Mytho Magic cards had been Nico's prized possession. Maybe it was prophetic or simply childish, but the game played a large role in Nico's younger years. He enjoyed the power it gave him; all the paper slips gathered in his grabby hands. He could carry them all, and decide how they'd be used.

However, after losing his sister and leaving camp behind, it seemed fit that the cards should be left behind as well. After all, who needs stupid games when you have the real thing? Sort of, anyway.

Once in a while, he wonders what the other Mytho Magic fans are like. Are they half bloods, waiting to be taken, or just regular kids? Sometimes he has a strange desire to find the normal ones and tell them about demigods. He can almost see their faces.

Annabeth had always liked puzzles. They required mind work, but did not leave your hands sitting idle. When she was very small, they were her favorite entertainment.

They didn't have many at camp, of course. Most of camp's kids were old enough not to appreciate them, and they were of no use training for battle. She found other passions, though. Training, for one. And the subject of Greek architecture was fascinating. Even so, her heart beat a little more warmly when Luke handed her a homemade puzzle, made out of paper and scraps of rock. She was only nine, and there wasn't much that she wanted more.

Later on, she looks for it sometimes. It's gone missing over the years, and occasionally she wants it back. She doesn't really need it though, not anymore. Architecture has proven both more productive and challenging, and she likes it more than she's ever liked puzzles. It's funny, how sometimes childhood games will develop into something better.

Luke never believed in sentimentality. It hurt more than was necessary, and seemed to be created by people with overwrought hearts. With the significant exception of Thalia's death, he never looked back.

This became a required quality after he betrayed the camp. If he'd turned around, it might have been just enough to make him change his mind. Although no one would really know, for sure.

He realized, in one frightening moment, that he'd never had a single identity. Maybe that was the problem when you were so objective with memories. Without the underlining emotions, they were deduced into simple principals. It was these principals that pushed Luke forward, telling him he was doing the right thing.

Thalia hadn't minded her childhood so much. Until she'd run away, things hadn't been all that bad. She'd had dreams and aspirations, just like any kid. All she had wanted was a happy future, without danger or too many worries.

After joining the huntresses, 'future' became a relative turn. There was so much of it to unravel, that Thalia hardly looked ahead anymore. After all, what was there to look to? If she was lucky, it would be the same in a thousand years as it was today. The soothing predictability overrode her desire for a such a thing as tomorrow.

It was the past that troubled her more. Not the events so much, she'd gotten over those, but merely the chance that she'd forget. She hadn't kept much from life before the tree, but she wanted to hold onto her memories forever.

Of all of them, Grover was the oldest. They forgot this of course, as acted as naïve as anyone. It was miraculous really, that he could still smile after seeing so much. His life had been good, though. Not perfect maybe, but happy nonetheless.

But it was Percy who restored his optimism. A true friend, for the first time in his long life. Grover began to believe in the myths again, after joining the company of a hero. While Percy may not have been covered in the stereotypical shine, he had the morals and ideals of legends.

Although he may have been the oldest, it was Grover who was reliving childhood. He could truly see the way the others once had. He could see the good over the bad, the hope over the disaster. Ironic perhaps, but it helped to show Percy's incredible power. He brought back the light that was missing from the myths all along.

The only swordfights Percy had ever seen were those in movies. The armor-clad warriors, slashing and cracking their crafted weapons until somebody fell to the floor. He'd never thought about it, though. Not really. His mom had always discouraged action movies though, and so his experiences with them were numbered.

But after fighting numerous battles, he had to wonder where the glamour came from. There was blood and sweat and death, and hardly anything pretty about it. In fact, nothing pretty about it.

Rather than feeling righteous about the misconception, Percy feels envious. Let the rest of the world live in their make believe; it might not last forever.