CATHARSIS, jason grace¹

𝟬𝟭𝟱. you presume much

"PERCY JACKSON!" Poseidon announced in front of the entire council of the gods.

His name echoed around the chamber, rattling its walls and rumbling the floors. All talking died down. The room was silent except for the occasional crackle of the hearth fire, where Hestia, goddess of the hearth, sat tending the flames. Everyone's eyes were on Aera's least favorite mass of fishbones—all the gods, the demigods, the Cyclopes, the spirits.

From where she knelt, four limbs locked in enchanted metal chains, (courtesy of Hephaestus, who had not been happy with her lounging around in his throne before blasting it apart), Aera watched with enough vengeance to raise the dead as Percy walked into the middle of the demolished throne room. He bowed to Zeus and then knelt at his father's feet, shaking like the wet dog he was.

"Rise, my son," Poseidon ordered with a proud voice. Percy stood uneasily. "A great hero must be rewarded."

Hero.

Hero. Hero. Hero.

Aera clenched her fists so tight her fingernails broke her skin. If Percy Jackson was such a hero, then why was Luke dead? And Silena? Beckendorf? Or even Jolina and her minions? Why didn't he save them?

Poseidon surveyed the circle of gods. "Is there anyone here who would deny that my son is deserving?"

Aera waited for someone to object. Those moron Olympians never agreed on anything, not in over a millennia, but not a single one protested. She tried to steady her uneven breathing, but it was hard when she was in such a vulnerable state. Her body was overcome. Her open wounds were still bleeding from battle.

Aera was about a hair away from collapsing. She fought it with all she could. There would be no medic to revive her if she gave in. Those abominable gods would not allow it. They would celebrate and jest to her pain and Aera couldn't have that. But as spiteful as she was, it felt worse than it did when she had briefly held up the sky. Only this time, the world had been yanked out right under her feet.

Just like that, her crown had been stolen, her castle toppled to ruin. Aera didn't even have a grave to mourn over.

When she refused to be separated from his body, Hermes had ordered the guards to yank her back while the Fates carried Luke away to Aphrodite knows where. She couldn't let them take him away. She feared what they would do to him now that he was just another disposable case of mortal flesh and bone. Hephaestus sprouted chains from the ground then, binding her in place. Aera fought and fought until her body gave out and she fell to the floor on her knees.

Not even an hour before that, Aera had watched Silena die by a monstrous creature under her command.

Eyes climbing the winding branches of fractures in the marbled floor, Aera's entire body trembled as the gods went on and on about Percy Jackson. For the first time in a long time, what was coming next terrified her.

It was inevitable.

Aera was going to die a horrible death.

The gods would find the sickest ways to torture her before they executed her. They would drag out her death, playing her like a harp. Then she was going to burn alive in the most harrowing section of the Fields of Punishment for an eternity. Her soul would never be reincarnated. She would never get to see Luke or Silena ever again.

Cruelest of all, Aera's existence would be erased. In a few years' time, no one would know her name or what she stood for. Aera would be forgotten forever, lost to the victors of history.

How did I get to here? she internally lamented on her knees. Her tattered battle gown splayed around her lap like a bloody wedding dress. Where did things go wrong?