THE WEIGHT OF LIVING ― p. jackson¹

━━𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚.࿐.* : ∘

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「 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 」
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☽˚｡⋆.࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
combat. . . i'm ready for combat
i say, i don't want that, but what if i do?
( ━━ the lightning thief )

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.* :☆ﾟ. SUMMARY ━━

    i. Stories start and end with the Fates. It's how it has always been, since the beginning of time, how it will always be—the world hanging in their calloused hands, stitching together tales that when unfurled become the grand epics of heroes. Suspended high above even the most striking of monuments built as testaments to honor all-powerful gods, glittering tapestries of woven stars adorn the vast night sky, mapping a graveyard of constellations knit from renowned names and vanished lives. Because the gods need it of them—their heroes. Need their stories, their legacies, their labor. 

    They always have. 

    After all, nothing lasts forever—temples succumb to whispering ruins in time, statues wither to dust unrecognizable under the brutal elements, monuments fade to crumbling rubble. But the gods can't be forgotten whilst their heroes persist. Oceans rise and overflow with pollution, skies thicken with smog and chemical emissions, yet the myths continue to endure through the harsh tendrils of time, weaving belief into being across every age. After all, the children of gods are coarse silken threads—embedded into pitch dark pages, trailing down in stories told and retold for millennia. 

    Amara Drusilla Grace is born under these scorching constellations, drenching in luminescent silver, screeching as though she could feel the crushing weight of their destinies even then. 

    She had always known she was different from other children, but all of them are at Camp Half-Blood, the only safe place in the world for children like them—with too vivid hair, ever-alert eyes, marked cheeks and sharp teeth and skinned knees. Demigods, half-bloods, godspawns, children with too much power contained in muddled divinity, in golden flecks mixed with crimson blood flowing through mortal veins. Through the sinews of their bones—stretching taut to form potent weapons, forged to aim true. It's how it always will be—the ghosts of heroes past echoing in each step made towards eternal glory, the steps of half-soldiers and half-children. She is no different, and yet... 

    Even amongst the fantastical and mythical, amongst fellow children whom should never have been—she has always been something to look after, not someone to care for—Amara learns that she is stranger still... that their birth was wrong.