When the Saviour of Olympus perished, it was early spring. The camp of heroes would forever remember the pain of the hero in question on the anniversaries of his triumphs and the day of his defeat. It was their fault. They were the ones who had driven him to the edge; and they were the ones who had ridiculed any thoughts that he might have been telling the truth.

They were so sure that this person had been rotten to the core, that when at long last news of his demise reached them, the rejoiced. As if the gods themselves had granted the world freedom from all oppressors.

They were wrong.

The hero had not done all they thought he had. Every time there was a story of him in his last days on earth; they were backwards. He was a hero, not a villain.

When they realised their mistake it was too late. The deed was done. He had left. It was all his fault.

The hero was Percy Jackson.

I know that this is unbearably short, but it will get longer. Thanks for reading.