WORLDS BEYOND ( pjo )

𝐱𝐯𝐢: tragedy runs in our blood

Kia wouldn't leave her side even after they'd landed.

Perhaps Zoë found it insulting that the person who'd killed her wouldn't leave her alone, even in her final moments. Maybe it was silly of her to call herself Zoë's killer, but referring to herself as anything less than that felt like guilt personified wrapping its dirty and thorn-covered hands around her neck and suffocating her with each breathe of air entering her lungs—with the same poison she used to ignore when she could have saved Zoë.

The words were being repeated mindlessly, like a phrase that had been engraved into her tongue. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

But they were useless, just as she was now. What could she do, other than stare at a goddess actually helping her friend (if she were even allowed to call her that) and Thalia murmuring words of comfort while tears were streaming down her face? Just as three times over, Kia could just stare, watching another die while she lived.

It was like sharp shards of ice piercing her chest as she watched the faint glow around Zoë die. There was no ambrosia or nectar. No healing potion or fraught of wellness. It was dying. She was dying.

"Can't you heal her with magic?" she heard Percy ask Artemis. "I mean... you're a goddess."

Even Kia knew that this was a death that could not be prevented, or at least, anymore. For this was a fate written in the stars, if not by the Fates. Cruel as they were, the carefully written words painted onto all souls with stains of blood from centuries of bloodshed could not be changed. It did not change for Orpheus, a man who's loved stretched over the reaches of the afterlife. It did not change for Achilles, who's fate was preordained by the end of a man on the other side of the war, one he could not protect. It did not change for even Hercules, the best of all demigods.

And it would definitely not change for Zoë.

"Life is a fragile thing, Percy. If the Fates will the string to be cut, there is little I can do. But I can try."

As Artemis' once fluid hand moved, trembling, to Zoë's side, it was stopped at once, by none other than Zoë's own weak hand. Dread seeped, pouring into the empty carcass of Kia's heart, as an understanding of the worst kind passed between Zoë and Artemis.

"Have I... served thee well?" Zoë whispered, her voice notably softer than it had ever been.

"With great honor," Artemis spoke softly. "The finest of my attendants."

Zoë's face relaxed, as if released from a chain of hardship and suffering. Kia supposed that was what death was. She hoped Hades would take care of her friend well. "Rest. At last."

"I can try to heal the poison, my brave one."

Kia knew, she knew painfully that it wasn't the poison that killed Zoë. It was Atlas' final blow, the one he used to swat his daughter aside like a golden drachma that would be all that was needed to win this war, the one he used to forever solidify himself as a monster in Kia's eyes. The centuries of war, hatred, grief, and strife were nothing compared to him being the reason Zoë died—a wonderful woman who had wisdom that went beyond the reaches of even gods, who had the kindness of a person taking a child off the streets and giving them a warm place to stay, the love of a fire that kindled embers brighter than the sun.

Zoë took Thalia's hand.

"I am sorry we argued," Zoë said faintly. "We could have been sisters."

"It's my fault," Thalia said, blinking hard to keep the tears away. "You were right about Luke, about heroes, men—everything."

"Perhaps not all men." Zoë smiled weakly at Percy. "Do you still have the sword, Percy?"

He didn't say anything but he drew the pen out of his pocket and put the it in her hand. She grasped it contentedly, closing her eyes and letting out an exhale. "You spoke the truth, Percy Jackson. You are nothing like... like Hercules. I am honored that you carry this sword."