A/N—HAPPY NEW YEAR.

So. This messed up little oneshot is my belated Christmas present to Acacia Thorn. Many thanks to Kaleidoscope Flowers and Theia 47 for being my betas on this project.

The section titles were taken from: Swing Life Away by Rise Against, Call Your Name, What I Meant to Say, Learn My Lesson, and September, all of which are by Daughtry, and one (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) is from the Bible. Or some other holy book.

The title (Incendia) is Catalan/Spanish for fires. According to Google. Which usually lies. And that's about it.

Incendia

By Aventine Hill

day xxxvii

"It wasn't supposed to end like this."

The stare she gives me is cold and glacial. It makes me want to shudder, but I don't. She thinks little enough of me as is—we don't need to worsen the problem. No, what we need to do is turn back time to a different world, back when everything was immaculate perfection, even if we didn't notice it. You never notice it, until it's too late.

We live on front porches and swing life away

day i

He stares at the border line with apprehension, as if there's some beast lying in wake, ready to pounce the second he steps over. And I smile, full of encouragement. Because he belongs here—we can all see that; all the signs are present.

"C'mon over the border," I say, nudging him along. He glances up at me, huge blue eyes silently asking, Is it okay? I smile again and nod, able to see he finds comfort in this even though I'm a complete stranger who could just as easily be lying to him. "It's okay; you can come into camp. Nothing's going to happen," I add with a chuckle.

The look on his face suggests he might be sick anytime now, but he still takes the plunge. He sucks in a breath as though it may be his last and then thrusts one foot over the border, wincing. I grin again at the look of immense relief on his face.

"Well then, that wasn't so bad." He only nods at me, still unsure no one is about to smote him, and I laugh, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "You'll like it here . . . "

I've been standing in the river of deliverance way too long

day xxxvii

It feels like her eyes can see through my skin and leave me entirely exposed, like I'm at her mercy. And in a way, I am—it was me who brought him over the border, after all. Me who egged him on, me who pushed him and nudged him and made him even come to camp in the first place. It was only because of me that it was even possible for him to be here. Only because of me that he lies there on that cot—No, I tell myself. That's not him. In reality that is him, and I know it, but I still coach myself that it's just a bunch of dust, just some scorched bed sheets. Thinking that I reduced him to that, that if it wasn't for me he'd be perfectly fine and whole, living a happy life . . . I can't take it.

So I tell myself that that is not the remnants of the living breathing thing that was Zachary Malone, and there's little solace to be found in that. But it's something, something to take away from the horrible crushing guilt that devours me from the inside out, and that's good enough for me, because it offers some form of respite, no matter how meager. She still glares, those eyes ice blue and digging into my flesh, but there's no way to make that stop. I deserve it; I know that too. But still there's a part of me that wants to ask her why she gives no mercy, why she continues the relentless staring that's worse than any shouting or any physical pain could ever be, because it casts such a wide net and allows me to pick my own poison. Only, I don't warrant mercy and even this misery isn't a suitable punishment. So I let her stare and fix my own eyes on my hands, fiddling with scraps of metal, and those blue eyes bore into my flesh, reminding me of what I've done.

Forgetting is a luxury I'm not given.

We chase these days down with talks of the places that we will go

day i

"Are you sure?" he asks us, concerned, and Chiron and I share a knowing look.

"Yeah," I tell him, a slight laugh in my voice, "we're sure." This doesn't seem very reassuring for him, and I chuckle a bit. Had I been like that on my first day at camp? Probably.

"Why don't you give him the introductory tour?" Chiron suggests. I nod and sling an arm around the new guy's shoulders yet again. "See you Chiron," I tell the centaur and then lead the camper from the Big House.

"You're Zach, right?" I ask him while we walk along the path, and he nods, looking slightly nauseous.

"Yeah," he chokes out, his voice a bit raspy. I grin and pat him on the back, maybe just a bit too roughly, because he winces.

"You'll love it here," I say, making an effort to sound cheerful, happy, and carefree. He gives me a look, some of the shyness evaporating, that asks, Do you really have to go on with the façade? It's easy to tell he's not one to be easily fooled, so I drop the act.

"Anyways. You're a demigod, which means one of your parents is a mortal, the other's one of the Greek gods, like Chiron and I told you. And until we know who your parent—"

"What—what makes you think I'm a demigod? How can you be sure?" he interrupts, and I snicker a bit at his newfound boldness.

"You have all the signs: You're ADHD, dyslexic, have issues with English, you and the kid you came in with had been hounded by monsters. And you made it over the border. The first four alone are enough proof, but the fact you were able to make it into camp seals the deal. You're a demigod. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood."

He nods repeatedly, processing the information. "Alright," the kid—Zach—tells me finally, then asks, "So where to next?"

I'm not the only one who makes mistakes; just think of all the ones you've made

day xxxvii

"You know what I thought; you thought it too," I tell her hollowly, finally looking up from studying my right hand, which was nowhere near as fascinating as I'd let on. Now isn't the time for humor, though—death hangs in the air, pervading and refusing to dissipate. I stop placing all my weight against the wall and stand fully on my feet instead of just on the edges, staring at her the entire time, returning the look with this new revelation. She just stares, those x-ray-like eyes scaring the living shit out of me, but I stand firm.

"If it had been you, you would have done the same thing. You would have consoled him and told him to go over the border. And the same thing could have happened. Just because I happened to be on border patrol that night and Zach and Brandon looked like they were about to—"

"But what are the odds?" she snaps, cutting in, and my bravado disappears. I'm at her mercy, really, because it is my fault. "It was the wording, and you know it. You invited him into camp. Otherwise we would have found out the error ahead of time and this wouldn't have mattered. He could see through the Mist, but we could have figured out the truth. But no. You had to invite him into bloody camp! And then—"

"Oh, shut up!" I snap at her, and her eyes narrow, but I keep going. "It would have been the same no matter who was there. 'Come over the border'—anyone would have said any variation of that. It's not like I meant it! It's not like I did it with the purpose of killing him in mind!"

It's silent then, because on accident I have admitted what I would not say even to myself: I killed him.

Nothing to lose but everything to gain

day iii

I stand off to the side and watch the look of concentration on his face, the defining lines that show the effort he puts forth. He has a natural instinct for this; no one can deny it. She stands next to me—Calla, daughter of Boreas. There's something aloof about her, but there usually is. Calla may be a child of the North Wind, but due to her Arabian mother her hair is black as night while her skin is that of an albino. The scariest part about her, though, is the eyes: They're the personification of ice, bright blue, cold and foreboding. And yet, for some reason, she's one of my closest friends.

"You brought him in?" she asks, then turns to me. I watch Zach's arm pull backwards again and the arrow land in the dead center of the target before I answer.

"Yeah. Well—no, but—I met them at the border. I was on patrol," I stutter, but she only nods, once more transfixed on the movement of Zach's arm as he pulls back the string just enough then looses the arrow.

"He's a natural," she says finally, and I nod. He is. "Do we know anything about his family?"

At this I shake my head. "Utterly clueless. The kid he came in with, Brandon"—I gesture to a dark-haired kid halfway down the line of archers, who's profusely apologizing to a camper his last arrow nearly killed—"we know everything about him, he has a mother and a step-father who accepts all of this, he lives the good life. But Zach . . ." I hesitate. "He has no parents, he's been living with his aunt since he was three . . . "

"You shouldn't feel so bad for him," Calla says, still staring straight ahead. "Just look at him. Fair complexion, blonde, blue eyes, an absolute natural at archery. C'mon, Ferguson, even you're not so dense—"

"Child of Apollo," I tell her, more than a bit miffed that she's still persisting in referring to me by last name.

"Exactly," she says, tilting her head. "If he's not a child of Apollo then the world really is going to end in 2012." She walks away after that, discussion closed, but I stare at the crowd of campers coming up to Zach, congratulating him, and silently agree with her.

He's an Apollo kid.

Reach for something that's already gone

day xxxvii

She stares at me now, stoic and looking like a statue of pure white marble carved with attention to every detail. There's a cold beauty about her, one that frightens me in a way she never usually does, because even if Calla is a frightening person I always knew she was joking. I always knew that she wouldn't go through with any of these threats. But now . . . now it's real anger, and now I actually do fear she'll gut me with the hunting knife she wears so casually at her waist.

We're the only two left, the only ones who haven't left this part of the Big House that's become a tomb. And I can't leave. I don't even think about moving, because I should stay with him—because yes, that's him, that pile of ashes. There's nothing more to him now but that and I can't leave this room and face the rest of them right now.

"Maybe I would have done the same," she whispers suddenly, and my head snaps up, surprised. But she's not looking at me anymore. She's staring off at a random point in the room, talking almost to herself. "Maybe . . . any of us would have done the same." Calla casts her gaze upwards now, at me, and before I know it we're staring right at each other, her frigid blue eyes into my frightened brown ones, but I can't read the look on her face.

"The point isn't what happened. It's that he's gone and he was our friend. And we need to honor him, because he sure as hell deserves it and every other scrap of luck Olympus can muster up. If anyone makes it into Elysium, he should." And with that she leaves, softly shutting the door behind her with a conclusive click, and abandons me to wallow in my confusion. But I don't deserve to be consoled now.

In the middle of September, we still play out in the rain

day x

"Hey Zach," I greet him one morning after breakfast. He smiles back at me, and inwardly I laugh at how at home he'd become so quickly. For the first few days he'd clung to me, but he has his own niche now: The Hermes kids like how easygoing he is; the Apollo campers love him for his skill with the bow and whatever other stuff the Apollo kids like to talk about. I have no idea; to me they're like a separate species. Then again, it's not like Apollo and Hephaestus are so close.

"Hi!" he says, practically bouncing instead of walking. We fall into step beside one another without either one of us even asking if the other wanted to go for a walk, and end up on the border, strolling around the edges of camp. The two of us must seem an odd pair: Me, tall, lanky, dark, and grimy from the forges, thumbs in the pockets of my jeans and grease smears on my orange t-shirt, and him, bright and fair-haired, practically glowing, with not a speck of dirt anywhere, and not even tall enough to reach my shoulder, bobbing along at my side. I ignore the stares we get from the others and get to the point.

"So how d'you like camp?" I ask, and he grins, showing off white teeth that nearly blind me. Note to self: floss later, I think.

"It's amazing. Everything is just . . ." he struggles, then shrugs. "You know. It's incredible." I nod, digesting the information, but just when I'm about to speak he pipes up again. "And the Apollo kids . . . they're saying I could be one of them," he adds on abruptly, frowning for some reason, which makes me frown.

"Yeah. You could be. That's probably the most likely option." I don't tell him how Calla and I have discussed it, not just once, or how we weird we think it is that Apollo hasn't claimed him yet. "But don't worry about it. It'll be better once you're claimed. You'll have family. And—"

"Zach, Ferguson!" a kid shouts from near the lake, and we both turn to look at him. I'm mildly irritated—does Calla have the whole camp calling me Ferguson now?—but I brush that aside. "The Ares kids are arranging a football game! You guys in?" He waves the brown ball above his head as if to demonstrate that yes, we are actually going to play football. Before I have a chance to say anything though, Zach answers.

"Yeah, we'll be right there!" he calls back, then begins walking down the hill. I'm still standing there, dumbfounded. Is this the kid I found ten days ago, showing initiative, making a name for himself? And, most importantly, what the hell just happened to our conversation? I swear he can read my mind, though, because he turns back and looks at me, smiling a bit.

"It's okay. I'll figure it out. We don't need to stress over it."

I'm amazed how well he takes this—he's thirteen—but I go along with it. "Alright."

Because even when surrounded by confusion you have to make time to kid around, and Zach knew that better than me.

Reflecting now on how things could have been

day xxxvii

I'm alone now. There's me and there's him, only there's not him because he's gone and that's just a pile of ashes. I stare at the ashes—I don't want to, and with every fiber of my being I fight it, but my gaze is still drawn to it—and my mind goes blank. There was so much he could have done with his life . . . You killed him you killed him you killed him, a voice in my ear whispers, and I know that it's right. You killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him . . . .

In a way I feel that Calla really is still punishing me, because the guilt is worse this way, so much worse than anything she could have done. It's like the ashes stare at me, asking, pleading, begging to know, Why'd you do it? Why'd you do this to me?

But there's no one to hear my hushed, "I didn't mean to."

Has it all gone to waste? All the promises we made

day xxxvi

It's not like the start of summer anymore. Zach doesn't need me anymore for advice, and he has his spot here, but we still have those talks. Claiming is one thing that worries him—because it's been thirty-six days since he arrived and there's no hint of his parent. Our confusion grows by the day. Essentially every camper is convinced he's an Apollo kid, so why hasn't he been claimed? Calla and him have formed some sort of bond—I have no idea what how or why, but now she is dead set on taking him under her wing and looking out for him—and she doesn't get it either. None of us do.

I'm sprawled out against a tree, my hands absentmindedly fiddling with some scraps of metal, twisting and turning, when I hear the shriek.

"Hydra! Hydra on the border!" someone screams, and I jump up. It's dusk, so all I can see is the outline of the beast and a shadow, both perched on top of the hill right near Thalia's tree. I'm busy wondering why all battles seem to happen near that pine—thank you, ADHD, thanks so much—when Calla runs into me.

Those glacial eyes are staring at me confused, wondering why I'm not in the same rush she is. And while I admittedly should have been moving faster, that doesn't account for the look in her eyes, the utter panic, or how frazzled she looks. That's my first hint something's wrong. Well, that and the fact that she was yelling, two feet away from me: "It's Tuesday, Ferguson! It's Tuesday!" It must have been obvious that I had absolutely no clue what she's talking about, because those wild, panicked eyes are locked on me and her nails are digging into my shoulders. "Zach's on border patrol!"

It takes only those four words and I'm sprinting across the lawn, unsheathing a sword that had been at my waist from practice earlier while running. I reach the top of the hill before Calla does, but even I'm too late.

Because I get there just in time to watch Zach land the fatal blow, straight through the heart. And just in time to watch one head take a chunk out of his side and hear the crunch of ribs breaking.

The beast keens and rolls over, dead. But I don't care about that. What I care about is the dazed looking kid holding the bloodstained sword, which he drops a moment later. He sways for a moment, then collapses on the grass just as Calla and a few others arrive.

"What happened? What happened?" she berates me, yanking on the sleeve of my orange t-shirt, but I ignore her, racing to his side and ripping off that same shirt to staunch the blood flow.

"You're gonna be okay, Zach," I whisper forcefully. "You're going to be okay." I don't notice that I'm crying until the droplets land on his demolished ribs, and the sight of them only makes me cry harder.

Think that I'd somehow figure out that if you strike the match you're bound to feel the flame

day xxxvii

It's been nearly twenty hours now since the incident, since the arduous afternoon we spent sharing memories, piecing the story together, pointing out faults, my faults, that had, time and time again, made the perfect mistake. Without me this never would have happened. And that's why I have to do this the best I can.

Zach deserves—deserved—everything good in this life, and instead he got pinned with me and a bunch of other psych ADHD demigods for his final days. He has only me, his murderer, to speak the eulogy, but I know that I'm better than nothing, which is what he would have had without camp. Chiron handed me two dozen sheets of loose-leaf and a couple of pens hours ago, lifetimes ago, but I left them blank and the only marks on the one pristine surface are smudges and smears from my hands, eternally grimy. He may have had the Hermes cabin and the Apollo kids, but it's me they gave these materials, silently, without even asking.

It's that that makes me proud I'm the one holding the sheet of lined paper and the ten cent Bic, I'm the one crouching over that page and pouring out my thoughts, my fears. And, mostly, admitting my mistakes. Because he deserves for me to admit that, at least. He never did anything wrong; it was all being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I write that too, talk about the kind of person he was, what kind of person he might have been. And, for once, I have pride over this, because even if I never helped him in life, I can send him off properly.

The words are blurred and blotchy and every sheet is covered in smudges and tears I didn't even know I was crying, but when I'm done I know I've covered it all. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and grab a new sheet, glancing at the ashes and scorch marks. From those distorted lines and notes scribbled in margins I glean a final copy, this one faultless. What he deserves.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

day xxxvi—day xxxvii

Someone gets Chiron. Someone arranges to have him brought to the Big House. Someone does everything and leaves me alone with my thoughts, to my conscience, which just keeps asking me Why didn't you help? Why didn't you help? It doesn't matter that I couldn't.

It's six hours before he's conscious, never mind lucid, and it's only thanks to nearly the entirety of Apollo's cabin spending the entire time here that he's even alive. Someone else does the work while I sit and ponder; someone else gets me a clean shirt to replace the bloodstained one, and someone else brings in food and water every few hours, more often than we really need. No one asks me to leave. I wouldn't if they did.

There's a chunk of flesh missing that makes him look so tattered, so broken. But it's the ribs that suffered the worst of the bit, shattered and cracked in too many places to count. It's the ribs the Apollo kids frown over again and again, make hushed comments to each other about, but they tell me not to worry, all we need is to get a bit of ambrosia in him—and isn't he, after all, supposedly the child of the god of medicine as well? That ought to count for something in the healing process.

I only realize how bad it was when I hear their sighs of relief when his eyelids flutter open. But I have no time to be relieved. "The second he wakes up, you have to get him to eat it," one Apollo kid had told me. "He'll be more likely to take it from you. And you can't hesitate; he needs that him in ASAP." I'd only nodded.

He only has a second to mumble something that sounds like "nrrrghhffiah" before I'm saying, "We need you to eat this, Zach. Can you do that?" He understands me, at least, because he nods sleepily and takes the ambrosia square from me.

Time seems to slow down. The two seconds it takes him to pop it into his mouth take two hours to me, and it's only when he's swallowing that it occurs to me. It's only when it's too late that the thought strikes me, and the second I realize it I know it's true. But I can't save him anymore.

That doesn't stop me from screaming "ZACH NO DON'T—" and watching in horror. That doesn't stop me from trying in vain to save him, but it's too late.

In the space of a second his eyes begin bugging out of his head, his blood begins to boil—to literally boil, and his skin sags. The bones disintegrate, become nothing but ash and dust, but that's not the worst part. No, it's the blood, which goes from boiling to flaming before I even realized the former, and then he's screaming only he can't scream, and the sound is such a horrible, wretched choking that all I want is for it to stop. His blood is fire, the licking flames dancing away across the surface of his skin, but this is no fire I've ever seen—it changes from red to orange to blue to purple to green to yellow and back again a hundred times in the space of time it takes for me to blink. And unlike normal fire, it consumes him abruptly.

Three seconds after he swallows that ambrosia Zachary Malone is a pile of ashes on a scorched camp cot.

I say the words we're all thinking as we stare on, awestruck, horrified, and full of terror. The voice is not my own; it's hoarse and callous, if a voice can be callous, but I say it.

"He was a mortal."

I'm strong enough to say that I don't wanna take the high road now

day xxxvii

No one leaves the room.

They ask me how I knew—how I could tell, in the final seconds, that what we thought was saving him would kill him. They wonder how he got into camp—but that was all me, and I tell them about how I had to persuade him. Calla wasn't there in the final moments, and so had to settle for a description of what happened, and I think it's for this more than anything that she resents me. That and the fact that I'm a murderer.

Which is why she begins that god-awful staring which implies so much but says so little, and this time, I actually begin fearing for my life. But I'd deserve it anyways.

It all comes back to me, and I explain to them: Mr. D., Chiron, a few of the higher up campers. I tell them every little coincidence that, added together, makes this possible. Him crossing the border, after being invited in by me. Him being at the same school as another demigod—the monsters had been after Brandon, not him. The ADHD, the dyslexia, it all had to be a coincidence. And though he had issues with English, he wasn't so great at Greek either. Him looking like a child of Apollo was a coincidence. His skill with the bow was natural, but not hereditary. And if I had seen it before, when he first showed up, I would have realized he was just a mortal who could see through the Mist.

Not a demigod.

Years go by and time just seems to fly, but the memories remain

day xxxvii

We hold our vigil silently two hours later, at midnight.

I don't know if it's a typical Camp Half-Blood thing—but how could it be? This has never happened before, and I've never seen any service like this anytime in my six summers here. We've no shroud to burn, because he had no Olympian parent. It may have been written down somewhere or it may have just been an on the spot decision of Chiron and Mr. D., but we resort to Greek tradition now.

We set the funeral pyre on the glasslike surface of the lake, sending ripples across the once-calm water.

"If you could, please, Seamus," Chiron says to me quietly, but we can all hear him. Even those who didn't know him stand silently and respectfully on this occasion. We are in mourning, in mourning of a terrible tragedy. But, still, I have to stand in front of them all and save face. I nod, then gently push the pyre, a two foot by two foot square of tightly woven reeds, farther out, so that it's out of reach. There's no body—it's already been burned, of course—so all we have on top is the sheet, folded into a square and set in the center of the reed pyre, with the ashes on top of that.

All we can see from the shore is that bright white sheet against the inky black night and the pile of black specks in the center of it. Each camper carries a candle, the only source of light we have.

Chiron looks at me expectantly, but I can tell at the same time he's saying I don't have to do this. I ignore that part and take out my lone sheet of paper, stare at the miniscule words I penned so tediously in Greek to spare myself the embarrassment of being unable to read it. For a moment I only stare at the words and the silence grows longer. And then I read.

I tell them all about Zach. About how he got to camp and had all the signs of a demigod. About how we were all sure he was a son of Apollo. About how he never had a bad thing to say about anyone, about how he could be anyone's friend—they know all this, most of them, but everyone listens and no one points this out. And I tell them everything, because they need to know, some more than others, but in the end they all have to know. It's better, at least, that they know the truth, that they hear it straight from me, rather than make up stories to explain what happened.

My throat becomes dry and my voice is hoarse but I finish. I've spent most of the past twenty-four hours on the verge of tears, but this speech went without them. There's one more thing I have to do, though.

"Archers take aim."

On the side of the lake, twenty feet away from us, stands a dozen campers, all wielding bows. At my words, each grabs an arrow and a match, then uses the latter to light the former. I swallow the lump in my throat. Not now. I will not cry now.

"Fire." The word is short but my voice still cracks. All the campers pretend to be ignorant to the waver, and I'm grateful for that.

Twelve arrows paint fiery arcs across the black canvas of night. Twelve arrows land on the pyre and set it ablaze. The entire camp watches silently for a few minutes as flames, natural flames so unlike the others, slowly devour the reeds and reduce it all to ash.

"We'll never forget you," I whisper into the darkness.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was the wind. But then I swear I hear a whisper in my ear.

"I know," it breathes. "I know."

Fin

Yes, I am fully aware of how depressing that was. (Lovely Christmas present, riiiiiight?) But you know you want to leave me a review anyways.

With huggles and booze and far too many shouted "HAPPY NEW YEAR"s,

-Ave