim light with unshed emotion.

"Clarisse lies terribly when she's scared," she said at last, her voice low, almost a conspiratorial whisper, full of a sadness that wasn't just hers, but seemed to carry the weight of every daughter of Aphrodite who'd ever watched love be denied. "She lies to everyone. Lies to herself all the time. And when she's really hurt… that's when she lies the worst."

You turned your face slowly, looking up. Silena's eyes were wet, shining in the golden lantern light, but the tears didn't fall. She gave a small, sad smile, filled with such deep tenderness it seemed to come straight from the goddess's heart.

"I can sense love from miles away, sweetheart," she continued, using the endearment with a softness that made your chest tighten even more. "It's like… a vibration in the chest before it even becomes a word. And what was between you two? That doesn't vanish just because someone claims it never existed. It doesn't disappear because someone screams it was a lie. I felt it. I saw it in her eyes when she looked at you. Saw it in the way her shoulders relaxed when you touched her. In the way she smiled sideways, almost shy, when she thought no one was watching. That's not a distraction. That's not weakness. That's love. And love doesn't die like that, overnight, just because someone decides to lock it in a box and throw away the key."

You squeezed your eyes shut again. A new wave rose in your throat, but this time it was quieter, more resigned, as if your body no longer had strength to scream. Just a silent sob, a tremor that started in your chest and spread to your shoulders.

"Then why?" you whispered, your voice shaking so hard the words nearly disappeared. "Why did she look me in the face and say those things? Why did she walk away like I was… nothing?"

Silena sighed, a long, helpless sound that seemed to come from deep in her chest, as if she were carrying a weight that wasn't only hers. Her fingers kept moving through your hair, tracing slow, comforting lines, but now the motion was slower, more thoughtful, as if she were choosing each word with the care of someone who knows one wrong phrase could break something already cracked.

She had known Clarisse for so long. They arrived at camp practically together, two scared girls, one with the anger of someone abandoned too many times, the other with the sweetness of someone who still believed the world could be kind. They grew up together.

Silena had seen Clarisse break bones in the arena and then cry hidden in the bathroom because she thought no one could see her weak. Seen Clarisse take scoldings from Ares in dreams that left her screaming awake. Seen Clarisse become the leader of Cabin 5 not because she wanted to, but because it was the only way to prove she was worth something to the father who never looked at her with pride.

If there was one thing Silena knew with absolute certainty, it was that Clarisse wouldn't end things with you on a whim. Not out of boredom. Not because she'd found someone else. Clarisse wasn't fickle with her heart, she was stubborn to the death. When she loved, she loved with everything: with anger, with fear, with an intensity that scared even her. So when Silena saw you on your knees in the gravel, when she heard the words Clarisse had said, she understood.

It wasn't Clarisse deciding. It was Clarisse being decided for.

Silena was certain: Clarisse knew exactly what she was doing when she broke up with you. Every word was chosen. Every look was calculated. But she wasn't free. She was manipulated. A conscious mind, but enslaved. Clarisse had acted with full awareness, and at the same time without choice.

Silena didn't say any of this out loud. Not yet. Because you didn't need to carry that extra weight. You needed space to breathe, to cry, to start piecing yourself back together. But deep in her chest, the certainty burned like an ember: Clarisse hadn't ended things because she didn't love you. Clarisse had ended things because she loved you too much, and someone convinced her that was a weakness she couldn't afford.

"I don't know, love. Honestly, I don't know." She paused, her chest rising and falling in a heavier rhythm. "But I do know that loving scares her more than anything. And when something scares her that badly, she destroys it before it can destroy her. Before she loses control."

You felt your chest rise and fall in a silent sob. The tears returned, quiet, slipping down your temples and wetting Silena's lap.

"And now?" you asked, your voice tiny, almost childlike, lost in the middle of the night. "What do I do now?"

Silena tilted her face slowly, resting her forehead against yours for a long moment, a gesture so delicate it felt like an armless hug. The lavender and vanilla scent wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

"Now you cry whatever still needs crying," she whispered. "Then you breathe. Then you get up, even if it's just to take a sip of water. And then… we see what's left. Because what you feel for her doesn't disappear just because she said she doesn't feel it back. It stays there, hurt, bleeding, throbbing… but it stays. And you decide, in your own time, at your own pace, what to do with it. Whether to keep it, transform it, let it scar over. But it stays."

You let the silence stretch for a few more seconds, your chest still rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then, suddenly, a weak, ironic laugh escaped your lips, a hoarse, short sound, almost breathless, more like a disguised sob than real laughter. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the dark ceiling.

"That's so ironic," you murmured, your voice still trembling, but now carrying a bitter edge that hadn't been there before. "Mom must be disappointed."

Silena's fingers paused for a fraction of a second. Then she let out a soft, gentle chuckle, the kind that comes when the pain is too big to face without a little twisted humor.

"Nah," she replied, resuming the slow, comforting strokes through your hair. "She's used to it by now."

The silence returned, but now it felt different, lighter, less suffocating, as if those few words had cracked open a tiny slit for air to come in. You didn't laugh again, but the corner of your mouth curved into the ghost of a sad smile, and for the first time in hours, your chest didn't hurt quite so much when you breathed in.

Silena stayed right there, silent, her fingers never stopping. And, for a tiny, almost imperceptible moment, the world stopped hurting quite so much. Just a little. But it was enough to keep you from completely falling apart that night.

[...]

The days dragged on like a thick, oppressive fog. Camp Half-Blood carried on unchanged: the metallic clang of swords echoing in the arena at dawn; laughter ringing from the dining pavilion during meals; the strawberry fields swaying in the warm afternoon breeze, their earthy-sweet scent mingling with the salty tang of the nearby lake, where canoes sliced through the water in rhythmic training drills. But for you, it all felt distant, filtered through a curtain of shed tears and a chest that ached as if pierced by an invisible blade.

The Aphrodite cabin now felt like a cushioned prison, a place where every corner echoed the emptiness that had settled in your heart. You spent hours curled up in bed, heavy blankets pulled up to your chin like makeshift armor against the outside world, body bent in a fetal position, knees pressed tight against your chest as if you could squeeze the pain until it vanished.

The tears came in unpredictable, cruel waves, sometimes violent like a storm on Poseidon's sea, making your whole body shake and convulse, hoarse sobs echoing in the empty room until your throat burned like fire; other times slow and silent like the drip of a broken faucet, sliding down your face without fanfare, soaking the pillow until it turned cold and damp, a constant reminder of the fragility you tried to hide. You didn't understand why. Clarisse's words echoed in your mind like an evil spell, repeating in endless loops.

"I never really loved you. It was just a distraction." Each repetition dug deeper, opening fresh wounds over the old ones, leaving a trail of doubt that ate away inside. What had you done to deserve this? Why had the love that felt so solid, so real in stolen touches and warm whispers against skin, crumbled like sand through fingers? It was as if the world had lost its colors, reduced to dull shades of gray where every breath was an effort, every heartbeat an accusation.

You didn't want to leave. The mere idea of facing the camp outside, where Clarisse was probably carrying on her routine as if nothing had changed, laughing with her siblings in the pavilion, her rough, confident voice cutting through the air; training in the arena with that primal ferocity you once admired so much, sweat running down her strong body as she wielded her spear with lethal precision, was unbearable.

The thought of seeing her, of crossing paths with those brown eyes that once looked at you with rare vulnerability and now might pass over you like you were a stranger, an irrelevant shadow, made your stomach churn. Hibernating forever seemed like a tempting option, wrapped in blankets that still held a faint trace of her scent, a cruel reminder you couldn't force yourself to wash away, even though every inhale burned like a fresh wound.

In the first few days, Silena was your silent savior, a constant, comforting presence. She made excuses to Chiron with enviable ease, typical of an Aphrodite daughter who could weave lies like silk threads.

"She caught a bad cold, you know how it is" or "She twisted her ankle in a light training session, needs rest" or even "A terrible migraine, the sun here hits hard and makes everything worse." Chiron, with his eternally concerned expression, would nod patiently, murmuring something about "recovery being essential for heroes" and sending kitchen satyrs with trays of juicy fruit, honey cakes, and generous portions of nectar that you barely touched, the flavors tasting like ashes in your mouth, lifeless, joyless.

Silena stayed by your side whenever she could, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed, running her fingers through your hair in rhythmic strokes or simply holding your hand in silence, her lavender-and-vanilla scent drifting into the air like a gentle balm amid the emotional chaos.

But the excuses inevitably ran out, like drops of water in a scorching desert. On the fourth day, or was it the fifth? The days blurred into an indistinct haze, marked only by the cycle of the sun rising and setting beyond the windows, Chiron appeared in person at the cabin door, his imposing centaur form filling the frame with a mix of authority and paternal kindness. Morning sunlight slanted in, painting golden stripes across the polished floor and illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like distracted fairies.

"I understand you need time," he said, his voice low and firm, echoing like the distant trot of hooves on packed earth. "But the camp needs all of us. Tasks don't stop, and neither does life. Come to training tomorrow. It's an order, but also advice from a friend."

You nodded, eyes downcast on the folds of the blankets, chest tight as if an invisible hand were squeezing it. You had no choice. That night, lying in bed while your sisters whispered softly in nearby bunks, light conversations about camp gossip, muffled giggles that seemed to come from another planet, sleep came fragmented and tormented, filled with dreams where Clarisse appeared like a mirage. You woke with your heart racing, body aching as if you'd fought an invisible nighttime battle, skin sticky with cold sweat.

Returning to routine felt like plunging into the lake's icy water, a shock that numbed and awakened every sense at once. Morning sun beat down hard on the strawberry fields, where you were assigned to pick fruit alongside a few other campers. You moved slowly, hands trembling slightly as you plucked the red, juicy strawberries from their stems, each fruit looking like a living drop of blood in your palms, a subtle reminder of the open wound in your chest.

In the dining pavilion at lunch, you avoided looking toward the Ares table, heart pounding like an out-of-control war drum, waiting, fearing, longing to see Clarisse there, with her proud, confident posture, laughing with her siblings or chewing with that focused intensity. But she wasn't. Her spot empty, like a hole in their noisy formation, a silence that screamed louder than any words.

During afternoon training, the arena pulsed with life: the dry clash of swords, grunts of effort and hoarse encouragements, the sharp smell of sweat mixed with fine dust rising in clouds with every movement. You positioned yourself in the opposite corner, focusing on drills with forced, mechanical determination, body responding on trained instinct while your mind wandered down dark paths.

You expected to see her at any moment, maybe leading a group of siblings with firm commands, maybe casting a cold, indifferent glance your way that would cut like a blade. But nothing. Clarisse simply didn't appear, her absence becoming a ghostly presence haunting every corner of camp: you'd whip your head around at the sight of a tall, imposing silhouette in your peripheral vision, heart racing in a mix of hope and dread, only to find it was another camper, maybe a daughter of Athena or a son of Hermes.

At the lake during sunset canoeing lessons, the water's reflection trembled like your chest, the setting sun tinting the surface in orange and pink hues, and you imagined seeing her on the opposite shore, arms crossed, but it was only illusion, the wind playing with the tree leaves.

Confusion tangled with the pain like roots in fertile soil, growing and spreading. Where was she? Why couldn't you see her anywhere? The absence hurt as much as her presence would have, an emptiness that echoed her words, reinforcing the feeling that you were, indeed, irrelevant, a discarded distraction without remorse.

On the fourth day back in routine, during dinner in the pavilion, you sat with your sisters, forcing a weak, mechanical smile while poking at the food on your plate. The constant buzz around you was almost comforting: muffled laughter, animated talk about recent quests, the clink of utensils and cups.

Then Silena arrived.

She sat beside you with restrained haste, her light, flowing dress brushing the wooden bench, the familiar lavender-and-vanilla scent invading the space between you like a subtle hug. Her brown eyes sparkled with that mix of curiosity and anxiety typical of camp gossip, but there was something more, a worry she tried to mask with a light tone.

"Hey," she whispered, leaning close enough that only you could hear, voice low and conspiratorial as if sharing a precious secret. "I just heard something in the dessert line… I think Clarisse left on a mission a few days ago. Sounds like it was something urgent that Chiron asked for personally."

You blinked slowly, fork freezing halfway to your mouth, cold metal against fingers that suddenly trembled. Your stomach knotted tight and cold, as if someone had reached inside and twisted everything hard. Four days. She'd left right after… after all of it, after leaving you kneeling on cold gravel, body shaking, hands dug into damp earth as if you could anchor yourself to keep from falling apart completely.

"Are you sure?" Your voice came out low, bitter, almost unrecognizable even to yourself, as if the words had passed through a filter of pain before reaching your lips.

"Well, that's what I heard from some Ares kids," Silena replied, shrugging in a gesture that tried to be casual but couldn't hide the tension in her shoulders. "I think his name's Sherman, looks like he's senior counselor until Clarisse gets back."

The pavilion tilted slightly around you, the floor seeming to slant as if you'd lost balance. Distant laughter from other tables sounded like echoes from another universe, oblivious, indifferent, while your heart hammered like an uncontrolled war drum.

"Shit…" you whispered, closing your eyes for several long seconds, head in hands as if you could hold the whole world inside them.

Palms pressed to your temples, cold fingers against hot skin. You felt heat rising to your face, a mix of anger, sadness, and a deep exhaustion that seemed to drain every ounce of energy from your body. Beside you, Silena let out a long, almost inaudible sigh, the kind that carried the weight of someone who wanted to fix everything but knew she couldn't.

"At least now we know where she is… sort of," she said, voice low, trying to find a bright side both of you knew was too fragile to hold any real hope.

"Yeah. Sort of." You repeated her words like an empty echo, without strength, without conviction.

Your voice came out automatic, almost mechanical, as if it belonged to someone else. You didn't wait for a reply. You couldn't stay there anymore, sitting under the pavilion's warm lights, surrounded by laughter and normalcy while your chest cracked a little more with every breath.

You stood slowly, body heavy as if stones weighed down your pockets, plate still in hand with the untouched food. Your sisters exchanged quick, worried glances, but no one said anything; they knew, at least partly, how much it hurt. You walked down the aisle between tables, steps slow and deliberate, as if each one required concentration to avoid tripping over your own broken heart.

The central bonfire blazed high in the middle of the pavilion, flames dancing in orange and gold, licking the air with a steady, comforting crackle. The heat reached you before you even got close, warming the cold skin of your face, but unable to touch the ice that had settled in your chest.

You stopped in front of the fire, plate extended like a reluctant offering. With a mechanical motion, you tilted the plate over the flames, letting the food slide in, meat sizzling on contact, vegetables wilting instantly, everything turning to smoke that rose in lazy spirals toward the dark sky.

The smoke carried the scent of the offering to the gods, and you closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the heat lick your face like an invisible hand. Then, softly, almost inaudible above the crackling flames and distant pavilion buzz, you whispered to the fire, to the night, to the mother who might, just might, be listening.

"Mom, please… if you can hear me… bring her back safe."

The words came out fragile, laden with a plea you weren't even sure you still believed. It wasn't anger, it wasn't a demand, just a quiet, exhausted request, the last thread of hope still hanging before it snapped for good. You stood there a few more seconds, watching the flames consume what was left of the meal, feeling the tears return, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto the warm stone floor.

The fire didn't answer. The gods, as always, remained silent. But for an instant, a warm breath of wind passed through the bonfire, making the flames lean toward you, as if Aphrodite had, at least, turned her face to listen. Or maybe it was just illusion, the night wind playing with the embers.

You turned slowly, leaving the empty plate on the dish pile, and walked back to the cabin under the starry sky. The stars shone cold and distant, indifferent to your suffering, and the gravel path crunched under your feet like a low lament. The night was cool, air thick with pine and lake scent, but nothing could ease the weight you carried in your chest.

Clarisse was out there somewhere, facing monsters, gods, dangers you couldn't even imagine. And you, here, trapped in camp, heart still bleeding, not knowing if she'd return, not knowing if you wanted her to, not knowing if you'd ever stop missing her.

But for now, all you could do was keep breathing. One breath at a time. One day at a time.

And wait, even if it hurt, for the gods, in their infinite indifference, to listen just once.

[…]

The train rattled rhythmically along rusty tracks, a steady, hypnotic sound that seemed to try lulling the whole world to a sleep Clarisse couldn't reach. The car was nearly empty, just a few mortals scattered across worn seats, heads slumped against fogged windows, earbuds in or eyes glazed on phones lighting tired faces. The cold fluorescent ceiling light flickered now and then, casting uneven shadows on the dirty floor dusted with crumbs.

Outside, the mortal world blurred past in dark streaks: bare winter trees, lonely streetlights, stretches of asphalt road lit by distant headlights. It was deep night, the kind that swallowed everything, no moon to soften the darkness.

Clarisse sat near the back window, body taking up more space than the seat allowed. Legs stretched out, one boot propped on the empty opposite bench, as if daring anyone to complain. Her spear rested beside her, leaning against the seat, shaft marked with fresh battle scars, bronze tip still stained with dried ichor no one here could see.

Next to her, a battered black backpack tossed carelessly on the bench, zipper half-open revealing the subtle gleam of something metallic inside, the recovered artifact wrapped in thick cloth to avoid attention. An Athena helmet, stolen by camp deserters who'd sold out to Kronos for promises of power. Days of relentless pursuit, sleepless nights, meals gulped down in haste or skipped entirely. Lots of fighting, lots of blood, mortal and monstrous, punches that cracked traitor bones, screams echoing in abandoned alleys.

All to keep her mind busy. All to not think.

But now the train rolled on, the danger was over, at least for now, and the silence settling in was worse than any battle.

Clarisse stared at the window but didn't see her own scarred reflection, the eyebrow scar, the deep shadows exhaustion had carved under her brown eyes. She saw you.

Saw you laughing in the pavilion, head thrown back, your laugh cutting through dinner noise like a clear note in chaos. Saw you lying beside her on the grass behind the arena after an exhausting training, fingers lazily tracing scars on her arm while murmuring something silly about how she looked like a living war statue. Saw you kneeling on gravel, eyes full of tears she'd put there herself, voice broken as if you were still trying to understand the sentence.

Longing hit like a violent wave, squeezing her chest until it physically hurt. It was a different pain from what Ares inflicted, not anger, not humiliation. It was something hot, raw, burning inside with no target to aim at. She missed your scent, that light floral perfume from the cabin mixed with your own skin and shampoo smell. Missed the way you curled against her when you slept, as if her body were the safest place in the world. Missed your voice saying "I love you" softly, almost shy, as if you still couldn't believe you could say it to someone like her.

Clarisse squeezed her eyes shut, forehead pressing against the cold window glass. The train swayed on a curve, and she let her body follow, limp. Her right hand instinctively went to the spear shaft, fingers closing around the steel as if she needed something solid to hold onto. But even the spear couldn't anchor what was crumbling inside her.

"I never really loved you."

The words she'd said herself came back like a slap. She repeated them mentally, testing their taste, trying to see if they hurt less now. They didn't hurt less. They hurt more. Because they were a lie. A lie so huge it felt like it had torn a hole in her own chest. She'd said it to protect you, or to protect herself, from Ares' expectations, his voice echoing in her head like an inescapable command.

"Break that little heart…" But now, alone in this car that stank of metal and disinfectant, no monsters to kill, no traitors to hunt, nothing to distract, the truth stared her down: she loved you. Loved you so much it hurt. Loved you in a way that left her vulnerable, weak, exposed, and Clarisse La Rue didn't know how to be weak.

A tear escaped, hot and treacherous, sliding down her scarred cheek. She didn't wipe it away. Let it fall, let it drip onto the lap of her worn cargo pants. No one here would look twice at her, a big girl with a face that screamed professional fighter. No one would see Ares' daughter crying silently on some random train in the middle of the night.

The backpack beside her felt heavier than the artifact inside. She knew she had to return it to Athena, that the mission was complete, that Chiron expected a report, that camp needed to know the traitors had been neutralized. But all of it felt distant, irrelevant. What mattered was the emptiness beside her, the space where you should have been, lying with your head on her shoulder, grumbling that the train was too loud, that she should sleep a little.

Clarisse opened her eyes slowly. The reflection in the glass showed a version of herself she barely recognized: red eyes, locked jaw, lips pressed into a thin line. She looked tired. Not just physically, soul-tired.

Suddenly, light, determined footsteps echoed down the narrow aisle. Clarisse didn't need to turn to know who it was. Annabeth Chase appeared beside the seat, brown braids half-pinned in a messy bun, a few loose strands falling over her sharp face. Her brown eyes, always as sharp as a dagger blade, scanned everything with that intelligence that never slept. She carried a few snack packages in her hands, cheap colorful bags of chips, chocolate bars, and canned soda.

"It's what I could get for us," Annabeth said, tossing the packages into Clarisse's lap with a half-smile.

Clarisse snapped out of her daze in silent shock. Her heart jumped. She wiped the tears with the back of her hand in a quick, almost violent motion before Annabeth could see, or at least she thought so. She sniffed once, low, and immediately put her usual scowl back on, jaw locked, eyes narrowed in alert.

Annabeth, though, wasn't easy to fool. She sat on the facing seat, turning to face her, head tilted as she studied Clarisse like a Greek riddle that needed solving.

"I know the bad mood thing is your default," Annabeth began, voice low and teasing, with that tone that always carried a slight challenge, "but… I don't think it's just Ares fire this time."

Clarisse felt her chest tighten. She hated every second of this conversation. Hated that Annabeth could read the cracks she tried to hide so well. She crossed her arms over her broad chest, muscles tensing under the travel-stained shirt.

"Not your business, Chase," she shot back, voice rough and cutting, loaded with all the irritation she could muster.

Annabeth raised her hands in surrender, a small ironic smile on her lips, but she didn't really back off. Silence settled again between them, heavy, broken only by the rhythmic clack of wheels on tracks and the faint hum of overhead lights.

After a minute that felt like forever, Annabeth spoke again, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

"We've got three more days of travel ahead."

Clarisse turned slowly and gave her a look that said, as clearly as possible: So what? Shut up. Annabeth rolled her eyes but wasn't offended. She was used to it.

"I'm just saying we could do something to pass the time. Like… talk?"

"Nothing to talk about." Clarisse grumbled, a deep, impatient sound from the back of her throat.

Annabeth raised an eyebrow, provocative as ever.

"Maybe about that bad mood… or the reason for it."

Clarisse huffed, crossing her arms tighter and looking back at the dark window, her tired reflection staring distorted back at her.

"Not your business." Clarisse repeated.

"So you admit you're in a bad mood?" Annabeth asked, a light note of satisfaction in her voice.

Clarisse growled louder but didn't answer. Annabeth let out a small victorious sound, almost a low chuckle.

"Okay. You don't want to talk about the bad mood."

Silence returned, thick and uncomfortable. The train swayed on a curve, making a soda can roll slightly in Clarisse's lap. Annabeth stayed quiet for a few seconds, pretending to look at the snack packages, but Clarisse knew she was just choosing her next words carefully.

Then, in a softer voice, almost too casual, Annabeth asked.

"How's the relationship going?"

Clarisse deflated.

It was as if someone had sucked all the air out of the car. Broad shoulders slumped, locked jaw relaxed for a second, and raw, deep pain speared through her chest like a lance. Her voice came out choked, rough, almost broken when she finally answered.

"Shitty timing, Chase."

Annabeth blinked, confused, tilting her head again.

"What did I miss?"

Clarisse stayed silent for a long moment. The train kept its rhythm, lights flickering, mortal world blurring past like a smudged film. When she spoke, her voice came out cold, hard, emotionless, like reciting a mission report.

"My relationship ended. That's it." The words hung heavy in the air between them, like lead. Annabeth went quiet, processing.

Her brown eyes narrowed slightly as she took it in. She'd seen you two around camp, discreet but impossible to ignore. As much as Annabeth had wondered a thousand times what exactly you'd seen in that prickly, angry daughter of Ares, deep down she admitted she found it cute. Cute in a way that almost hurt.

Clarisse, pure ferocity on the field, turned into a ridiculous softie when you were around. Even trying to hide it in public, Annabeth had caught you two in quiet moments in the camp library, nothing scandalous, just Clarisse with an arm casually around your shoulders, thumb tracing absent circles on your skin while you read something aloud softly. The way her body relaxed, broad shoulders losing tension, hard gaze softening just a bit.

Annabeth had never imagined Clarisse La Rue could be gentle with anyone. And now… now it was over.

She didn't say anything right away. Just watched the girl, or what was left of her there, hunched on the seat, trying to pretend it didn't hurt. The car stayed dark, train moving forward, silence stretching between them, loaded with everything Clarisse couldn't say out loud.

The longing, the guilt, the hole in her chest that seemed to grow with every mile pulling her farther from you.

Now the bad mood made sense.

Annabeth stayed quiet for a long second, brown eyes fixed on Clarisse's face, absorbing the cold words still hanging in the air like smoke from a fresh-ended battle. The train rocked gently, wheel clacks filling the void after the confession. She saw how Clarisse wilted, broad shoulders dropping a little, jaw relaxing for an instant before locking again, as if admitting it out loud hurt.

"I… didn't know," Annabeth said finally, voice low, almost gentle, without the earlier teasing edge. "I'm sorry. Really."

Clarisse let out a bitter, short, dry laugh, the kind that doesn't reach the eyes and only masks something bleeding inside. She grabbed one of the chip bags Annabeth had tossed in her lap, tore the plastic with her teeth in a sharp motion, and shoved her hand inside, as if she needed something to occupy her hands and stop them from shaking. She chewed slowly, tasting nothing, the crunch filling the silence between them.

"It's fine," Clarisse muttered, voice rough, staring at the bag instead of Annabeth. "It had to happen. Love is a weakness. A delay."

She shoved another handful in, chewing with unnecessary force, as if she could grind the words along with the chips. The train crossed a bridge, wheel sound shifting to a deeper metallic echo, the whole car seeming to vibrate with it.

Annabeth didn't reply right away. She just watched Clarisse for a few seconds, eyes tracing the scarred face, deep shadows, the way fingers gripped the bag like a weapon. Then, in a calm voice, almost casual, as if discussing training strategy instead of someone's broken heart, she began.

"You know, I used to think that too," Annabeth said, leaning her head back against the seat in front, staring at the dirty ceiling of the car. "That love was a distraction. Something that pulled focus. Made you hesitate at the wrong moment. Left you vulnerable…"

She paused, grabbing a soda can from the seat beside her and popping it open with a soft hiss. Gas escaped in a gentle fizz.

"But then I started noticing something," she continued, taking a small sip before going on. "Glory and love aren't opposites. They can walk together. Like… Percy. He's an impulsive idiot half the time, but when he fights, he fights for something bigger than just winning. He fights for people. For me. For friends. For camp. And that doesn't make him weaker. It makes him stronger. Because he has something to come back to. Something worth more than any trophy or fleeting glory."

Clarisse didn't respond. She kept chewing the chips slowly, gaze fixed on the crumpled bag, but Annabeth knew she was listening. Her silence was answer enough.

"Have you ever thought that maybe… maybe what makes you strongest isn't just anger and war?" Annabeth went on, voice still low, casual, like commenting on the weather. "Maybe it's having someone who makes you want to come back whole. Someone who reminds you fighting isn't just destroying the enemy, it's protecting what matters. I see it in Percy. I see it in my siblings. I even see it in you, when you think no one's looking."

She took another sip, the bubbling sound filling the silence for a moment.

"Love isn't weakness, Clarisse. Weakness is thinking you have to be stone all the time to be strong. Weakness is throwing away what makes you human just because Ares taught you humans bleed. And you… you bleed. Everyone bleeds. But bleeding for someone worth it isn't defeat. It's what keeps you alive after the battle."

Clarisse didn't look up. Her fingers squeezed the bag harder, crumpling plastic until it crackled. The train swayed on a curve, and one of the cans rolled to the floor, clinking against metal. Annabeth leaned to pick it up but didn't stop talking.

"I'm not saying it's easy. I'm not saying it doesn't hurt. It hurts like hell. But throwing it away because it hurts… that's the real cowardice. And you're not a coward, La Rue. Never have been."

The silence between them was dense, almost tangible, loaded with everything unsaid. Clarisse still gripped the crumpled chip bag, fingers rigid, as if she needed something solid to keep from collapsing right there. Melancholy seeped into every crack of the car, in the slow blink of lights, the gentle sway of the train, the distant echo of an ambulance siren far off in the night that seemed to swallow everything.

Then, almost unwillingly, her voice came out. Low. Weak. Almost inaudible, as if the words had escaped against her will, carrying a vulnerability Clarisse La Rue never let anyone see.

"What's your mom like?"

Annabeth blinked, genuine surprise crossing her sharp face. The question came so sudden, so out of context, that for a second she froze, brown braids half-loose falling over her shoulders. Her brown eyes narrowed slightly, trying to read what lay behind that small, unfamiliar voice.

"Athena?" she asked, just to confirm, voice low so as not to shatter the fragile balance of the car.

Clarisse didn't answer right away. She kept staring at the bag in her hands, fingers tracing the crumpled plastic without really seeing it. The train passed through a tunnel, plunging everything into absolute darkness for a few seconds, and when the light returned, cold and merciless, she finally murmured.

"How much would you give up to get her approval?"

Annabeth stayed silent for a moment, processing. The air between them grew heavier, laden with a melancholic tension neither knew how to dispel. She took a deep breath, leaning her head back against the front seat, eyes fixed on the dirty, cracked ceiling as if searching for answers there.

"A lot," she answered at last, voice calm but layered with a sadness she rarely let show. "I grew up knowing I'd give up a ton just for Athena to acknowledge me. For her to say, even once in my life, that I did it right. That I was enough. That I was worth the effort she put into making me." A small, bitter smile curved her lips. "And I know it's ridiculous. Growing up begging for the gods' attention… it's pathetic. I know that. But it's inevitable. For people like us, it's inevitable."

Clarisse lifted her eyes slowly. She looked straight at Annabeth, dark brown eyes shining with something raw and exposed. Fear, doubt, a deep pain she could no longer hide. The tension in the air was almost electric now, mixed with the heavy melancholy hanging over them like a low cloud.

"Would you give up Percy?"

The silence that fell was absolute.

The train swayed gently on a curve, lights flickered again, casting uneven shadows across Annabeth's face. She stayed frozen, eyes locked on Clarisse's, mouth slightly open as if the question had sucked all the air from the car. Seconds dragged, slow and heavy: one… two… three… four. The wheel clacks sounded louder, more insistent.

Annabeth pieced it together mentally, Clarisse's sudden absence, the bad mood that wasn't just Ares, questions about Athena, the cold confession about the relationship ending. It all clicked in a painful, silent snap. But she said nothing about it. She didn't need to. Not here, not now.

When she finally spoke, her voice came out firm, low, carrying all the certainty in the world.

"No."

Clarisse blinked, as if she hadn't expected the answer so quick, so final. The car seemed to hold its breath.

"No," Annabeth repeated, softer but with the same unshakable strength. "I wouldn't give him up. Never. Because Percy… he sees me. Not as Athena's daughter, not as a strategist, not as someone who has to prove worth every second. He sees me as I am. With the flaws, the doubts, the times I screw up badly and hate myself for it. And still… he stays. He chooses to stay."

She paused briefly, gaze distant for a second, as if seeing Percy there in the dark car, with that crooked smile that always disarmed everything.

"I've thought about giving up a lot for Athena. Sleep, pride, pieces of myself. But Percy? He's non-negotiable. Because when he looks at me… I don't have to be perfect. I just have to be me. And that… that matters more than any validation the gods could give."

Silence returned, but this time different, deeper, more loaded with melancholy and a tension neither could name. Clarisse looked away first, back to the crumpled bag in her hands. Her fingers squeezed the plastic until it tore a little more, the soft sound echoing like a broken sigh. She said nothing. She didn't need to. Annabeth had already said enough, words now hanging in the air like smoke, seeping into the cracks of the armor Clarisse insisted on keeping.

The train rolled on, cutting through the dark, endless night, and for the first time in days Clarisse felt something beyond the consuming pain: a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of doubt. Not about Ares. Not about what she'd done.

But about what she could still lose, and about what, perhaps, she could still save.

[...]

The days dragged on slowly, like the sun rising lazily behind the hills of Camp Half-Blood and setting in shades of burnt orange and bruised pink. Routine returned little by little, not as a cure but as a crutch you forced yourself to lean on: waking to the distant song of birds; pulling on the faded orange t-shirt that still carried her scent; lacing up worn sneakers and walking the gravel paths that crunched underfoot like a low, constant lament.

The hurt stayed lodged deep in your chest, a splinter that throbbed with every breath. The way Clarisse had ended everything, the cold blade-like words, the empty look you knew so well from the time before you were together, the way she turned her back and vanished without a backward glance, still echoed in your head during the quietest moments. But with her gone from camp, without her physical presence to prod the wound every day, things began to settle.

It wasn't peace. It was just… survival.

You still worried. Of course you worried. You loved Clarisse too much not to imagine the dangers she faced out there: monsters that didn't appear in mythology books, capricious gods playing with lives like chess pieces, deadly roads full of traps even an Ares child couldn't predict alone.

Every night before sleep, you lay in the cabin bed, staring at the rosy wooden ceiling lit by faint moonlight slipping through the window, wondering if she was okay, if she'd eaten anything decent, if she was sleeping or just pretending like she always did when the weight of a mission pressed too hard. Worry came in silent waves, mixed with a longing that tightened your throat and made your eyes burn until hot tears slid onto the pillow.

But at the same time, there was relief. Guilty, selfish, almost shameful relief, but real. Without Clarisse there, without having to cross paths with her in the pavilion at dinner, without feeling her gaze from across the arena, without hearing that rough laugh echo down the paths between cabins, it was easier to breathe. Easier to pretend your heart wasn't split in half. Easier to convince yourself that one day you'd get over it, even though deep down you knew getting over someone you still loved was like trying to put out fire with bare hands.

Gossip, as always happened at Camp Half-Blood, spread like wildfire: fast, relentless, impossible to contain. First came the whispers at dinner tables, quick curious glances when you passed carrying your tray. Then it became open talk between cabins, during training breaks, in buffet lines.

"I heard she broke up with Clarisse." "Really? But they seemed so… attached." "I thought it would last longer." "Bet it was her who ended it. Clarisse always fucks something up."

Those who already thought the relationship was unlikely from the start, the rough, scarred daughter of Ares with the delicate, perfumed daughter of Aphrodite, weren't surprised. "It was only a matter of time," they said with a casual shrug while picking strawberries or sharpening swords.

Others seemed genuinely confused, almost concerned. "What happened? They were fine the last time I saw them." "Clarisse must have screwed it up again." And yes, most assumed it was her fault. It was always her fault. Clarisse La Rue, the angry one, the impulsive one, the one who broke everything she touched. Maybe they were right. You weren't sure. And deep down, you didn't want to be.

Knowing the whole truth might hurt more than the doubt that still quietly consumed you.

It didn't take long for the camp boys to start seeing you as a possibility again. It began subtly, almost shyly, a compliment here, a lingering smile there.

"You look beautiful today, you know?" said a son of Hermes as he passed on the way to the lake, tone too light to be casual, eyes gleaming with that easy messenger confidence.

"Want to train with me tomorrow? I'll help you with the sword, promise I won't let you fall," offered a son of Apollo during lunch, with that golden, practiced charm that made half the camp sigh.

"Just to talk, you know? Relax a bit, get some fresh air." Another, a son of Dionysus, invited you to walk to the woods after dinner.

You were a daughter of the goddess of love, after all. Beautiful in an effortless way, with a smile that could still light up even when everything inside was dark and broken. They saw the opportunity. They saw the girl available again. You saw only emptiness.

Because you couldn't reciprocate. You couldn't even fake interest. Every compliment echoed hollow in your chest, every invitation sounded like white noise against the constant hum of longing. Your heart, wounded, bleeding, stubborn the way only an Aphrodite daughter's heart could be, still cried out for her. For Clarisse.

For the Clarisse who hugged you from behind when she thought you were asleep, chin on your shoulder, rough voice murmuring "don't tell anyone."

For the Clarisse who melted in your arms like the whole world could wait outside.

For the Clarisse who, despite all the anger and scars, had been able to look at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.

You still wanted her back. Wanted it so much it hurt physically, a squeeze in your chest that made your breath catch mid-training, a knot in your throat that wouldn't go away even when you swallowed nectar. So you smiled politely, said "thanks, but no" in the soft voice your mother taught you to use when you needed to be kind without being cruel, and moved on. Alone. With your heart still tethered to someone who wasn't there, who might never come back, who might have left for good.

But you kept going. Waking up. Breathing. Picking strawberries until your fingers were red and sticky. Training until your muscles burned. Surviving.

Because that's what daughters of Aphrodite did: they loved even when it hurt. They loved even when there was no one left to love back. And deep down, even knowing it was ridiculous, you still hoped, with a hope as fragile as a flame trembling in the wind, that one day she'd come back. That she'd look at you with those brown eyes and say it had all been a mistake. That she'd pull you into her strong arms and murmur against your hair that she missed you as much as you missed her.

Because even after everything, you still loved her.

Too much.

The camp stayed peaceful for a few more days, a deceptive calm that stretched like thin golden mist over the whole valley, muffling sounds and softening every edge. Laughter echoed distant, the clash of swords in the arena sounded gentler, even the monsters in the woods seemed to have decided to take a break. It was as if the camp itself breathed in relief, unaware that the storm was only sleeping.

Until that day.

You and Silena were in the middle of a hand-to-hand sequence in the arena, afternoon sun beating hard and relentless on your backs, sweat running down your neck and gluing the orange t-shirt to your skin. The packed-dirt floor was marked with deep footprints and boot scrapes, the air thick with the smell of kicked-up dust, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of dried blood from earlier sessions. Silena spun with her natural grace, dodging your punch, dark strands swinging loose as she laughed low and teased:

"Faster, love, you're slow today… or just thinking about something else?" You were about to answer with a forced smile when the shout sliced through the air like a sharpened blade.

"The boss is back!"

It was an Ares kid, tall, sweaty, face red from effort and excitement, a wide grin showing all his teeth. He dropped his sword to the ground with a dry metallic clang that echoed across the whole arena and ran toward the Big House, shouting again, voice hoarse with joy.

"The boss is back! Clarisse is back!"

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Every Ares kid dropped their weapons like they'd been burned. Swords thudded into dirt, shields clanged against each other, and they surged forward in a mass, a wave of orange shirts, tense muscles, and excited shouts that rolled through the arena like disordered thunder. The sound of boots pounding the ground was like an accelerated war drum, kicking up fine dust clouds that hung in the golden afternoon air.

You froze mid-motion, fist still raised, heart slamming violently in your chest. The world tilted for a second. Silena stopped beside you, breath fast from training, brown eyes meeting yours in a meaningful look full of silent understanding and a gentle sadness only she could convey without words. She squeezed your arm softly, warm firm fingers against your sweat-damp skin, a touch that said "I'm here, you don't have to do this alone."

"You don't have to go meet her," she murmured, voice low and gentle, almost a whisper against the distant noise of retreating footsteps. "You know that, right? You don't have to hurt yourself more. You can stay here. You can go to the cabin. I'll come with you."

You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry, tight as if someone had tied a rope around it. Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard it felt like it wanted to escape your chest. For one long, painful second, you wanted to turn away, go back to the cabin, crawl under blankets that still held a trace of her scent, and pretend nothing had happened. But something inside you, stubborn, stupid, in love to the bone, wouldn't let you.

"I just need to make sure she's okay," you murmured, voice rough, almost inaudible even to yourself.

You straightened up, squared your shoulders, took a deep breath of the hot dusty arena air, and started toward the Big House, steps heavy on the crunching gravel.

You felt like an idiot. A complete, absolute idiot. Clarisse hadn't cared about you when she saw you on your knees in rough gravel, crying, begging, body shaking like a leaf in the wind. She hadn't cared when she delivered those hard cold words that still echoed in your head like repeated stabs into living flesh. She hadn't cared when she left for a mission that lasted days upon days, leaving you suffocated by lack of news, by uncertainty that squeezed your chest like an invisible hand, by longing that seemed to rip pieces out of you with every sunrise.

And yet here you were, running after her again, just to check. Just to see. Just to see with your own eyes that she was alive, whole, breathing. Because love, even wounded, even betrayed, was still stronger than pride.

The crowd had already thickened in front of the Big House by the time you arrived, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. Campers from every cabin clustered together, curious, excited, whispering among themselves in low thrilled voices. Chiron stood in the center of the wide porch in his imposing centaur form, deep calm voice carrying as he gave a short proud speech: successful mission, artifact recovered, honor to the camp, congratulations to Clarisse and Annabeth for their courage and dedication.

And there she was.

Clarisse looked wrecked. Hair tangled and wild. Clothes torn and crumpled, dark stains that could be blood or road dust. Fresh cuts on her left forearm, a purple bruise blooming on her cheekbone, cracked pale lips. But even so… even so, she was impossibly beautiful.

The proud posture, broad shoulders still carrying that presence that dominated any space, hard gaze sweeping the crowd like she was still on a battlefield. The setting sun hit her from the side, painting her face contours in warm golden light, highlighting the eyebrow scar, the locked jaw, the expression that mixed deep exhaustion with something else, something raw, vulnerable, that only you could see.

You stood at the back of the crowd, chest tight, tears threatening to rise hot to your eyes. Silena stayed beside you, hand still on your arm, a quiet firm support that needed no words.

Then Percy ran past, bumping your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble a step sideways.

"Annabeth!" he shouted, voice rough with pure relief and childlike joy. He ran to her, wrapped her in a tight desperate hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in the air while laughing loud and murmuring things no one else could hear.

Annabeth laughed too, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder for a long second, as if the whole world had disappeared.

It was in that exact moment that Clarisse searched for you.

Her brown eyes swept the crowd slowly, almost unconsciously, as if expecting something. As if expecting you. As if, deep down, after everything, she still hoped you'd run to her, jump into her strong arms like you always did. As if that's what you were: Clarisse returning from a mission, you waiting with open heart, hugging, kissing, saying "thank the gods you're back whole." As if nothing had changed. As if the words she'd said had never existed.

But you didn't move.

You stayed there, frozen, chest tight with dull deep pain, eyes locked on hers. Clarisse found your gaze in the middle of the crowd. For one second, one long, painful, eternal second, the world stopped. Her eyes widened slightly, the hardened expression faltered, something raw and vulnerable crossed her face before she could hide it.

Tears fell down your face before you could stop them. Hot, silent, sliding slowly down sweat-slick cheeks from training, dripping onto the gravel like out-of-season raindrops. Pure overwhelming relief at seeing her okay, alive, whole, breathing, even with the new cuts, the bruises, the exhaustion etched into every line of her face. She was here. She was okay. She was back.

But with the relief came the hurt, sharp as a freshly sharpened blade. Her words echoed in your mind again, cold and cutting. The image of you on your knees in gravel, begging, crying, while she turned her back and walked away. The absence that lasted days upon days, the silence that choked you every night as you stared at the ceiling wondering if she still thought of you. The longing that hurt more than any physical wound.

She opened her mouth, as if to say your name, as if to reach a hand through the crowd, but nothing happened.

You just let the tears fall, let her see everything, the relief, the hurt, the love that still burned even after everything. Then, with your heart squeezed in dull deep pain, you took a deep breath, turned slowly, and began walking back to the cabin, steps heavy on the crunching gravel like a low constant lament.

Silena followed in silence, arm around your shoulders, quiet firm support that needed no words.

Clarisse stood motionless on the Big House porch, eyes fixed exactly on the spot where you'd disappeared among the restless crowd bodies. She didn't blink. She didn't breathe right. The air felt thicker, hotter, heavy with the smell of turned earth, training sweat, and the faint smoke already rising from the distant bonfire.

The tears you'd let fall still burned in her memory. Hot. Silent. Shining on the face Clarisse knew better than her own reflection. Clarisse felt as if someone had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it physically hurt. Because you'd been there. Because even after everything, you'd still cared enough to come check if she was okay. Because the love she'd tried to destroy with cold words and an empty look still existed in your eyes, stubborn, alive, bleeding.

And she hadn't done anything.

She hadn't run. She hadn't reached out. She hadn't said a word. She'd just stood there, paralyzed, while you walked away. Guilt came like a violent suffocating wave, mixed with longing so strong it squeezed her chest until it hurt.

Her own words came back like a punch to the stomach. How could she have said that? How could she have looked into your eyes and lied so cruelly, knowing every syllable was a stab? Ares had ordered. Ares had threatened. But now, alone in the middle of the crowd celebrating her "victory," Clarisse tasted the bitter flavor of the choice she'd made: destroy you to protect herself. And the worst part was that it hurt her more than it hurt you.

"Clarisse."

Chiron's deep voice cut through the air like a gentle command, pulling her back to the present. The centaur stood beside her, serene but attentive expression, ancient eyes seeing more than she wanted them to. Sunlight gleamed on the brown fur of his equine half, and the air around him smelled of old leather and accumulated wisdom.

"You and Annabeth can rest now," he continued, voice calm and firm, carrying that paternal authority no one dared challenge. "You did exceptional work. The camp is proud of you both."

Clarisse blinked slowly, as if waking from a long painful trance. The crowd around her still buzzed, loud laughter, applause, shouts of "welcome back, boss!" and back slaps, but it all sounded muffled, distant, like it came from underwater. She felt her siblings' eyes on her, full of expectation: the shoulder punch, the crude comment, the crooked smile she always gave after a successful mission. But nothing came.

Her expression hardened again. Jaw clenched so tight her teeth ground faintly. Dark brown eyes turned cold again, impenetrable, the steel mask she'd worn since childhood to hide any weakness. She nodded once, short, dry, emotionless, an automatic almost robotic motion.

And turned her back on everyone.

She didn't look at the siblings reaching out to greet her. She didn't answer the excited shouts. She didn't stop for the congratulations raining down like confetti. She just moved through them like they were ghosts, body rigid, steps heavy and determined on gravel crunching under boots caked with dirt and dried blood. Broad shoulders cut the air ahead like a blade, clearing a path without effort, without gentleness, without a single glance back.

Inside, everything was silent devastating chaos. The image of your tears still burned behind her eyelids. The relief in your eyes. The hurt. The love that still existed, stubborn, despite everything she'd done to kill it.

"I'm a coward," she thought, the thought cutting like a rusted sword. "I hurt you to protect myself. I abandoned you so I wouldn't have to face what I feel. And now you still came… still cried for me."

Guilt was a crushing weight on her chest, mixed with mission exhaustion, sleepless days, fights, blood, constant fear of not coming back. But none of it hurt as much as the longing that now returned full force, like a wave she could no longer hold back.

She wanted to go straight to the cabin. Wanted to lock the door. Wanted a hot shower that burned away the dirt, sweat, ichor, memories. Wanted to lie on the hard bed, bury her face in the pillow, and sleep, or pretend to sleep, until the world stopped spinning. Until the image of your tears stopped burning. Until she could convince herself one more time that what she felt for you was nothing but a weakness Ares would never allow.

But deep down, deep down, she knew it was a lie.

And that hurt more than any battle wound.

The setting sun painted the path in melancholic almost sad gold, and the sound of celebration faded behind her, distant, irrelevant. Clarisse walked alone, jaw still clenched, eyes fixed on the ground, carrying in her chest a weight no mission, no monster, no god could lift.

Because you'd cried for her. And she didn't know if she deserved it. Didn't know if she could live with the choice she'd made.

[…]

August arrived slowly, almost shyly, knocking at the Aphrodite cabin door like someone unsure if they're welcome. The air was already drier, lighter, carrying a different scent. Sun rose later, set earlier, and the light coming through the tall cabin windows had changed: no longer the vivid gold of midsummer, but a melancholic almost orange gold that stretched across pink walls and sheets like a reminder that everything was ending.

The end of summer season approached like an inevitable silent inescapable sentence. Cabins emptied day by day, voices that once filled corridors now echoed more distant, laughter that once exploded in the pavilion now more restrained, night bonfires that once lasted until dawn now died early.

For you, it meant returning to mortal life. The family waiting with questions you wouldn't know how to answer. Mortal friends who knew nothing of monsters, gods, or a girl named Clarisse who still made your heart bleed even from thousands of miles away. College starting soon, exams, libraries full of people who would never understand why you sometimes stopped mid-sentence and stared into nothing.

You packed slowly, with almost painful patience, as if each movement could delay the inevitable. You folded each piece of clothing like it was the last time you touched it: orange camp t-shirts faded from so much sun, carrying residual arena dust scent and something subtler, the pine perfume Clarisse always carried; light cotton blouses worn on hot days when lake wind cooled your skin; the worn denim shorts Clarisse once praised in that rough low voice, almost shy.

"They look good on you… look fucking good."

Your hands trembled slightly folding the clothes, fingers hesitating at seams, as if every fold was a goodbye. You refolded, just to have something to do, just to avoid facing the open suitcase's emptiness.

Silena was beside you, helping in silence. She folded one of your blouses with the same gentleness she used to comfort someone, dark strands falling over her face as she worked, soft lavender-and-vanilla scent mingling with the smell of dying summer. The cabin room was quiet except for fabric rustling, soft zipper clicks, and occasional voices of the few remaining campers outside.

Three weeks had passed since that afternoon at the Big House, since the moment your eyes met Clarisse's and tears fell down your face. Relief and hurt tangled in a knot that still squeezed your chest every time you took a deep breath. Three weeks of avoiding each other like gunpowder and fire, or at least you thought you were avoiding her.

Deep down, you still hoped she'd bump into you during training, sit at the same pavilion table, be forced to do some task beside you. You still glanced quickly at the Ares table during meals, searching for her messy hair, proud posture, the gaze that once sought you in crowds. But none of it happened. You saw her from afar. Always from afar.

Clarisse was even fiercer, even more relentless, shouting orders in that rough voice that thundered across the arena, training tirelessly until sunset emptied the arena, commanding her siblings with an authority that left no room for weakness, as if she'd added more layers of armor after that mission. She seemed bigger, harder, more distant. And that hurt.

It didn't get easier. You were just… getting used to the presence of her absence. To the emptiness she left in every camp corner where you'd once met, the bench behind the arena where she'd pull you into her lap, the hidden pine path where she'd kiss you like the whole world could wait.

Silena broke the silence first, folding one last blouse before placing it carefully in the suitcase.

"You're coming back next summer, right?" she asked, voice low, almost hesitant, as if afraid of the answer.

You stopped what you were doing, hands still holding a perfume bottle. You hesitated, feeling the question's weight drop on you like a stone. Ten months ahead, ten months of mortal life, routine without gods, monsters, or a girl who still made your heart bleed from thousands of miles away.

"Yeah," you answered finally, trying to sound firm, but the voice came out low, almost broken. "You know I will."

Silena gave a weak smile, small and sad that didn't reach her eyes, a smile that said she understood what you couldn't say out loud.

"Just checking."

You laughed softly, a dull empty sound, and kept packing. After a few seconds of heavy silence, you asked, almost without looking at her.

"And you? You sure you don't want to come with me?"

Silena shook her head, folding a skirt with exaggerated care, as if the motion could distract her from the question.

"I'm sure your family is already sick of me since the last time I took your offer."

You laughed for real this time, a short genuine laugh that hurt a little in your chest, a good pain, a pain that reminded you you could still laugh.

"Shut up, they loved you."

Silena smiled again, but it died fast. She stayed quiet a few more seconds, fingers playing with the suitcase handle, gaze distant. Then, in an even lower voice, she asked.

"You're going to be okay… right?"

You stopped. Looked at the open suitcase, the carefully folded clothes, the neatly packed makeup, the empty space where things you'd once shared with her used to be. You felt everything crash down at once, the ten months ahead and mortal life that felt like exile.

Chest tight, deep melancholy settled like cold mist, mixed with the tension of leaving behind the only place where you'd ever been whole.

"It'll have to be," you answered slowly, voice low, almost a whisper. "Ten months living another life. Another routine. With other people. I… I'll have to learn to exist without her around. Without waiting for her to show up."

Silena nodded, eyes shining with what looked like held-back tears, but she didn't cry. She just waited. Then you took a deep breath and said, almost whispering.

"You can…" Before you finished, Silena interrupted, voice firm and affectionate at the same time.

"I'll keep an eye on her."

You groaned in frustration, throwing yourself onto the bed with a heavy sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of your soul. You sat on the mattress edge, hands covering your face for a second, shaking your head as if you could shake the feeling away.

"I feel like an idiot for still caring," you murmured, voice choked, cracked. "After everything she said… I still worry. Still want to know if she'll be okay."

Silena sat beside you slowly, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. The touch was warm, comforting, like an armless hug.

"You're not immune to worry," she said softly, voice gentle but firm. "No one is. Not when you really love. It's okay to still care."

You lowered your hands, staring at the floor, bare feet against the cabin's soft rug.

"I just don't want her going back to her old self-destructive habits…" you whispered, voice trembling. "Throwing herself into everything like she has nothing to lose. Thinking she doesn't deserve anything but anger and war. That she… that she gets lost for good."

Silena squeezed your shoulder harder, the gesture full of tenderness.

"It'll be okay," she said, voice soft but firm. "These will be ten months for her to think too. To face what she did. What she lost. Maybe… maybe she'll realize she doesn't have to be only war. That maybe it's worth lowering her guard. At least once."

Silena fell silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the open suitcase, but her mind was elsewhere. She thought of Clarisse, how she'd watched her those three weeks, from afar, never trying direct approach. She knew Clarisse needed space, that any attempt at conversation would be met with a growl or a killing look. You needed space too. But that didn't mean Silena was blind.

She saw everything.

Saw Clarisse lingering on the path near the Aphrodite cabin, pretending to adjust a boot or look at the sky, but eyes always drifting back to you when you were distracted, folding clothes on the porch, laughing with a sister, walking with a fruit basket.

Saw Clarisse sneaking around with flimsy excuses "gonna check the perimeter," "need to grab something from the arena," but always passing the same places you might be, always with the weakest pretext just for a glimpse of you. Saw the yearning in hard eyes that grew colder, emptier each day, as if she were training herself not to feel. But Silena knew Clarisse better than anyone. That emptiness was pretense. The coldness was armor. And the yearning… the yearning was real. Painfully real.

You stayed silent a long moment too. Tears threatened to fall again, but you held them back, breathing deep, feeling your chest rise and fall in shaky breaths.

"I hope so," you murmured finally. "Because I still love her. Even after everything. And that… that doesn't go away just because summer ended."

Silena didn't answer with words. She just slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug. She closed her eyes for a second, feeling the weight of a responsibility she hadn't asked for but couldn't ignore. She couldn't watch this scene unfold this way and do nothing.

What kind of daughter of the goddess of love would she be if she stood by, watching two people she loved destroy themselves in silence? What kind of Aphrodite daughter would she be if she let a war god's fear and manipulation erase a love that shone so bright even she, with her sharpened sensitivity, felt it vibrating miles away?

No. It wasn't possible. She had to do something.

[...]

Clarisse lay on the hard narrow bed in the Ares cabin, the thin mattress creaking faintly under her weight every time she shifted, as if even the cabin's rough functional furniture complained about the restlessness bubbling inside her. The room was sunk in heavy dimness, the weak late-afternoon light filtering through the tall narrow windows, cut by iron bars that gave the place the air of a fortified prison, as if Ares' children needed to be restrained even at rest.

The dark wooden walls were marked by years of impulsive blows, blade scratches, and dark dried-ichor stains no one bothered to clean, scars that told stories of rage and frustration. The silence was broken only by distant laughter from the pavilion, echoing like memories of a life that no longer belonged to her.

Her brown eyes were fixed on the uneven ceiling, tracing the cracks in the wood. In her right hand she spun a small elegant dagger, the braided leather hilt fitting perfectly into her large palm, the celestial bronze blade glinting even in the fading light. The dagger that should have been hers. That should have been at her waist, or strapped to her thigh.

Clarisse had always complained about how you walked around camp unarmed, defenseless like a flower in the middle of a war.

"You're a goddess's daughter, but that doesn't make you immortal," she'd growl, eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and worry you found adorable. And you'd always answer the same thing, with that light teasing smile that disarmed her more than any strike: "I have a really strong girlfriend to protect me."

That softened her ego like nothing else could. Clarisse liked it, liked it too much, the idea of being your protector. Of being the person you looked to when danger appeared. Of being strong enough that you never had to be afraid. But she knew she couldn't be glued to you all the time. Couldn't follow you like an armed shadow everywhere, couldn't be in every corner of camp to shield you from monsters, accidents, wrong looks.

So she insisted on training, dragging you to the arena on hot days, teaching you to grip a sword even when you complained it was too heavy, correcting your stance with firm but gentle touches that made your heart race. She never demanded you become the camp's best warrior, never would have asked that of you, because she loved you exactly because you weren't like her. She just wanted to make sure that in her absence, you'd be able to defend yourself. That you'd survive. That you'd come back to her, whole, smiling, saying "see? I handled it on my own."

That's why she commissioned the dagger from a son of Hephaestus. The boy knocked on her door that morning, sweaty and with a shy smile, eyes darting away as if afraid to meet an Ares daughter's gaze. He handed over the weapon wrapped in thick cloth like it was something fragile, muttering "sorry for the delay, high demand at the forge" before running off down the camp paths.

Clarisse took the dagger, felt the perfect weight in her hand, the impeccable balance, the hilt that fit as if molded for your delicate fingers, and now she didn't know what to do with it. Throw it away? Bury it at the bottom of her bag? Give it to someone else? Every option felt wrong, as if the dagger were a piece of you she no longer had the right to touch.

She groaned in frustration, a low rough sound from the back of her throat, echoing in the empty room like a muffled roar. She covered her eyes with the forearm of the hand holding the dagger, squeezing the hilt between her fingers so hard the knuckles whitened and the metal bit into her palm, leaving a red mark she didn't even feel. The arm weighed across her face, blocking the faint light, but it couldn't block the thoughts spinning like a vortex inside her.

She thought about you all the time. Saw you around camp and it hurt, a confused melancholic pain that settled in her chest like cold heavy fog, suffocating every breath. It hurt to see you from afar, folding clothes on the Aphrodite cabin porch with that careful tenderness she always found cute, laughing at something Silena said with a laugh that still echoed in her dreams, walking to the lake with loose hair swaying in the wind as if nothing had changed.

It hurt to see you and not be able to approach. Not to bump into you "by accident" on the way to the arena, not to sit at the same pavilion table and steal a fry from your plate just to watch you roll your eyes and smile, not to pull you into a hidden corner and kiss you until forgetting monsters existed, war existed, fear existed. The internal tension was constant, like a rope stretched to breaking inside her chest, ready to snap at any moment.

Then Ares' voice echoed in her head, deep, cold, implacable.

"Love is for the weak, Clarisse." And her teeth ground so hard her jaw ached, facial muscles taut like bowstrings about to release. Because Ares was right. Because she'd proved it. Because she'd hurt you. Because she'd lost you.

The inner battle was exhausting: one part of her screamed to run after you, to fix it, to admit it was worth bleeding for you; the other part, the part shaped by Ares, whispered that weakness was death, that love was a trap, that she didn't deserve you back after what she'd done. Melancholy settled deep, like fog wrapping everything, leaving the world gray and empty.

But now Annabeth's last conversation also echoed in her head for days, like a wound that wouldn't heal, throbbing with every heartbeat. "I've already thought about giving up a lot for Athena. Sleep, pride, pieces of myself. But Percy? He's non-negotiable. Because when he looks at me… I don't have to be perfect. I just have to be me. And that… that matters more than any validation the gods could give."

The words hit like merciless hammer blows. Clarisse tried to ignore them, tried to bury them under layers of anger, exhausting training that left her muscles on fire, shouted orders to her siblings that thundered across the arena like storms. But they came back. Always came back. Because they were true. Because they were everything she didn't have the courage to admit to herself. Because, if she were honest, she knew Annabeth's words were a mirror reflecting her own cowardice.

She wanted to take it back. Wanted it so much her chest tore open every day that passed without you. Wanted to run to you, drop to her knees in the gravel like you had, say it was a lie, that she loved you more than anything, more than glory, more than approval from a god who would never truly care. Wanted to hold you until you stopped crying, until you stopped looking at her like she was a stranger. Wanted to hand you the dagger and say "use this to kill me if I hurt you again, but please… don't go."

Regret was a knife twisting in living flesh: regret for every word spoken, every cold look, every choice that led to losing you. "I broke you," she thought, the confused pain mixing self-anger and a deep sadness she couldn't name. "I broke you so I wouldn't break, and now we're both in pieces."

And now the dagger was there, in her hand, perfect, ready, useless. A reminder of everything that could have been. Everything she'd destroyed.

Clarisse squeezed the hilt harder. A tear escaped, hot and treacherous, sliding down her temple and disappearing into sweaty hair. She didn't wipe it. Let it fall. No one would see. No one was there to see Ares' daughter crying silently in her own bed.

Then a firm knock on the door echoed through the room, three dry decisive raps that made her body tense like a bowstring about to snap. The sound cut the heavy silence like a blade, and Clarisse felt her heart slam violently in her chest.

She groaned in frustration again, the rough low sound escaping between clenched teeth.

"Go away," she shouted, voice thick with anger and exhaustion. "I don't want to see anyone."

The reply came from the other side of the door, low, firm, unmistakable.

"Open this door, La Rue. It's me."

Clarisse froze. Her heart slammed violently, then sank like lead into her stomach. She recognized the voice instantly. Her chest tightened further, a mix of relief and dread.

For a full second she didn't move. The air seemed to vanish. The dagger still in her right hand, fallen beside her body as if she'd forgotten it was there. Her left hand went to her face, wiping the tears with the back of it in a quick almost violent motion, trying to erase any sign of weakness. She took a deep breath, clenched her jaw hard, recomposed the iron mask she wore like second skin, and walked to the door, steps heavy on the creaking wooden floor, each one echoing the reluctance she felt inside.

She opened the door slowly, the hinges groaning to fill the silence like a low lament.

Her eyes fell on the daughter of Aphrodite standing in the threshold, loose strands falling over her shoulders like a dark cascade, gaze firm and worried at the same time, carrying a mix of irritation and affection only she could balance. The setting sun hit her from behind, painting her outlines gold, but her face was serious, without the usual smile.

But it wasn't your daughter of Aphrodite.

"Look," Silena began, voice low but loaded with contained emotion, as if she'd held those words too long and now they spilled out urgently, "I swear I tried really hard to give you space too. Tried to let you sit in your corner, processing whatever's going on in your head. But I'm done."

Clarisse opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat, choked by the tension squeezing her chest. The hand holding the dagger hung limp at her side, the other still on the door, fingers white from gripping the wood like she needed something solid to keep from falling.

Silena raised a finger, signaling silence, and Clarisse obeyed without thinking, an automatic almost childish reflex, because deep down she knew Silena hadn't come for an easy fight.

"You can act like a bitch," Silena continued, voice firm but without malice, just raw and honest, as if lifting a weight off her chest, "but as your friend I worry about you too. I see you, Clarisse. I see you destroying yourself day after day, training until you drop, yelling at everyone like that could erase what you feel. I know you must have your reasons and your trauma, Ares isn't exactly father of the year, right? But damn it, she loves you! She was willing to understand everything. To give you space, to help carry that weight. And you threw it away like it was worth nothing."

Clarisse tried to speak again.

"Silena, you don't understand… It's not that simple. I can't…"

But Silena interrupted again, finger still raised, gaze fixed and implacable, as if she'd been ready for this conversation for days.

"No, I don't. But I also don't want to hear your side right now, because it's not to me you need to talk. It's to her. It's with her you need to open up, not me."

Clarisse just listened in silence, feeling her heart sink in her chest like a stone thrown into dark water. Guilt was a crushing weight, mixed with exhaustion weighing her bones, longing burning like acid, raw fear that it was too late to fix anything. Inside, her chest twisted, a confused melancholic pain mixing self-anger and deep sadness she couldn't name.

Silena took a deep breath, her gaze softening a little, but still loaded with determination.

"It was him, wasn't it?"

Silence. Clarisse felt the air vanish for an instant, chest squeezing as if an invisible hand gripped it. Silena sighed, a long tired sound that seemed to carry the weight of every night she'd spent worrying about you both.

"I knew. I knew from the start because I know you. I know the way you look at the world like weakness is worse than death. And Ares… he feeds that, right? He makes you think you have to be that way to be worth anything."

Clarisse tried to speak, voice rough and low.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Go away, Silena. I don't want to talk about this now."

She tried to close the door, the motion brusque and automatic, arm tensed as if she could push the whole world away, but Silena blocked it with her foot, the movement firm and decided, boot planted in the gap like she wouldn't give an inch.

"Ares is a coward," she said, voice low but cutting like a freshly sharpened blade, each word weighted as if thought a thousand times. "He got in your head and made you think you had no choice, but you did. You did. You were just as cowardly as him and chose the easy one. The one that didn't require facing him. The one that didn't require admitting you love someone more than his approval."

Clarisse clenched her fists, the dagger still in her hand, hilt biting her palm with renewed force, physical pain almost a relief amid the inner chaos.

"What did you tell her?" she asked, voice low and threatening, but with a tremor she hated.

Silena shook her head slowly, curls dancing with the motion, gaze fixed and fearless.

"Nothing. Because I couldn't plant the idea and expectation of resolution when I don't know how far you'd go for Ares. And that scares me, Clarisse. Your loyalty to Ares scares me. Because you're losing things. One of them being the love of your life."

She paused, eyes locked on Clarisse's, unblinking, silence between them thick with tension like air before a storm.

"She's leaving this afternoon."

Clarisse's eyes widened, fear eating through her like acid spilled on living flesh. The air seemed to vanish suddenly. Her chest rose and fell in short painful breaths. Guilt squeezed tighter, mixed with anticipatory longing that hurt like an open wound. She pictured you leaving, heavy suitcase, distant gaze, camp left behind, and her chest felt like it tore open.

But she couldn't do anything. It would be better this way. Better you left. Better you stayed far from her. Better you forgot her before she destroyed you completely. It's what I deserve, she thought, the inner voice bitter and self-destructive.

Silena took a step back, foot leaving the door with deliberate slowness, as if giving Clarisse time to react.

"She's at the lake. Alone. Do what you want with that information."

And then she left, light steps echoing on the gravel path like a silent goodbye, leaving Clarisse standing in the open doorway, dagger still in hand, heart beating erratically, chest torn between fear, guilt, and a longing she could no longer bury.

The setting sun painted the camp in melancholic gold, stretching cabin shadows as if trying to reach her, and Clarisse stood there, motionless, staring at the path to the lake, the dagger in her hand like a weight she no longer knew how to carry.

[…]

It was late, the kind of afternoon that seems to stretch just to prolong goodbyes. The sun hung low, dangling on the horizon. The water reflected the sky in shades of fire and diluted blood, carrying the damp scent of algae, pines, and hot earth the summer left behind. You'd taken the day to spend with the sisters still left in the cabin, the ones like Silena who had nowhere to return to, who had no mortal life waiting beyond the magical barrier. But now, at day's end, you were alone.

Sitting on the lake's edge, jeans rolled to your ankles, bare feet sunk in the day's still-warm sand. Your toes moved slowly in the fine damp sand, tracing meaningless lines while you stared fixedly at the gentle waves forming on the lake's surface. Each ripple seemed to carry away a piece of summer: pavilion laughter, exhausting arena training, ripe strawberry scent, the rough voice you still heard even when you didn't want to.

Only a few hours remained until the bus arrived, the transport that would take you back to the house where your family waited with tight hugs and questions you wouldn't know how to answer. To the life that felt too distant to belong to the same world where you'd loved and lost Clarisse La Rue.

You didn't hear the footsteps at first. Or maybe you did but chose to ignore them until it was impossible. The sound came slowly: heavy boots sinking into soft sand, a slow hesitant rhythm you'd recognize anywhere, even in a crowd, even in the dark. Your heart raced before your mind registered. You didn't turn. Couldn't. If you turned, you might collapse into tears.

Or maybe hit her.

Or maybe both at once.

Because you no longer knew how to separate what you felt. Days upon days of feelings tangled like spilled ink: sadness weighing your chest like lead, hurt cutting like glass, disappointment burning like a scald, and anger, the most dangerous of all, the one you feared feeling toward her someday. Because anger was what remained when love tired of bleeding.

The footsteps stopped a few meters away. Then closer. Until Clarisse sat beside you, slowly, as if afraid of breaking something invisible between you. Her boot sank into the sand next to your bare foot. She said nothing. Just sat, knees bent, forearms resting on them, eyes fixed on the same spot as yours: the gentle waves lapping the shore, carrying away tiny grains of sand and leaving fleeting marks that vanished in seconds.

The silence between you was thick, almost solid. The lake kept its slow rhythmic motion, the sun sank a little more, tinting the water red and gold. A lone gull flew low, its sharp cry cutting the air before fading into the distance. The light breeze carried pine and fresh water scent, stirring both your hair, yours loose falling over your shoulders; hers in that boxer braid you never tired of saying looked so good on her.

Clarisse didn't move. Didn't look at you. Just stayed there, breathing slowly, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed forced, as if every inhale hurt. You felt her presence like physical pressure: the warmth of her big strong body beside you, the subtle scent of rain-wet pines, leather and metal that always followed her, the invisible weight of everything unsaid. The silence was deafening, but at the same time comforting, because it was the same silence you'd once shared, in moments when words weren't needed to understand each other.

You wanted to say so many things. Wanted to scream. Wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask if she missed you. Wanted to ask if it still hurt her too. Wanted to ask if she regretted it. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy as stones. Because saying anything would mean admitting it still mattered. That it still hurt. That you still loved.

So you said nothing.

Clarisse said nothing either.

Then you sighed.

It was a heavy long sigh that came from deep in your chest as if carrying the weight of every past day. The air left slowly, broken, taking a piece of the tension built in your body for weeks, but leaving a greater emptiness behind.

That was it. Over. Surrender came like a cold wave rising through your stomach, squeezing everything inside, making your hands tremble slightly and your eyes burn with tears you were already tired of holding. It wasn't a happy surrender, not relief. It was exhaustion. It was accepting that love, no matter how stubborn, couldn't force someone to stay.

You stared at the lake one more eternal second, the gentle waves kept lapping the shore, indifferent to the pain unfolding there, carrying away tiny grains of sand and leaving marks that vanished in seconds, as if nothing had ever happened. The sand was still warm under your bare feet, but the heat no longer reached your chest, as if the inner cold had taken over everything.

Clarisse said nothing.

Not a word. Not a sound. Just stayed seated beside you, eyes fixed on the water as if she could find some answer there she couldn't find in you. Her silence was deafening. Empty. Final. It was the proof you didn't want but needed: this was how it should be. Tension grew in your chest like a rope stretching, stretching, to the breaking point, and melancholy seeped in slowly, like lake water rising in sand, soaking everything, making everything heavier.

You didn't know why. Clarisse's reasons were still a mystery that hurt like an open wound, something you replayed in sleepless nights, trying to fit pieces that didn't make sense. But you knew in that moment, knew deep in your chest with a certainty born from living every moment beside her, that those words she'd thrown that day, the day she ended things, were lies.

Every syllable echoed in your head like a slap, but you dissected them one by one, because you'd lived with Clarisse. Lived every moment of her feelings' evolution: the way she started looking at you differently; broad shoulders relaxing when you approached. You'd felt every time she pushed you away, with hard words, cold looks, flimsy excuses, and every time you'd pulled her back with patience, with affection, with stubbornness, holding her hand until she stopped shaking.

And because you were a daughter of the goddess of Love, you felt. Felt her love like a constant presence, even in doubt, even in pain, even when tears fell and your chest felt torn in half. It was like a subtle warmth that didn't go away, an invisible thread still connecting you both, even after everything. But if Clarisse thought it was better to end things, whatever the reason, whatever tormented her deep in those brown eyes, you'd accept it.

Because love isn't possession. Love isn't forcing someone to stay when their heart says go. Love is letting go, even when it hurts so much you think you'll die, even when every cell screams to fight, to beg, to not give up.

So you stood up.

Slow. Deliberate. Sand stuck to your wet feet, falling in fine grains as you straightened. Your jeans, still rolled at the ankles, were damp at the hem, heavy. You shook your feet lightly, but didn't really care. Looked at the lake one last time, waves kept coming, sky reflection breaking and reforming with every water movement, as if the world moved on even when yours stopped, took a deep breath of fresh air smelling of lake and pines and goodbye, and turned away.

But then you heard her stand up.

It was a low almost reluctant sound, sand shifting under heavy boots, faint joint pops betraying accumulated fatigue, rustle of clothes still carrying dust and metal scent. Your heart slammed violently in your chest, a mix of hope and dread that made the air vanish for an instant. You squeezed your eyes shut hard, so hard your eyelids hurt, trapped tears escaping at the corners.

Everything in your mind was one single thought, repeated like a desperate prayer: please, don't make this harder than it already is. Because you were already at your limit. Because every second beside her was a stretched rope about to snap. Because you no longer knew if you wanted to hug her or push her away.

Tension grew through your whole body, muscles rigid as if preparing for flight or fight, melancholy deepening like the darkness falling around, making everything heavier, more inescapable.

And then came the voice.

"Please…"

It wasn't the strident confident fierce voice always shouted in the arena, thundering among campers. It was weak. Insecure. Cowardly. A voice that trembled at the end of the word, as if torn from her by force. A voice you'd never heard before, and because of that, it hurt deeper. Hurt like a blade twisting in an old wound, because that vulnerability in her was rare, precious, and now felt like a trap.

You turned.

Slow. Gradually. As if every inch of the motion hurt physically, as if your body resisted your mind, screaming not to look, not to give in, not to fall into the same trap again. Inside, chaos. Anger rising mixed with sadness, hurt, love that still refused to die. Tension was palpable, like air before a storm, charged with electricity that raised goosebumps on your skin.

Your eyes were already full of tears when they finally landed on her. Tears fell freely, hot, sliding down your cheeks without trying to stop them. Because you couldn't anymore. Because seeing Clarisse there, so close after so long avoiding, was too much. Melancholy deepened: melancholy at seeing someone you loved so much reduced to this, melancholy knowing maybe it was too late, melancholy for a love that still existed but couldn't be.

She looked different.

Seemed tired. Worn down. The big strong body you knew so well now carried more scratches and bruises than the last time you'd seen her up close, purple and red marks scattered across her left forearm, a fresh cut at her temple still swollen at the edges, bruises spreading down her neck and disappearing under the torn t-shirt collar. Proof she spent more time than usual in the arena, throwing herself into training that felt like punishment.

The braid was clumsy, uneven, loose strands escaping, elastic half-loose, as if she'd tried to do it herself in a hurry. It wasn't bad work, but you knew you'd have done it better. Knew you'd have run your fingers calmly, parted strands carefully, braided with care while she grumbled that "you didn't need this," but let you continue anyway. Seeing her like this, vulnerable, broken, squeezed your chest in a pain mixed with pity and anger.

Why does she let herself get like this? you thought. Why doesn't she fight for herself like she fights in the arena?

She stood now, a few steps away, fists clenched at her sides, shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying something invisible and too heavy. Her dark brown eyes stared at you, not with the usual hardness, not with the anger she used as a shield. They were tired eyes. Eyes that seemed to beg without words.

"No." That was all you managed to say.

Just that. A short dry word loaded with everything you could no longer express. "No" to the please. "No" to whatever she wanted to say. "No" to more pain.

Clarisse opened her mouth. Tried to speak. But nothing came out. You saw her jaw clench hard, teeth grinding faintly, lower lip bitten until white. Saw her fists tighten more, nails digging into palms. Saw the anger rising, not at you, but at herself for not managing to form a sentence, for not explaining, for not fixing. She hated it. Hated feeling weak. Hated you seeing it. Tension in her body was visible, muscles rigid as if in battle, but against herself.

You gave up.

Turned away again, ready to leave for good, to put an end to that silence that hurt more than any scream. Chest tight, inner reaction a mix of relief and pain, but in pure desperation that you'd leave for real, Clarisse shouted.

"I'm sorry!" The voice came out rough, broken, too loud for the lake's silence.

You stopped. Frozen. Whole body locked mid-motion. Heart raced erratically, tension growing like a wave about to break.

And then she continued, words tumbling out rushed, as if held too long, voice trembling at the end of each sentence.

"I'm sorry for what I said. For the way I hurt you. I… I know it was cruel. I know it was wrong. But it was complicated. It was… it was better this way. I needed to do it. I needed…"

You turned with anger. Crying. Tears streaming freely now, hot and furious, dripping from your chin as you advanced toward her. Inner reaction was a hurricane: anger burning like Greek fire, mixed with sadness sinking like lead, hurt cutting like blades.

"Better this way?" you repeated, voice trembling with emotion, rising like thunder. "Better for who, Clarisse? Better for you? Because for me it wasn't better at all."

She tried to speak, opened her mouth again, jaw trembling, but you didn't let her.

"No," you interrupted, voice rising, cutting. "You're not talking now. You're not interrupting me. Because I held it in for whole weeks. Whole weeks swallowing everything I felt, convincing myself maybe I deserved it. That maybe I'd done something wrong."

You got closer. Pointed at her. Jabbed your index finger into her chest, hard, but not enough to hurt. The impact made her body step back minimally, but she didn't flee. Stayed there, taking it, eyes down, fists clenched at her sides.

"I believed every damn word that came out of your mouth," you continued, voice cracking, tears falling faster. "Because I trusted you. Because I knew you didn't lie. Because I lived with you, Clarisse. I saw you open up to me. I saw you lower your guard. I saw you look at me like I was the only thing that mattered. And then you looked me in the eyes and said I was a distraction. That I was a weakness. That you'd never really loved me."

You jabbed her chest again, harder this time, finger trembling, hand wet with tears.

"You made me feel like I was nothing. Like I was disposable. Like I was a toy you played with for a while and threw away when you got tired. And I believed it. Because you said it. Because you looked me in the eyes and said it."

Clarisse just took it. Her eyes were red, shining with tears she refused to let fall. Jaw clenched, fists tight at her sides, but she didn't move. Didn't defend herself. Didn't interrupt. Because that's what she deserved. Because she wanted you to get it all out. Because every word of yours was a stab she felt she earned. Inside, the turmoil was devastating: guilt burning like acid, regret tearing her chest like claws, deep sadness she couldn't name, mixed with self-anger for not speaking, for not explaining, for not fixing.

I deserve this. She thought, jaw clenched hard to keep tears from falling. I deserve every word. Because I was a coward. Tension in her body was visible, muscles rigid as if in battle, but against herself, against the urge to hug you, to beg forgiveness on her knees, to admit it was all a lie. But she stayed quiet. Took it. Because maybe this way, at least for a second, she could feel what you felt. Because maybe this way she could pay a little of what she owed you.

You kept going, voice louder, more broken, tears streaming like a river that wouldn't stop.

"I cried for you. I begged for you. I knelt in gravel begging you to stay, and you turned your back and left. And now you show up here, after weeks avoiding me, after weeks letting me believe I was worth nothing, and say 'I'm sorry'? As if that fixes anything? As if that erases what you did?"

Tears streamed freely now, uncontrolled. You jabbed her chest again, weaker, more desperate, hand shaking against her t-shirt fabric.

"I loved you, Clarisse. I loved you so much it hurt. And you threw it away. You threw us away. And now… now I'm leaving. And you still can't say what you really feel."

You stopped. Panting. Crying. Hands trembling against her chest.

Clarisse didn't answer right away. Just stood there, looking at you, eyes shining with tears that finally escaped, one, two, sliding slowly down scarred cheeks. The melancholy in her gaze was deep, as if she knew this was the end, as if every word of yours was a nail in the coffin of what you'd been. Inside, she felt herself sinking.

You gasped, air coming in short broken breaths, as if the whole speech had been expelled at once, leaving lungs empty and burning. Your chest rose and fell too fast, heart beating erratically against ribs, and tears still streamed hot down your cheeks, dripping from your chin onto the damp shore sand.

You shook your head slowly, almost mechanically, eyes fixed on Clarisse, quiet, motionless, unreactive. Her silence was like a final slap, a mute confirmation that nothing more needed saying. Inside, a wave of despair and exhaustion mixed with the anger. It was a waste of time. All of this was a waste of time. The thought hurt, but it was clear, cutting.

"This is all bullshit." You murmured low, almost to yourself, voice rough and broken.

The words came out weak, loaded with deep exhaustion that seemed to drain the last of your energy. You turned away again, ready to leave for good, to put distance between you and her, between you and that lake that had witnessed so much and now seemed to mock your pain with its calm indifferent waves.

The sun had already disappeared behind the trees, leaving the sky a deep purple speckled with the first shy stars, and the lake's cool air rose, raising goosebumps on your bare arms. Every step you took in the sand felt heavier than the last, as if the ground itself tried to hold you there.

But then you ran into something big.

Not something. Someone.

You stopped abruptly, nose almost colliding with a robust chest covered by a worn black leather jacket, smelling of hot metal, battle smoke, and something older, wilder, like iron forged in blood. You looked up slowly, trembling, holding your breath. The man was immense, taller than any camper, broader than any Ares child you knew. Shoulders that seemed capable of carrying Olympus' weight, arms crossed over his chest as if the whole world was an inconvenience.

The faint twilight light hit him from the side, highlighting the hard jawline, nose broken and rebuilt a thousand times, eyes glowing with dark red, almost black, like embers about to die.

You felt his snort before hearing it. A deep animal sound, like a wild bull about to charge. The air around him seemed to vibrate with violent oppressive energy. Then strong fingers closed around your wrist in a quick firm motion, yanking you back with force that allowed no resistance. You stumbled, heart racing in panic.

Clarisse placed herself in front of you in a blink, in fighting stance, spear already materialized in her right hand, shaft firm against her palm, celestial bronze tip pointed straight at the man's chest. She'd been there the whole time. You hadn't even noticed. Her body blocked yours, broad shoulders like a wall, but you felt the subtle tremor in her muscles, not from fear, but from something more dangerous.

"Father…"

The word came out low, almost a whisper, but loaded with tension. Ares growled, the sound reverberating in his chest like low thunder. He looked straight at you, over Clarisse's shoulder, red eyes fixed on yours as if he could see through your soul. You shrank behind her, body trembling, but kept your eyes over her broad shoulders, unable to look away.

The realization hit like a punch: Ares. The god of war in flesh and blood, standing on the lake shore, his presence suffocating the air around, making the night darker, heavier.

The atmosphere turned tense instantly. Father and daughter staring each other down deadly, air between them crackling with energy that raised the hairs on your nape. Clarisse gripped the spear with both hands now, body leaned forward, ready to attack or defend, you weren't sure. Ares crossed his arms, the motion slow, almost lazy, but loaded with threat.

"You're really going to point my gift at your own father?"

His voice was deep, rough, full of cruel mockery that turned your stomach. Clarisse's face hardened, gripping the spear tighter, knuckles whitening against the shaft.

"What do you want?" she asked, voice low but firm, a firmness that trembled at the edges.

Ares laughed, a short, ironic, mocking laugh. He looked down at her feet for an instant, as if the whole situation was ridiculous, but when he raised his gaze again, the smile died. His eyes hardened, cold as steel.

"I came personally to sort out your little problem," he said, voice low and dangerous, "since, apparently, you disobeyed me."

Clarisse swallowed hard. You saw the movement in her throat, the faint tremor in her jaw.

"I did what you asked," she shot back, voice rough, almost broken.

You frowned, heart racing even faster.

"Clarisse, what did you mean by that?" you asked, voice low, trembling, coming out almost as a whisper behind her.

Clarisse glanced at you over her shoulder quick, just an instant, but immediately locked eyes with Ares again, as if she couldn't afford to look away any longer. Ares laughed again, lower this time, crueler.

"Yeah, Clarisse," he said, tilting his head to the side, red eyes fixed on her. "What did you mean by that?"

Clarisse shifted her weight from one foot to the other, restless, spear still firm in her hands, eyes tracking every minimal movement he made, like a wild animal sizing up the bigger predator.

"Okay," Ares said, tone shifting to something colder, more final. "Enough stalling. Let's end this quick."

A sword materialized in his huge hands, long, heavy, blade black as night with red veins that pulsed like living blood. The air around seemed to contract, the whole lake going quieter, waves pausing for an instant as if even nature held its breath.

Clarisse gasped, the sound low and painful. She stepped back, body positioning even more in front of you, one hand reaching behind without looking, just searching, finding your arm, strong fingers closing around your wrist in a protective, possessive, desperate grip. She didn't turn her face. She didn't need to. She knew you were still there.

You felt her touch, warm, firm, trembling slightly, and your heart broke once more. Because even now, even after everything, she was still trying to protect you. Ares smiled, a humorless smile, cold, cruel, showing teeth too sharp, too white, as if each one had been shaped to tear flesh before even speaking a word.

Ares tilted his head to the side, blood-red eyes fixed on Clarisse, but not quite on her. His gaze pierced through his daughter as if she were just an annoying curtain, landing directly on you behind her. That stare pierced: it saw the invisible scars still throbbing in your chest, saw the nights you woke crying her name, saw every doubt you'd buried thinking it was just your own weakness. A low snort escaped his nose, deep, animalistic, like a war bull scenting blood-soaked ground.

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low, almost sweet, but a poisoned sweetness made of rusted blades. "I just want the little lady. No need to complicate things for daddy."

The words came out slow, drawn out, each syllable dripping mockery. He took a step forward. The sandy ground crunched under his black military boots, leather jacket creaking like old armor. The air vibrated around him, a pressure that made your ears buzz, as if the god of war himself were sucking out the oxygen and replacing it with pure fury.

Clarisse tensed entirely. The hand gripping your wrist squeezed with almost cruel force, warm fingers trembling against your skin. She stepped back, pushing you with her body, using herself as a living shield. The electric spear, the same one Ares had given her years ago, with a celestial bronze tip still sparking faint blue flickers, trembled slightly in her right hand. It wasn't fear. It was contained rage, a fury so great it made the arm muscles stand out under her skin, the shaft creaking under white-knuckled fingers.

"Father…" The word came out rough, almost choked in her throat. "Stay away from her."

Ares laughed, a short, guttural laugh that echoed in his broad chest like distant thunder rolling over battlefields. He rested the sword blade on his shoulder, free hand opening as if preparing to crush something fragile.

"Stay away from her?" he repeated, tone loaded with scorn that turned your stomach. "You think you can give me orders, girl? After everything I've given you? After everything I've taught you?"

He took another step. The ground trembled slightly, or maybe it was just your racing heart making everything unstable. The air around him crackled, charged with latent violence.

"I came down here just to remind you who you are. I told you to end it with her. And you did, didn't you? Cried like a baby, but you did it. Ended it. Broke everything. Because you knew I was right."

Clarisse ground her teeth. You heard the low, painful click. Her hand squeezed your wrist even harder, fingers now trembling not just from anger, but from something deeper, guilt perhaps, or shame she would never admit.

"What more do you want from me?" she spat, voice low, rough, almost broken.

Ares tilted his head, the cruel smile returning, wider, sharper, full of teeth that looked ready to bite.

"What do I want?" he repeated, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo inside your head. "I want you to finish the job properly, daughter. I want you to prove you're mine. That you're not weak. That you're not… in love."

He took another step. The sand shifted in small waves around his boots, as if the ground were surrendering.

"But look at you now," he continued, red eyes gleaming with pure contempt. "Here you are, running after her again. Whimpering. Protecting. As if you could choose anything other than what I gave you. You think that's strength? That's pathetic. You're pathetic. I gave you anger. I gave you power. I made you tough enough to survive in this shitty world. And you throw it all away for a little girl who can barely hold a sword? Who cries over everything? Who makes you soft, makes you weak?"

Each word was a lash. You felt Clarisse shrink with every one, shoulders trembling, breath coming short and uneven. The spear dipped an inch, not from cowardice, but because the weight of those words was crushing her.

"You failed," Ares growled, voice now a low thunder that made the whole lake vibrate. "Again. Always. Because deep down you know I'm right. Always have been. I get in your head, girl. I make you dance like a puppet. And you let me. Because without me you're nothing. Without the anger I plant in you, you collapse."

Clarisse took another step back, pushing you harder, keeping herself as the barrier. But you saw: saw the tremor in her shoulders, saw the watery eyes she tried to hide, saw how her whole body seemed smaller under her father's gaze.

But you also saw the change happen in Clarisse as if the air around her had suddenly been charged with electricity.

The shoulders that until seconds ago seemed to carry the invisible weight of a thousand old guilts stiffened slowly, muscle by muscle, as if someone had just reminded her body it still belonged to her. The shoulder line rose, the collarbone sharpened under the skin, and the entire spine lengthened, straightened, as if an inner rope had been pulled firm and without warning.

For an instant, an instant that seemed to last ages, she gained height. It wasn't just centimeters; it was presence. The space she occupied in the world expanded, as if the environment itself had stepped back to make way.

You heard her breathing change before the voice even came out. The air entered deeper, exited more controlled. The chest rose and fell once, twice, then stopped, not from fear, but from decision.

"No," when she finally spoke, the voice no longer trembled. It didn't waver. It dropped low, gained body, gained sharp edges that had once been only timid outlines. "You can call me whatever you want, get in my head or disown me. But you don't touch her."

Each syllable seemed forged right there, in the heat of that moment, and there was no room left for hesitation. Because Clarisse was exhausted.

Exhausted from shrinking every time fear whispered her name. Exhausted from swallowing words that burned her throat. Exhausted from reliving, in cruel loops, the instant she let you slip away out of cowardice, out of silence, out of not having the courage to reach out when there was still time.

Ares stopped. His eyes narrowed. The smile died.

"You made your choice." He said, voice almost a growl.

He raised the sword slowly. The air around crackled, oxygen seeming to catch fire. Clarisse squeezed your wrist once more with fierce desperation. You felt her fingers trembling against your skin, determination mixed with dread. She raised the spear higher, body leaned forward, ready to attack or die.

And, while the lake remained in absolute silence, waiting for the inevitable, the realization consumed you like slow poison.

It was Ares. It had always been Ares.

He got in her head. Planted doubt, anger, fear. Made her his puppet, pulled the strings until she broke everything she touched, including you. And you… you should have imagined. Should have seen the signs: the nights she woke in cold sweat, murmuring his name like a curse; the way she pulled away suddenly, as if an invisible voice had ordered it; the guilt she carried in her eyes every time she looked at you afterward.

You were so stupid.

So blind.

And now, here, watching Clarisse shatter under her father's weight, you understood: she never truly had a choice. Not against him.

Ares moved first, too fast for a god of such imposing size. The black sword rose in a brutal arc, red veins pulsing like exposed arteries, slicing the air with a whistle that made the nearby pines shudder. Clarisse reacted on instinct: the electric spear spun in her hands, reinforced steel shaft meeting her father's blade in an impact that sent blue and golden sparks flying in every direction. The sound was deafening, metal against metal, celestial bronze against divine obsidian, a clang that echoed across the entire lake and made the still waters tremble in concentric waves.

Clarisse grunted with effort, arms locked, forearm muscles bulging under sweaty skin. The impact pushed her back two steps, heels sinking into damp sand, but she didn't yield. Her brown eyes, blazing with a fierce mix of rage and desperation, met yours over her shoulder for a fleeting instant, a gaze loaded with ferocious, protective love that cut deeper than any wound.

"Sweetheart," she said, voice rough, broken by the effort of holding her guard, "get back."

You stepped back. Then another. Your feet stumbled in the wet sand, heart pounding so hard it felt like it wanted to escape your chest. But you didn't turn away. Couldn't. You wouldn't leave her alone against him. Not now.

Ares laughed, a low, guttural laugh that seemed to come from the depths of an ancient battlefield.

"What a disappointment…" he snarled, spinning the sword in a lazy, almost playful motion, while Clarisse repositioned, spear sparking again. "Using the same spear I gave you against me. The same strength I planted in you. All of this is mine, girl. You're just the vessel."

Clarisse advanced. The spear sliced through the air in a diagonal strike, forcing Ares to take half a step back, the first retreat you had ever seen from him. She spun her body, using the momentum, and landed another blow that he parried with the flat of his blade, the impact making the ground vibrate.

“Nothing here is yours,” she spat through clenched teeth as the two circled each other like predators. Sweat ran down her forehead, dripping from her chin. “I became who I am on my own. Because you’re a terrible father. A coward. You only know how to destroy. You never knew how to create.”

Ares tilted his head, the cruel smile returning, wider, sharper.

“Terrible father?” He stepped forward, forcing Clarisse back with a rapid series of strikes she blocked by millimeters, bronze hissing against obsidian. “And you think this is creation? Throwing yourself in front of a weak little girl because of a pathetic feeling? Love?” He spat the word like it was bile. “You’re willing to die for love? Because I don’t care about killing one child. I have plenty of others. More obedient. More useful. Ones who don’t embarrass me by whimpering for affection.”

Clarisse ground her teeth, eyes flashing. She swung the spear in a wide arc, forcing Ares to block high, and seized the opening to aim a low strike at his leg, which he dodged with an almost disdainful leap. But the move left her exposed for a fraction of a second.

And he took it.

The sword came down in a precise diagonal strike aimed at her shoulder. Clarisse managed to raise the spear in time, but the impact was devastating. The god’s force drove her to her knees in the sand, the spear shaft creaking dangerously, nearly snapping. A thin stream of blood trickled from the shallow cut on her shoulder, staining her torn t-shirt dark red. She gasped, chest heaving fast, but she didn’t lower her guard.

Ares stood over her, the black sword’s tip hovering inches from his daughter’s throat. The entire lake seemed to hold its breath again; the stars reflected in the water trembled as if they were afraid.

“So be it,” Clarisse said, voice low and hoarse but carrying a determination that cut deeper than any blade. She lifted her gaze to him, eyes shining with tears she refused to let fall.

For an instant, an almost imperceptible instant, something passed through Ares’ blood-red eyes. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret. It was… recognition? Twisted pride? Or just the satisfaction of seeing his daughter finally resemble him?

“Reckless girl.” He raised the sword higher. “But don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. And when I’m done with you… know that she’s next.”

Clarisse was on her knees, blood from her shoulder running in hot rivulets down her arm, staining the sand a pulsing dark red that matched the veins in Ares’ sword. The black blade descended in a merciless arc, slicing the air with a high-pitched whistle that made your ears ring, promising a bloody and final end. Time seemed to stretch, every second an eternity of tension, as the god of war growled low, red eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.

But she rolled.

Her body spun to the side in a desperate, instinctive motion, sand flying in fine clouds that stung exposed skin like needles. The sword buried itself deep in the ground with a dull thud that reverberated across the entire lake, sending the waters rippling outward in concentric waves, as if Poseidon himself felt the impact.

Clarisse staggered to her feet, panting, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps, tangled hair plastered to her sweaty, sand-smeared face. Her brown eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion and fury, met yours for a fleeting instant, a gaze loaded with fierce, protective love that cut deeper than any wound.

She could have given up right there. She could have bowed her head, let her father cut her in half, and carried forever the weight of being discarded like a defective weapon. The thought passed through her mind like sweet poison: peace, finally, away from his eternal rage. But then came you, the image of you there, vulnerable, eyes wide with terror, body trembling like a leaf in the wind.

No. She couldn’t surrender. Not while you were in danger. For you, she would fight until her last breath, even if it meant spitting in the face of his approval, even if it meant burning every bridge with the god who had shaped her. Even if it cost her life. A single tear slid down her face, mixing with the sweat, but she ignored it, clenching her teeth with an audible snap.

The fight resumed like an uncontrolled storm. Clarisse attacked with a ferocity you had never seen, the remaining spear spinning in wild arcs, faint blue electric sparks leaping from the broken tip like tiny lightning bolts, illuminating her contorted face in intermittent flashes.

Each strike was a mute scream of rebellion, her body moving with lethal grace mixed with raw desperation, arm muscles trembling from fatigue but driven by a rage bubbling like lava in her veins. Ares parried with almost lazy ease, black sword hissing against bronze, but his steps were more cautious now, sandy ground marking deep footprints where he retreated.

"Look at you," he taunted, voice a guttural growl that echoed across the lake like a wounded lion's roar, each word dripping poison. "Thinking you can challenge me with this? Every strike of yours is an echo of what I taught you. You're nothing without me, just an empty shell full of pathetic illusions of love. Weak. Always weak."

The words hit Clarisse like whips, making her grunt with emotional pain, eyes flashing with a fury that grew every second, fueled by his mockery. She advanced faster, spear blurring, forcing Ares to block harder, the impact sending vibrations that made her teeth chatter. Sweat flew from their bodies, mixing with the humid air, and the scent of hot iron intensified, suffocating, as if the entire lake were turning into an ancient battlefield.

"You know nothing about me!" she spat back, voice rough, broken by a contained sob, while landing a strike that grazed his leather jacket, tearing the fabric with a dry sound.

"I know plenty. I know you'll break. Like always." Ares laughed, a cruel, reverberating laugh that turned your stomach.

He spun the sword in a brutal downward motion, all divine strength behind it. The tension in the air was palpable, like a rope stretched to breaking, and you felt your heart stop when the blade met the spear.

It snapped in half.

The crack was deafening, dry as bone breaking, echoing across the lake and making nearby pines whisper in response. The bronze tip flew spinning into the dark water, sinking with a dull gurgle, while the cracked shaft stayed limp in Clarisse's hand, useless.

She froze, on her knees once more, eyes glazed on the scattered pieces in the sand. The world seemed to collapse around her. Flashbacks flooded her mind like a flood: the capture the flag field, years ago, air full of screams and scent of burning pine.

Percy Jackson, the brat with sea eyes and a sword that defied gods, snapping her spear with a humiliating strike in front of the whole camp. The shame burning in her chest, the anger Ares had whispered in her ear afterward, turning her into a weapon. Now, again. Broken. Useless. Hot tears blurred her vision, chest tight with a sob she swallowed, whole body trembling from exhaustion and defeat.

Ares stopped, smile widening slowly, cruel, teeth too sharp gleaming under faint moonlight filtering through clouds. He approached with slow, deliberate steps, sand crunching under boots like grinding bones. The air vibrated with his presence, oppressive, suffocating, and you felt a chill run down your spine, legs weak as if they might give out.

"It's over, daughter," he murmured, voice low and paternal, but loaded with contempt that cut like a knife. "You were always a disappointment."

He raised the sword slowly, black blade pulsing with red veins like living blood, preparing the final strike. Clarisse's heart beat erratically, breath short, eyes down fixed on the broken spear pieces, symbol of everything he'd given and taken from her.

And then you acted.

Without thinking. Without fear. Just a surge of raw emotion, love mixed with terror, anger at seeing Clarisse shatter. You ran across the sand, feet sinking, heart in your throat, and leaped onto his back like a desperate shadow. Your arms wrapped around his thick muscular neck in an improvised chokehold, squeezing with all the mortal strength you had, fingers interlocked, muscles burning from effort. His body was like hot iron under your hands, scent of smoke and blood flooding your nostrils.

Ares grunted, surprised, a guttural sound, almost choked, that echoed like muffled thunder.

"What the hell is this?" he snarled, stumbling backward in an unexpected stagger, strong legs faltering in unstable sand.

The sword slipped from his hand, falling to the sand with a heavy thud, red veins flickering weakly like a dying heart. He raised huge hands to grab your arms, fingers like iron claws, and you felt his strength, overwhelming, divine, yanking you away like you were a dry leaf. In seconds, he would throw you far, maybe break you in half. But seconds were all there was.

Clarisse blinked, snapping back in an instant. Her eyes focused on the fallen sword, black blade calling her like an inevitable fate. In a fluid motion, fueled by adrenaline burning through her veins, she grabbed the weapon, heavy as the weight of the world, hot as incarnate rage, strangely familiar as if it were an extension of herself. She charged, shoulder against his broad chest, pushing with all remaining strength, the impact echoing through her aching body like a punch.

The god, off-balance from your weight and the surprise attack, stumbled forward and dropped to his knees in the sand with a surprised grunt, ground trembling as if Tartarus were laughing below. You rolled to the side, gasping, body aching, but alive, eyes meeting Clarisse's in an instant of electric connection, gratitude, love, relief mixed in a gaze that said everything.

When Ares raised his head, snarling with blind fury, red eyes blazing like coals, he felt two things at once: the sharp tip of his own sword pressed against the thick skin of his neck, cold and threatening, ready to cut; and the dirty sole of Clarisse's boot, caked with sand, blood, and determination, planted firm in the center of his broad chest, pinning him to the ground like he was a common enemy.

She stood above him, panting, chest heaving in gasps, body trembling from exhaustion but upright like a victorious warrior. The wind finally dared to blow, cold and cutting, stirring pines and making the lake waters whisper softly, like reluctant applause.

"I know I couldn't kill you," she said, voice low, almost a whisper loaded with exhaustion and a truth that hurt more than any wound. "Even if I wanted it with my whole soul. Even if I had a thousand spears, a thousand years of rage, a thousand reasons to hate you. You're a god. I'm just… your daughter. A demigod who carries your name like a curse."

The blade pressed a little harder, just enough to make ichor flow faster, a thin line tracing a shining path across his skin. Ares didn't move. Didn't blink. Red eyes stayed locked on hers, but for the first time there was no mockery in them, just an attentive void, as if he were waiting for the next verbal blow with the same curiosity he waited for a physical one.

"But this here," Clarisse continued, voice gaining strength even as it trembled at the edges, "this here is proof. Irrefutable proof that I'm not weak. You always underestimated me just because I love someone. Because I chose someone. Because I refused to be only your blind rage tool, only your echo of war. You thought that made me soft. That it broke me."

She swallowed hard, throat burning as if she'd swallowed coals. A single tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the dirt on her face, falling from her chin to the sand. She didn't wipe it. Didn't look away.

"You were wrong. Wrong from the first day you looked at me and decided I'd be only anger. Love doesn't make me weak, father. It doesn't break me. It rebuilds me. She rebuilds me."

Her eyes slid to you, just for a second, but it was as if the whole world had stopped. That gaze was pure, raw, full of a love so fierce it seemed to burn the air between you. You felt your chest constrict, hot tears rising to your eyes, body trembling no longer just from fear, but from an emotion that didn't fit inside you. It was as if the entire lake had felt that gaze, as if the still waters had rippled in response.

"Every day," she went on, voice now firmer, louder, loaded with a conviction that cut the silence like a new blade, "I wake up with a reason to be better. To fight harder. To bleed less. To come back whole. Because there's glory? Yes. Because I want to prove I'm the best? I've always wanted that. But the real reason, the one that makes me get up when everything hurts, the one that makes me face you, the one that makes me bleed and still stand, is the chance to come back to her. To see her face again. To know that, at the end of every battle, someone waits for me on the other side. Someone who makes me want to live, not just survive."

The silence that fell was absolute. The wind stopped again. The stars seemed to draw closer, as if listening. The lake went still, dark waters reflecting Clarisse's face like a broken mirror. Ares didn't answer. Didn't laugh. Didn't spit mockery. Didn't move. His red eyes stayed locked on hers, but something had changed, a tiny, almost invisible crack in the armor of millennia of scorn. It wasn't regret. It wasn't pride. It was the silence of a god who, for the first time, had no ready comeback.

Clarisse took a deep breath, chest aching from holding it all inside. Slowly, with a calm that seemed to come from somewhere very deep, she pulled the sword away from his neck. The blade left one last trail of shining ichor on his skin, and then she let it go. The sword fell to the sand between them with a dull thud, red veins pulsing weakly one last time before fading, like a heart giving up beating.

She stepped back. Then another. Without turning her back, she would never turn her back on Ares, but moving far enough that the space between them felt, for the first time, an insurmountable distance. Her body trembled from exhaustion, shoulder bleeding in slow drops that dripped onto the sand, but she stayed upright, shoulders square, chin raised.

Then she turned to you.

Her steps were slow, heavy, each one marked by a pain that went beyond the physical, a pain from the soul, from betrayal, from choice. Her face was destroyed: dirty, bruised, streaked with tears she could no longer contain. But when she got close to you, when she reached out a trembling hand and touched your face with warm, sand-and-blood-smeared fingers, the touch was so gentle it hurt in your chest.

"Hey," she murmured, voice low, broken, but full of a relief that seemed infinite. "Hey… I'm here. I'm here."

You felt the tears finally escape, hot and silent, sliding down your face as you held her hand against your cheek, squeezing as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. Her scent invaded you, blood, sweat, sand, hot iron, but beneath it all was something sweeter, more human: the scent of home, of someone who had chosen you above everything.

Clarisse pulled you into a tight, clumsy, painful hug. Her arms trembled around your body, face buried in your shoulder, hot uneven breath against your skin. You felt her heart beating against yours, fast, alive, stubborn.

Clarisse's hug was a desperate grip, as if she were holding on to the edge of an abyss and you were the only rope left. Her arms trembled around your body, muscles still contracted from fight adrenaline, the heat of fresh blood on her shoulder seeping into your t-shirt. The scent was overwhelming: hot iron, damp sand, salty sweat and that subtle trace of pine that always followed Clarisse after a battle, a scent you'd missed so much it hurt to remember.

You separated slowly, reluctantly, faces so close you saw every bruised detail on hers under pale moonlight: the thin cut on her lower lip still bleeding slowly, dirt mixed with dried tear tracks, brown eyes bloodshot, red from exhaustion and something deeper, a pain beyond flesh. The cold wind finally dared return, carrying distant pine and lake scent, raising goosebumps on your bare arms.

At the same time, as if guided by shared instinct, you both turned your heads to where Ares had been.

The sand was empty.

The deep imprint of his broad back was still pressed there, an irregular mold of a fallen god, edges already beginning to blur with the wind. But no body. No black sword with pulsing red veins. No retreating footprints, no residual golden ichor glow, no echo of cruel laughter hanging in the air. Just absolute emptiness. As if the god of war had been ripped from reality by a greater force, or simply decided that, for now, he'd caused enough damage.

Clarisse let out a long, shaky sigh, her whole body seeming to shrink a little more. Shoulders dropped, head bowed forward for a second, tangled hair falling like a curtain over her face. She passed a dirty hand across her face, smearing more sand and blood, and the sound of her breathing was the only noise besides the waves.

"He's gone," she murmured, voice rough, almost disbelieving, loaded with a relief that seemed too fragile to last. But then she raised her eyes to you, and there was a dark shadow there, not exactly fear, but a bitter certainty, heavy as lead. "But he won't leave it like this. I'm sure he'll come back. Ares doesn't forget a humiliation. Ares doesn't forgive."

You felt a chill run down your spine, even with the residual heat of her body pressed to yours. The lake reflected the black sky speckled with stars, dark waters trembling slightly as if still feeling the echo of divine presence. The air felt colder now, emptier, and the silence between you was so thick you could hear your own heart pounding.

"Then we'll be ready," you said, voice low, but with a firmness that surprised even you.

Clarisse blinked, surprised, eyes widening for an instant. A small, crooked, pained smile appeared at the corner of her bruised mouth, a smile that didn't reach her eyes, but carried something close to gratitude.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?" she whispered, voice failing at the end. "He's a god. He could come back tomorrow, or in ten years. And I… I hurt you so much before all this. I ended everything because he ordered it. I was a coward. I let you go thinking it was right, thinking it was to protect you, but really it was just fear. I…"

Her voice broke, eyes dropping to the sand between you, as if she could no longer hold your gaze. Her hands trembled visibly now, fingers clenching and unclenching in empty air.

"I'm sorry," she continued, almost inaudible, voice rough with contained emotion. "I know it's not enough but…"

Before she finished, you cupped her face with both hands, cold fingers against her hot, dirty, feverish skin, feeling the subtle tremor in her jaw, the racing pulse at her temple. And you kissed her.

It was an urgent, hungry kiss, full of everything you'd swallowed for months: longing, anger, relief, fear, love. Her lips were cracked, tasting of salt, blood, and sand, but they opened against yours as if they'd waited for this their whole life. Clarisse froze for half a second, whole body rigid with shock, before responding with the same desperate intensity, hands rising to hold your nape, pulling you closer, fingers tangling in your hair as if afraid you'd vanish.

When you parted, gasping, the air between you was hot, charged. She blinked confused, eyes glazed, lost, pupils dilated in the dark.

"You… you're an idiot," you said, voice choked, but with a trembling laugh at the edges, hot tears streaming down your face. "I'm still really mad at you."

And then you kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, as if you wanted to etch every sensation into memory: the way she sighed against your mouth, the tremor of her hands at your waist, the heat of her bruised body pressed to yours, the taste of tears mixed with hers.

Clarisse pulled back just enough to speak, forehead pressed to yours, irregular breath hitting your lips.

"I don't understand," she murmured, voice rough and confused, almost childlike in its vulnerability. "If you're mad… why are you kissing me?"

You didn't answer with words. You just hugged her tight, arms around her neck, face buried in the curve of her injured shoulder, inhaling her scent like oxygen after too long drowning.

"Because I missed you, you idiot," you whispered against her skin, voice breaking at the end, tears soaking her torn t-shirt. "Because I missed you every day. Every second. Because even when you broke me, even when you let me go, I still wanted you back. Because I love you, Clarisse. And that hasn't changed. Not with Ares, not with anything."

She stayed still for a long instant, body rigid with shock, as if the words had hit a place she didn't even know existed. Then, slowly, her arms closed around you with almost painful force, as if afraid you'd evaporate. You felt her tremble, not from cold, but from something bigger, something she'd never learned to name without anger or shame. A muffled sob escaped her throat, buried in your hair, whole body shaking against yours.

"I do too," she murmured, her voice so low it almost got lost in the lake's whisper. "I miss you too. Every day. Every second. I never stopped feeling it."

The hug lasted longer than either of you expected, seconds stretching like hours, Clarisse's body still trembling against yours, her heart beating strong and erratic against your chest. The lake kept whispering in the background, lazy waves lapping the cold sand, but the air between you was hot, loaded with everything unsaid for weeks. Then, suddenly, Clarisse pulled away in a hurry, as if remembering something urgent.

She blinked fast, eyes still glazed, and looked to the side, at the dark trail leading back to camp. Her voice came out rough, almost choked:

"Your bus…"

You felt a squeeze in your chest, the bus back home. But now, here, with the taste of her kiss still on your lips and the smell of blood and sand stuck to your skin, the idea seemed absurd.

"You really think I'm going back home and leaving you like this?" You lifted your chin, eyes fixed on hers.

Clarisse blinked again, surprised. Then lowered her gaze to herself, the torn t-shirt stained dark red, the wounded shoulder pulsing slowly, sand stuck to her arms and tangled hair, the cut on her lip still bleeding. She frowned, a little offended, voice coming out in a defensive tone you knew all too well.

"Is it that bad?"

You let out a short, dry laugh, without humor.

"It's horrendous, Clarisse. Let's go to the infirmary."

She grumbled immediately, her whole body tensing as if the idea was a personal offense. Crossed her good arms, or tried, because the hurt shoulder made her let out a low hiss of pain.

"Noooo." The sound came out drawn out, almost childish, but loaded with pure stubbornness. She shook her head slowly, hair now completely loose falling over her dirty face.

You stared at her. Cold. Unblinking. That look she knew meant the argument was already lost.

"Oh, missy is going. Come on."

Clarisse opened her mouth to protest again, but you didn't give her space. You stood first, sand sticking to your pants, body still trembling from adrenaline and emotion. Extended your hand to her, but when you saw her hesitate, simply slung her arm over your shoulder carefully, but firmly. Felt her weight lean on you, hot and heavy body, the smell of blood and sweat invading your nostrils again. Clarisse grunted low, but didn't resist.

"You're a pain in the ass," she murmured, but her voice came out without strength, almost a defeated sigh.

You adjusted her arm more firmly, holding her by the waist with the other hand so she wouldn't stumble.

"And you're stubborn as hell. Move it before I carry you myself."

She huffed, but took the first stumbling step beside you. The path back to camp was dark, lit only by faint moonlight filtering through pine tops. Each step made her shoulder hurt, you felt the subtle tremor in her body, the way she bit her lower lip not to groan. Sand gave way to packed earth trail, branches brushing your arms, cold night air cutting sweaty skin.

Clarisse leaned more weight on you than she'd admit, head down, hair falling like a curtain. After a few meters in silence, she murmured, almost inaudible.

"Thanks… for not leaving."

"Not in a million years would I leave now, you idiot." You squeezed the arm around her waist, heart squeezing in your chest. "Besides… we have a lot to talk about."

She didn't answer, but you felt her body relax a little more against yours, the weight becoming less resistance and more trust. Camp appeared in the distance, faint cabin lights, distant scent of extinguished bonfire.

Upon arriving, you stayed at the infirmary door for long minutes, body leaned against the worn uneven wooden frame, arms crossed so hard nails dug into palms. The smell inside the cabin was a suffocating mix: strong antiseptic, freshly opened gauze, dried sweat and faint metallic odor of blood still hanging in the air. Outside, camp slept, only distant wind in pines and occasional frog croak in the lake breaking silence.

Clarisse sat on the narrow metal bed, thin mattress creaking with every minimal movement. Shirtless, just the sports top where exposed torso revealed not only the deep shoulder cut, but also old scars marking skin like maps of won battles. The son of Apollo, a boy about sixteen, messy blond hair falling over eyes, hands steady despite visible fatigue, worked with almost mechanical precision.

The celestial bronze needle went in and out of her skin in small regular stitches, thread shining like liquid gold under faint light. Clarisse kept her face an impassive mask: chin up, jaw locked, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the opposite wall, as if facing pain was another battle she refused to lose. But every time the needle pulled skin, a low growl escaped her throat, not a whimper, never a whimper, just a guttural irritated sound, as if the boy was offending her honor just by daring to touch her.

Clarisse snorted through her nose, lips curving in a grimace.

"Hurry up, you wimp."

You felt your chest tighten seeing that, her stubbornness, the way she clung to the tough pose even when body trembled from exhaustion. Wanted to go in, hold her hand, say she didn't need to prove anything to anyone. But stayed there, at the door, watching like a sentinel, because you knew Clarisse would hate being "saved" in front of someone.

A shadow approached down the dark hallway, light steps on wooden floor. Percy Jackson stopped beside you, hands shoved in worn jeans pockets, hair messy as if just woken from a nightmare. His blue eyes met yours, attentive, assessing.

"You asked for me?" he asked softly, not to disturb the tense infirmary silence.

You turned your face to him and managed a small tired smile, but full of gratitude that words couldn't hold.

"Yeah. I need a small favor from you."

He gave a quick glance at Clarisse, who didn't even notice him, still focused on not showing weakness, and then turned his eyes back to you. Few words were needed. He gave a short nod at the end, and walked away as quietly as he'd come, leaving you back at your post, heart a little lighter.

[…]

It was the next day. Light entered through the Ares cabin's tall windows, dusty beams dancing in hot air, illuminating shelves full of polished weapons, dented shields and lingering smell of old leather and metal oil. You knelt in front of Clarisse, who sat on the edge of the messy bed, wrinkled sheet around her waist. Held the new gauze roll in one hand, while with the other cleaned excess ointment from her shoulder. Skin around the cut was still swollen and purple, but stitches held firm.

"Stop fidgeting so much," you said, voice firm, but with an undertone of affection you couldn't hide. "If you tear this again, I'll stitch you myself with fishing line and leave you like that for a week."

Clarisse huffed, crossing her good arms, or trying, because the hurt shoulder made her let out a low hiss of pain.

"I'm fine. You don't need to baby me like I'm a fragile kid."

"You're whining like a kid," you shot back, wrapping the bandage carefully around her shoulder, fingers light against her hot skin. "Stay still."

She opened her mouth to retort, eyes flashing with that familiar stubbornness, but a dry knock at the door interrupted her.

You both turned your heads at the same time.

Silena Beauregard stood in the open doorway, wavy hair loose over shoulders, face lit by a soft slightly shy smile. In her hands, wrapped in clean white cloth, was Clarisse's spear. Intact. Reinforced steel shaft shining as if freshly polished, celestial bronze tip catching sunlight in golden and blue reflections, without a single crack, no sign it had been snapped in half in the lake's damp sand the night before.

"Delivery for Miss Clarisse La Rue," Silena said, voice sweet, but with a formal tone that didn't match the mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Clarisse froze. Eyes widened, fixed on the spear as if it were a mirage that could vanish any second. She stood slowly, half-loose bandage dangling from her shoulder, and reached a trembling hand to take the weapon. Her fingers touched the shaft as if fearing it was illusion, but it was real. Heavy. Cold. Familiar. Perfect.

"But… how?" she murmured, voice rough with disbelief, almost broken. "One part fell in the lake. I saw it."

Silena just smiled, a small complicit smile, and gave delicate shrugs.

Clarisse turned her face to you slowly, eyes narrowed in a mix of astonishment, suspicion and something like too much gratitude to say aloud. You shrugged, trying to seem casual, but the corner of your mouth lifted in a smile you couldn't contain.

"Had a little help."

She blinked. Then blinked again. And then, instead of questioning, because deep down she already imagined exactly what kind of "help" involved Percy Jackson, the lake and a favor asked in the dead of night, Clarisse simply dropped the spear on the bed with reverent care and pulled you into a tight hug. Her arms wrapped around your waist with almost painful force, face buried in your shoulder for a long second. Then pulled back just enough to give you a quick hot selinho, full of raw emotion she couldn't name.

"Thanks," she whispered against your lips, voice low and trembling.

Silena cleared her throat delicately.

"I'm glad you're okay," she said, tone genuine, eyes shining with something close to held-back tears. Then her smile shifted to something sharper, and she crossed her arms. "But Clarisse La Rue, if you dare hurt this girl again, I'll drag you by the hair to the Aphrodite cabin myself and make you watch a marathon of motivational videos on self-care and healthy communication. Got it?"

Clarisse huffed, letting you go but keeping one possessive hand on your waist. “Keep dreaming, Beauregard. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, really? Because last night you looked like you needed help not dying, you stubborn hard-headed idiot.”

“And you looked like you needed help not crying when you saw the state of my t-shirt. It was like you’d lost a family member.”

“It looked like you’d fought a meat grinder and lost badly! I loved that t-shirt.”

“It was the damn camp uniform!”

“That I gave you!”

The two of them started staring each other down, eyes sparking with that old familiar bickering that was almost a disguised ritual of affection. Clarisse opened her mouth to fire back, Silena already raising a finger to point and keep the attack going.

You cleared your throat loudly, cutting in before it turned into all-out war.

“Hey. Hey. Enough, both of you. Clarisse, sit down and let me finish this bandage before you rip it open again out of sheer anger. Silena, thank you for the delivery… and for the lecture. But now, please, leave us alone before I have to separate you two like kids fighting over a toy.”

Silena laughed, shaking her head, the light sound filling the cabin.

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving before she challenges me to a pillow fight or something worse.” She winked at you, conspiratorial. “Take care of her, okay? She pretends to be tough, but deep down she’s a total softie.”

Clarisse flipped her the middle finger, but the gesture came out half-hearted, almost affectionate, and Silena left laughing, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Silence returned to the cabin, a warm, comfortable silence broken only by the gentle sound of gauze being wrapped again and Clarisse’s slow breathing. She let you finish the bandage without any more grumbling, her eyes fixed on your face as if memorizing every detail: the curve of your eyebrow, the way you bit your lip when you concentrated, the sunlight reflecting in your hair.

When you finished, you stepped back, admiring the work.

“There. Now you look less horrendous.”

She huffed, but pulled you close again, arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You’re unbearable,” she murmured against your hair, voice low and rough.

“And you love me for it,” you replied, smiling against her shoulder, feeling the heat of her body mold to yours.

Clarisse didn’t answer with words. She just tightened the hug a little more, the new spear gleaming beside the bed like a silent promise that, this time, things would be different. And, for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like an inevitable battle, it felt like something you could face together, step by step, wound by wound, until it hurt less.

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