𝟎𝟑. 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞

━━ MARISOL       

          Please Please Please.

          No.

          Mother wait we need you!

          Please stop.

          Don't leave us Mother please help us please please please —

          "Shut up!"

          Commotion. Shouting. Chaos. All of it comes to an abrupt stop at Marisol's sudden outburst. In the strawberry fields of Camp Half-Blood, a small group of Demeter kids have gathered around Mr. D — Dionysus — in a frenzy, raising their voices over one another until it's impossible to be heard. Unless, of course, you're like Marisol, and shout at nothing in particular.

          To her horror, the camp director and her siblings all swivel in Marisol's direction. A flush of embarrassment sweeps across her face. She's tried hard to avoid responding as much as her siblings' apprehensive stares, but she couldn't escape it now. Her tongue feels thick and clumsy, and she knows whatever words that manage to come out won't do her justice.

          "You're all giving me a headache," grumbles Marisol, and she prays her expression faithfully conveys the irritation she truly feels. "Can we all stop arguing for one second and just compare notes? No one's blaming anyone here."

          "Speak for yourself," someone says. "Have you tried asking the strawberries yet, Marisol?"

          A tide of crimson floods her cheeks. She'd done her best to keep the whispers and wails out of her head, but sometimes it was simply impossible to ignore them. As if reaffirming her brother's suspicions, a vine the color of moss begins to elongate at her feet, curling itself around her shoe.

          Being a daughter of Demeter shouldn't have been such a drain on her as it was. Others asked things of nature, and if they beckoned sweetly enough, nature gave. In Marisol's case, nature was like an irritating sibling, or an addicted relative with not a penny to their name — always popping up to make unreasonable demands at the most inconvenient of times.

          We don't like it Mother tell them

          "They say stop stomping all over them," Marisol retorts indignantly. It's true, too, for people are never as careful among plants as they are around other living things. "And in case you haven't noticed, Cody, we're not helping. Standing around and arguing isn't going to make them bloom."

          A raspy, jaded voice comes to her aid. "She's right," Mr. D agrees. A chorus of groans in reply, but he only crumbles his empty soda can in his fist. "No, for once, listen. I don't know which of you brats swapped this season's seed, or poured bleach in the fertilizer, or offended the strawberries' mother. We are not leaving this field until we figure out why they're wilting!"

          Mr. D waves his arm in an arc, gesturing to the once-lush expanse of the strawberry field. Everyone follows his furrowed gaze. Strawberries sag on their vines, wrinkled and marred. Rather than stretching toward the sun as they used to, the leaves now curl at the edges, as if bowing under the burden of impending demise. A languid breeze sweeps through the field, so that the air carries a sickly-sweet scent — a mixture of decay and lost vitality. The vibrancy that once pulsed through the strawberry field with the help of Demeter's children and their powers of nature now lingers as a ghostly whisper.

          "Whoever did this, tell me. I promise I won't turn you into a dolphin. Well — maybe for a little while. I'm well within my rights to punish campers for less." Mr. D glares at the gaggle of Demeter kids gathered at him. "Well?" He demands. "Who is it!"

          Marisol's brothers and sisters erupt into arguments again, and Marisol finds herself covering her ears, not only to block out the bickering, but in a desperate attempt to quiet the whimpering before her.

          Do it, plead the roots in their little language, which always feels like tiny pricks against her skin. Like children voices, Please help us please it hurts do it quickly please.

          No one said you can't! Marisol tells them in their language. She never knows what it feels like to them, but it seems they understand her well enough. Why aren't you growing?

          Another chorus of wails. We can't, we can't!

          Something waxy brushes up against her ankle. Marisol barely manages to tamp down her scream. It takes a great deal not to stumble back blindly, not when a handful of eyes still dart back to her apprehensively. Unfortunately, it isn't a new sensation.

          We wilt Mother, the strawberry plant whispers with a shudder of consternation, joined by the hissing sound from several of its brethren.

          Another pinprick on her skin. Help us grow, they plead. Something eats at us Mother. It creeps at our roots, burrows our soil. Killing us!

          Something burrows? A rodent?

          Marisol's head fills with cries, like children throwing a tantrum. You don't understand Mother quickly! You must quickly!

          I don't understand, she insists. Quickly do what?

          "I hope they've told you what's wrong."

          This new voice, separate from both her own and the ones inside her head startles Marisol — there seems to be a lot of that going around, because a few feet from where she stands, there is Henry Armstrong, yet another one of the Demeter bunch. In other words, Marisol's brother.

          "You look like crap, by the way," he chirps, the words punctuated by his usual bright grin plastered across his face. Despite the dire mood, Henry's sunny presence already threatens Marisol's low spirits, like a ray of sunshine had just burst through the clouds.

          Marisol huffs, her eyebrows shooting up in mock offense, but somehow it's not as much of an insult coming from Henry. He doesn't have a mean bone in his body. "Well, I definitely feel like it."

          "Rough day?"

          "Rough week, more like." She gestures to the dying strawberries at their feet. "They've been complaining more than usual. I don't know what's bothering them, or why they can't grow on their own anymore. But they can't tell me."

          He raises an eyebrow, and Marisol knows out of all her siblings, Henry is the one most likely to believe her. Few things can dampen his sunny disposition, and Marisol's plant ESP somehow isn't one of them.

          "It's not that they don't want to," she tries to explain. "I don't think they can." Marisol shakes her head, a small laugh escaping her. "I mean, even under the best of circumstances, they're not the best at communicating."

          Henry crouches down to examine the strawberries at their feet. Like everything else, they are wilted and crumpled. He gently cups a bunch of leaves in his palm, his focus sharp as a point. Despite the dire atmosphere, there's a lightness in his movements, as though he moves on the rays of his own optimism. Part of her is nearly convinced the plants will start growing again simply because they're in Henry's proximity.

          "I may not be able to hear them the way you do, Marisol, but anyone can tell they're dying for us to do something." He glances up at her, squinting in the sun, eyes sparkling like sunlit diamonds.

          She says what they're both thinking. "No one could have done this on purpose. At least, not one of us."

          One of us. Does she mean not one of their siblings, children of the harvest? Or not one of the dozens half-bloods at camp? Even Marisol isn't entirely sure. But it feels right to generalize. Cabin Eleven isn't above their fair share of pranks — even more so, considering their dad is the god of thieves — but poisoning the strawberry fields? There's no joke or punch line here, or inside gag that'll end in one of the Stoll twins leaping out from behind the wooden Delphi Strawberry Service sign yelling Surprise!

          No, Marisol sees nothing of the sort.

          Could it be sabotage?

          Marisol answers herself. Sabotage for what? The strawberry fields benefit them all. Their produce is sold to restaurants all over the city; the profits keep camp running. She can't think of a single reason why anyone would want to jeopardize their chance at getting a tennis court (something campers had been begging for for quite some time) especially when most of their money went to saving for quests.

          Henry rises to his feet, evidently finished with his examination. A small groan more akin to that of an old man escapes him as he does so — funny, considering they're the same age. "I don't think it's a prank, either," he admits.

          His face droops, mirroring the leaves and vines and roots around them. The constant smile that always seems to be etched so effortlessly on his face is replaced by a fleeting shadow, a cloud drifting across his expression. Not entirely unlike the plants, muted and weary. The strawberries aren't the vibrant red gems they're meant to be this time of year, but sag and give way to gravity.

          The lull in their conversation makes Marisol tear her eyes away from the sad sight that is their crop and glance at Henry, who not only seems to emanate his perpetual rosy glow but a million questions as well — so curious, in fact, that he looks like he's about to burst.

          Marisol presses her lips together, trying to not smile. "Yes, Henry?"

          "Actually. . ." He hesitates. "I was gonna ask how come they talk to you."

          . . .There it is.

          "You always look so annoyed at them," he continues. "You tell them to shut up or be quiet. Are they. . .well, when you said they can't tell you what's wrong — that's not just something you said, is it?"

          He doubts! A faint hissing sound from the roots at her feet.

          "Why would I lie about that?"

          Tell him Mother, Another declares with delight, like a animal savoring a forbidden feast. With a shudder, Marisol can't help but think that if the plant could smirk, it would. Shall we tell him? Shall we tell him for you Mother? A vine begins to entwine itself around the base of Henry's sneaker, curling upwards as it unfurls a sheath of thorns at its stem.

          Stop it!

          The tendril suddenly slumps to the ground, defeated.

          " — don't know," Henry is saying. He's rubbing the back of his neck, not fully meeting her eyes. "I guess, for the same reason I wasn't going to mention in front of them" — he gestures to the still squabbling group, now absent one god — "that I think Mr. D's wasting his time."

          "Henry!"

          To insult the gods even out of earshot still warrants an instinctive check of your surroundings, and Marisol does just that, though there's no one out here this far but them. She can see the arena and the archery range in the distance, campers sparring one another and shooting arrows at the targets, some of which are almost certainly on fire.

          A smile appears on Henry's round face. He waves a hand. "They've got bigger things to worry about. Like us, actually, if we don't figure this 'dying-for-no-reason' problem. This is our entire crop for the season — how're we supposed to wait until fall to replant?"

          "I'm surprised Mr. D couldn't do anything," admits Marisol. "I thought he'd be able to clear away this whole field in an instant and we'd be able to start over again, barely any time lost."

          You would think so, a different plant sneers. It catches Marisol by surprise, and she can't help but listen carefully at this bitter voice that overlaps with the high-pitched squeals of the strawberry plants, though it's barely above a harsh whisper.

          The god of pleasure sees none in our suffering.

          "You can't clear away all these rotting plants without ripping up their roots first," her brother continues thoughtfully, oblivious to her not paying attention.

          Not for the first time, Marisol envies what her siblings must hear — or not hear, because the whimpering and begging in her head is almost too much to bear. She has half a mind to shout aloud again, if only it would guarantee a bit of peace and quiet.

          The voice laughs, a slither in her bones. Quiet? There will be no quiet in our despair, harvest's daughter. You will soon join us if you continue on this path, careless as the rest.

          The voice reverberates in her head, as if someone installed speakers behind her eyes. This was not the voice of a conscience or innocent greenery. Neither held this tone, nor the intensity.

          "What's wrong?" asks Henry.

          For a moment, Marisol thinks she's spurred the strawberry plants into bloom — it happens so quickly that she nearly misses it, would have blinked and neglected it entirely. Grass springs to life beneath her feet before decaying in an instant. Flowers blossom with renewed exuberance, then turn as brown as the soil.

          FIND US.

          This time it's so loud, it stabs through Marisol's forehead like a railroad spike. She stumbles, falling to her knees.

          "Hey!" Henry grips her arm. "You okay?"

          "You didn't hear that?"

          "Hear what?"

          THE ROT OF FIRST EARTH, the voice booms. THE FINAL SACRIFICE.

          Marisol collapses, her fingers sinking into the dirt. Her nails, as dirty as they always are, burn as the soil digs deeper into her cuticles. Her fists swell with the faint sounds of tinny screams.

          "Marisol!" Henry seizes her shoulder with surprising strength, his voice tight with alarm. "Tell me what's wrong!"

          There's something wrong, isn't there? And yet it feels so right, to kneel into the earth, head bowed and prostrating like a sacrifice.

          Indeed, something is wrong. The earth will not let her go.

          A newsreel of images flicker in her mind's eye — so fast Marisol can only grasp one out of every half a dozen scenes or so, and even those are more worrying than any demigod dream she's ever had. A pair of children run across the plains. A fire, smoke billowing into the sky. An old statute encased in moss, its tears preserved in black thorns down her cheek.

          She finds herself on her back,staring wildly in the clear blue sky. Henry's concerned face hovers in a haze above her. Her clothes are caked in dirt, which is so normal that Marisol only notices when she fingers the hem of her shirt, surprised to find it free of plants of any kind. Then she turns her head to the side, and sees why.

          The strawberry plants were in bad shape, yes, but wilting is infinitely kinder a fate compared to what lays beneath her. The once-lively circle of vegetation surrounding her now lays in solemn silence, like a body in a casket. The petals may not have vibrant by any means, but now instead of a dull green, they've become colorless entirely. Their life force, drained, reduced to mere echoes of what they once were.

          Marisol expects screeching. A shockwave, sirens, anything, but only silence meets her ears. Her head is clear and empty. For the first time in a long time, the earth demands nothing of her — it only mourns in silence for the blackened plants that cushion her body, like the decayed mattress of a princess.

          Someone's hands rest beneath her head, like a pillow. Henry? No, there he is in front of her, the outline of his body still fuzzy around the edges. His mouth forms words Marisol can't make out, his voice nothing but static.

          Her own laughter sounds brittle. She's wanted for so long for the plants to leave her alone, to be more like her normal siblings (as normal as a demigod can be) — and the silence is driving her crazy. Is this what everyone else hears all the time? Quiet so encompassing it feels like a black hole sucking every minute sound out of existence?

          Staring back upward, Marisol finds herself staring at Henry's face, it too drained of color. A rush of worry flashes through her. Had she done something to him too? The more Marisol stares at him, the more she realizes the words coming out of his mouth are more or less the same: Are you okay?

          "But I. . .I heard —"

          WHAT AWAITS YOU NOW, LITTLE HERO? THE SUN WILL NOT HELP YOU HERE.

          Part of Marisol wants to curl up into a ball and cover her ears with her hands. This voice is much worse than the tinny squeals of the plants she's used to. Part of her wants to stand up and run after the voice — to find its source — but before Marisol can make her choice —

          Henry is saying something. He presses both hands against her voice. He shakes her shoulders. He puts his face nose-to-nose with Marisol's so her own crazed reflection stares back at her from the lenses of his glasses. She manages to decipher his words: "GET UP!"

          Somehow she does. The world spins, and Marisol promptly falls over again. Sound has returned in the form of the hushed whispers of her siblings. Bronze against bronze in the distant arena. Machinery whirring and hammers against metal from the Forge. Marisol nearly sobs in relief. The minute voices, the ones she's grown so accustomed to hearing and catering to, have mellowed. A mournful sorrow lingers in the air.

          The next thing she knows, she's staggering along, a figure at her right bearing most of her weight. Something keeps the whispers at bay, though they argue relentlessly just beneath her skin, so quietly that if Marisol didn't know any better she'd think she were going crazy.

          The person forces her to keep walking. She can't quite understand his words, but his tone is uncharacteristically insistent and stubborn, with just enough feigned annoyance to outweigh his terror.

          As dizzy as Marisol is, she's fairly certain the rows and rows of strawberry fields are parting for them — less out of selfishness, but more as a helpful path. The familiar tinny of plant voices remains at bay, and for that, Marisol is grateful.

          A baby-blue house takes shape in the distance. The memory of an house the color of dirt flickers back and forth until they're close enough for Marisol to identify the white trim and bronze eagle weather vane as part of the Big House.

          Good lord, she feels sick. Breathing slightly heavy, Marisol manages a glance up to see a large figure looming in the front room, a mere shadow behind the curtains. An obvious observation under normal circumstances, and this is anything but.The adrenaline is began to leave her, as is a clear mind.

          A surprisingly strong Henry shifts her arm around his neck. "We're almost there," he promises.

          An open gate. A light on in the front room. Both of these, signs that someone is waiting for their arrival. As Marisol and Henry shuffle slowly up the steps, she now notices a smaller figure peering out at them. If she hadn't noticed before, she sure does now.

          As it turns out, the horse-man hybrid is unsurprisingly Chiron. What is surprising, though, is the difference in his form. Marisol could have sworn she saw the flank of a horse in the window, but she's willingly to concede that her vision isn't exactly twenty-twenty at the moment. The door swings open just as Henry touches the knob, and they gracefully stumble in.

          Henry deposits Marisol on the couch while he disappears down the hall. A deep, rolling voice guides Marisol to put her head between her knees, so she does, and it eases the waves of nausea that flow over her like a flood.  She doesn't know how long it takes for her mind to clear. Thankfully, there are no plants in the big house. Even if it's not on purpose, Marisol is grateful.

          Chiron finally speaks. His baritone voice feels like a thick blanket, wrapping her in warmth and safety. "How are you feeling?"

          Marisol tries to say 'terrible', but it comes out as a muffle.

          Henry kneels next to her, now clutching a glass of water. Reluctantly, she raises her head from the safety between her knees. A weak smile is all Marisol can offer as she takes the glass in her shaking hand. One sip is all it takes before she's chugging the entire thing, stray droplets dripping onto her dirt-caked shirt.

          The room is still quiet, and Marisol finds it odd that Chiron has yet to badger her with questions, or why they're here in the Big House rather than the infirmary. A quick glance at Henry reveals nothing. He's busy staring at his shoes with his own quick peeks between herself and Chiron.

          "Thank you, Henry," Chiron says politely.

          The boy needs, clearly getting the message. He stands, briefly resting a hand on her shoulder. Marisol sighs. This conversation would be a lot easier if hopeful Henry were by her side to put his optimistic spin on it. The door shuts behind him, and the brown-haired girl has no excuse but to look at Chiron.

          She doesn't have to raise her head at all to meet his eyes. The centaur's lower half is compressed into a wheelchair, a pair of brown loafers visible from under a woven blanket. Again, Marisol has an uncanny feeling that she'd seen the shadow of a man on horseback just moments before.

          Chiron clears his throat, his fingers forming a steeple. "My dear," he begins gently. "Tell me what happened."

          The dizziness has slowly ebbed away. Perhaps the water was laced with nectar? She couldn't be sure, and she doesn't quite want to question it. The black film from before has fled to the corners of her vision, giving her a brief moment to think.

          Marisol tells him the whole story, which ends up feeling weirdly short considering. In between describing her brief conversation with Henry to collapsing in the field, Chiron periodically refills her glass and urges her to drink. Each refill quenches Marisol's thirst bit by bit. By the time she's finished, she feels almost herself again.

          Marisol doesn't find any point hiding details, and Chiron is a good listener. He doesn't react to the story, other than to nod encouragingly for more.

          When Marisol describes the booming voice and suddenly coming to her senses with Henry guiding her to the Big House, the old man rubs a weathered hand across his chin. "I see."

          "See. . .what?"

          "This voice, it sounded different from the other plants?"

          "Yes." Marisol wrings her hands helplessly. "It was loud, way louder than the other plants. They never shout or. . .talk louder than me. But this one was shouting."

          Screaming, Marisol wants to say. Rattling in her skull like a prisoner on death row.

          Then it dawns on her. "Wait, you know? You know that the plants. . ." Marisol's voice trails off, partly ashamed, partly because of her foolishness at thinking she could keep her affliction quiet. And her she was thinking that only her siblings knew why she hated her rotation at the strawberry fields so much, despite being a child of Demeter. A vast expanse of plants that did nothing but beg her for help with this and that — yes, no wonder Marisol went out of her way to avoid it.

          Chiron raises an eyebrow. "My dear, did you really think I wouldn't know?"

          His baritone voice is no longer soothing. Did you really think you could hide it? he chides in her head. All knowing centaur be damned, was there no privacy at this camp?

          Marisol's shoulders sag. "Does. . .does everyone know?"

          The centaur's gaze softens. "No. Just myself and Mr. D — and your cabin mates, I expect."

          Her jaw ticks. There's that, at least.

          "Why didn't you say anything?"

          "Why haven't you said anything?"

          Chiron's chuckle rasps against his throat like gravel. "It's your choice when to divulge your gifts, Marisol. Where, to whom. . .It is ultimately your decision."

          "My decision, but you still need to know about it?"

          The old man rests his elbows on the hand rests of his wheelchair. "Now really, Marisol, it's a very difficult thing to hide. The wincing, the snapping at no one — with you being a child of Demeter, it's not quite the leap. Nor is it as rare as you might think."

          "Right," says Marisol slowly, not missing the scrutinizing look Chiron gives her.

          "An ability like this can be isolating," the centaur says. "A handful children of Demeter who have been able to communicate with nature, and it can be quite useful at times. Nymphs and dryads have some form of this, of course —"

          "No one in my cabin has anything like it," she says stubbornly. "No one has to hear them all day, whining and moaning and complaining because they finally have someone who can hear them!"

          "It. . .has been several decades since such a gift has appeared at camp," Chiron admits.

          A short burst of a laugh escapes Marisol, sharp and hollow. "Gift? Give me a break."

          "Whether you like it or not, this is something you have to learn to live with, Marisol! You cannot simply shut your eyes and hope nature leaves you be, not when it so plainly has deemed otherwise!"

          Marisol's head darts back up to the weathered face of the centaur. Her shoes had been a much more interesting view just a few seconds ago when she was determined to let this lecture wash over her. Marisol doesn't know what she expects to see.

          "What?" Marisol says out of shock more than curiosity. Her voice drops off at the end, caught on the lump in his throat.

          He exhales slowly, deeply. The deep sigh of an old man. It dawns on Marisol just how old Chiron is. The centuries seem to be catching up on him, because the deeply etched lines on his face each reveal an ancient generation of heroes he's seen come and go. How many heroes has Chiron trained, mentored, maybe sat in this very seat?

          How many heroes has Chiron seen die?

          "Mr. D and I were hoping not to involve anyone," he begins. "A quest should be avoided if possible, especially given. . .the current circumstances. But your collapse confirms our suspicions that this is no longer an issue bound to Camp Half-Blood."

          A frigid cold has set over the room, despite the time of year and the roaring fire just a few feet away. With a rattled breath, Marisol crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about the state of her clothing.

          "You mean. . .it's not just our fields? Other people's crops in New York are dying too?"

          Chiron makes a sound like he's laughing, but there's an animalistic quality to it — like a low rumble, but sharp and discordant like the sound of broken glass on pavement. "Not just New York, I'm afraid. Pennsylvania, Virginia, Ohio, these have all had reports of crop wilting in the top of their season — the satyrs have done their best to heal the plants in their protection and have now resorted to containing the decay however they can. Their efforts are in vain."

          "What about — ?"

          He holds up a hand, already knowing what she wants to ask. "It is out of Mr. D's control as well. We've reached out to a few more contacts, but considering the rate at which our own fields have decayed, I believe it safe to say that it won't be long until a quest is issued to fix it."

          Silent for a moment, Marisol stares back at Chiron as if searching for a hint — a clue as to what he's thinking. "But you just said a quest should be avoided if possible."

          "I did say that, didn't I?" — his expression is an unreadable kind of unease — "It would seem I have been overruled."

          "Overruled," repeats Marisol.

          The sides of Chiron's mouth tug down into a deeper frown — a grimace, really. "A demigod must find the source of all this rot. Even if the timing for us is untimely. We are not the only ones feeling the effects of this death. The mortals have noticed — do you know what this means?"

          She shakes her head.

          Each of Chiron's exhales seem to carry with it the weight of a thousand unspoken grievances. "When humans are threatened with the devices of their own destruction, they become brutal. It is a fact about society — and not only limited to mortals. It will fall apart. Our hope is to prevent such a thing from happening."

          The voice from the fields bleeds through the edges of Marisol's mind. The rot of first earth. Careless as the rest.

          "We're careless," she murmurs. Chiron blinks, and Marisol looks up, realizing what the voice means. "The voice I heard in the field, it said we were careless, that we would join them if we stayed on this path. Is it talking about humans in general? Including demigods?"

          "I'm not sure," Chiron admits. "The sentiment still stands, but I highly doubt mankind has managed to decimate its crops all on its own. Humans have contributed to negligent farming practices — have invented new ways to make it worse, certainly — but no, this is not the sole work of mortals. There is something else at work here."

          "And you don't know what it is," Marisol says flatly, trying to tamp down the growing sense of panic in her chest.

           "Yet," he amends. Perhaps sensing her unease, the centaur tries to smile reassuringly. The result is less than comforting — as it always does when someone is the bearer of bad news. "I don't want you to worry about this, Marisol. We are handling it — and if a quest is issued, I'm sure you and your cabin mates will be among the first to know."

          "Hold on, you can't just tell me that the food supply is dwindling and just expect me to be okay!" Marisol exclaims, her voice growing louder and louder with each word. A bitter taste floods her mouth as she continues, "You can't just dump all this on me and not expect me to think I have to do something about it —"

          "I don't," he says sternly, calmly. "The only reason I'm telling you all this is because it would be foolish to keep it from you. This voice — whoever or whatever it was — spoke to you. I won't pretend to know the reason. And now that you've told me all that it said, you can focus on other things. Things better fit for the attention of a child."

          Something hot erupts in Marisol's chest, blooming into a fire-ball of heat in her cheeks. "I am not a child."

          "You are. Your demigod status does not change that."

          Tension in the air — a kind of pestilence — still swatches the room, riding on the heated rays of the fireplace and her anger. And yet Chiron purses his lips, like he's said too much. "Thank you for relaying to me what happened to you earlier, Marisol." He says the words with difficulty, like it pains him to extend gratitude of any kind. "It should not have happened."

          Marisol slams her hand against the end table at her side, a sharp crack reverberating through the room like a gunshot. "Stop pretending like it didn't!"

          Chiron clenches his jaw. "Enough."

          Marisol almost chokes. "What?" — she hates the way her voice cracks when she speaks — "No. No, you can't just —"

          "I said, enough!"

          His words sliced through the air like a knife, carrying with them an unmistakable tone of finality. She jumps at the steely edge of his voice; Marisol's never heard Chiron speak like this before — at least, not in front of her, and certainly not at her. Chiron's wheelchair clatters to the ground. Marisol starts forward to help him back up when she instantly sees it wasn't an accident — because there Chiron stands, towering above her, his lower horse half taking up nearly the entire room.

          Instantly, he sees what he's done. With difficulty, the centaur rights the wheelchair with one of his back legs, righting it on the floor behind him. It only takes a few moments, but the sight of his lower half compressing itself into the small seat always baffles her, even though Marisol knows how it works, knows it's magic.

          With a heavy exhale, he rakes a hand through his hair, the gesture fraught with regret. "I. . .I apologize. Even after all this time — I often forget my. . .other half does not work the same way as others around me. . ."

          Chiron's dark eyes fixate on the daughter of Demeter like an obligation. "I meant what I said, Marisol. My responsibility, not yours."

          Marisol doesn't argue back, but she lifts her head in opposition anyway. "This is what demigods are for. To go on quests. To prove ourselves worthy."

          A pause. "Maybe so." His shoulders slump, the movement marked by a slowness that bespoke centuries of wisdom and weariness. Then, "But I would not forgive myself if I didn't try."

          With difficulty, like it causes him pain, Chiron turns to leave, the sound of his wheelchair squeaking against the wooden floor. Marisol is left standing there alone, her heart hammering fiercely, trying not to drown under the weight of the world.

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( A/N. )

big huge thank you to dawngrangers for letting me use her character henry armstrong! his face claim is chosen jacobs and is a part of her new pjo fic shrike to your thorn!! go check it out on pinterest and all her other fantastic fics while you're at it!!!

y'all ever write something with no idea what you're doing and then you come back after some time has passed and you're like "damn. what was i thinking..." because that's is exactly what happened here <3 my notes just said "marisol argues with siblings over dying field and collapses from mysterious voice" sooooooooo you can imagine how i felt when i actually went to write it 😅 hopefully it makes some semblance of sense because it certainly didn't when i was writing it!! (i will never learn to plan my plots to the end i fear)

also if it feels like i'm making chiron a little mean that is totally by accident 😭 i initially wrote the last part of him exclaiming "enough!" and knocking his wheelchair over and i was like that's kinda mean... and fully intended to change it but truthfully got kind of lazy and just wanted this chapter out so i didn't... but then i was like "i'll give him a reason or something idk" so if you read some half-baked excuse for being a dick later on it's probably because i scrambled to come up with something to cover up the fact that he's actually not a bad guy!! poor dude's just tired of seeing all his kids die ☹️

anyway, next chapter is iggy!! disclaimer though, it won't come for at least a month since Ramadan is just around the corner and i'll be taking my annual hiatus during that time. hope to come back in full swing!!

(word count: 5.6k)