✩ ━━━ spring of 1998, camp half-blood. ❝I'll look up to the sky and one day, I'll stop seeing you in the stars. ❞

IN THE SPRING OF 1998, HIROKI MATSUOKA LEARNED THE LAST THING HE WOULD EVER KNOW TRUE: MEMORIES ARE DANGEROUS. Hurtful, awful things. One can turn them over and over until every fixture and corner is known, but there is always going to be a new edge to cut. Time doesn't erode the pain, contrary to what others say—it toys with you. It tricks you to believe those awful memories have faded into obscurity, but no matter how much you wish to forget, the cuts will only ever heal into scarred tissue.

You will never forget.

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Tonight, the darkness surrounding Camp Half-Blood feels different.

There's an edge to the stillness of the leaves of the woodlands, a persistent sting to the moonbeam; according to his mother, Hiroki suffered from bouts of paranoia after Yangyang's death. She said that sometimes, he became so afraid of the monsters—the gods—getting him that he would trick himself into seeing them everywhere. Hearing them. Tricking himself into believing that they see him and waiting for the best moment to attack him—kill him the way they did Yangyang and every other demigod in the myths he read—despite them being far, far away from him.

This didn't feel like paranoia.

He knew out there, beyond the weakening barrier, monsters were waiting.

Still, despite how much he wished to return to the shelter within the yarn canopy of his bedroom or the care of his parents' arms, tonight Hiroki was assigned to watch over the border by Dionysus. Conversations across the camp suggested the magical border is depleting faster than expected. While hidden in the library of the Big House, Hiroki overheard Chiron lamenting the loss of Festus, fretting over what to do to keep the campers somewhat safe.

It is his fault. He hurt the best swordsmen and now they are defenseless.

Dionysus was right. Hiroki is just like his father, harming others then running like a scaredy-cat.

Before Hiroki dreamt of being like his father.

Now he realized he could do so much more.

Endure, Lady Aseco told him.

Hiroki is sick of enduring. Of hurting himself. Of seeing others hurt. Mainly, he is tired of being the cause of other's pain.

He didn't want to be like that cowardly god.

He wanted to be more.

He wanted to be—

Over the sound of his jackhammering heart, a snarl caused him to yelp.

"I—I think there's m—monsters outside the border," Hiroki tried to withhold tears, looking at the older campers on patrol beside him for guidance. One of them scoffed, rolling his eyes; the other smiled mockingly. "You hear this kid? Th—there are m—mon—sters ou—out—tside the b—b—border. There's always monsters, moron. Go take care of them if it bothers you so much."

Hiroki tried to correct himself, alarm seizing him. "No, no—I know—I mean there is more than usual—Hey, let me go! Stop it!—" The older camper grabbed him by the shoulder, pushing him outside the border. The son of Hypnos stumbled forward, losing his balance due to the heaviness of his too-large chest plate. He scraped his hand on the rough bark underbrush of the forest floor, ignoring the sting as he leaped forward to pick up the sword from where it had skidded ahead.

By the time Hiroki managed to stand, his two companions had abandoned him.

With clammy, trembling hands, Hiroki tightened his hold on the sword and braved on.

He wouldn't be like his father. "Hello?" Hiroki called out, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice broke.

He wouldn't be like Yangyang, either; desperately screaming for a careless mother while polluted water filled his lungs. "If you're a monster, I'll get you!" Hiroki shouted into the night, following the barely visible black trails snaking through the undergrowth. Patrol would be over soon and other campers will take his spot. Just a couple more hours.

Hiroki continued to walk, ignoring the way his arms broke out into goosebumps, steeping on stagnant pools of water. There's a pressure in the air. As if something bad was coming. Naoki told him once that animals can sense natural disasters and catastrophes before they happen, abandoning their habitats and migrating to different places in herds. The silence engulfing the forest felt too unsettling.

In a forest like this, there should be sounds.

Why is it so silent?

Lady Aceso's tale echoed in his mind.

A thousand years ago, the same camp without a barrier, attacked mercilessly as the gods watched on.

Surely it would be too cruel for it to happen again.

Above him, through the gaps of the leaves and tangled branches, the moon flickered like a shattered mirror.

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IN THE SPRING OF 1998, HIROKI MATSUOKA LEARNED THE LAST THING HE WOULD EVER KNOW TRUE: MEMORIES NEVER CEASE TO HURT. Time does not make them bearable. They hurt so much. Regardless of how numb you force yourself to be. Regardless of how many times you break your own heart so you'll no longer feel any pain. They will hurt forever.

Memories of blood. Memories of loss. Of being the only one left alive.

Memories of searching for survivors. Of burying child after child.

Memories of begging to gods who will never answer.

Memories scar your very soul and you will never heal.

Unless, of course, you erase them.

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Darkness has never felt so suffocating before. The vast, contorted tree branches writhed like monstrous tenders. The wind could've been mistaken for grisly growls with its ferocity.

Hiroki is scared. He is so, so scared.

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IN THE SPRING OF 1998, HIROKI MATSUOKA LEARNED THE LAST THING HE WOULD EVER KNOW TRUE: GUILT ROTS. It infects the body, snarling down the spine and round the lungs, putrefying everything; the agony of being a survivor when everything (everyone) died—and they all died because of the gods, because nobody was there when the camp was attacked, because it was simply another unremarkable day as a demigod, disregarded as the monsters continued to gnaw on the mauled, disfigured bodies of Apollo's children and the Ares cabin insisted on attacking despite being outnumbered because they were terrified of disappointing an absent father, and all the kids of Athena and Aphrodite had no abilities to protect themselves against fangs and claws, and no one answered a single prayer that night—Truly, guilt is a corrosion decaying your organs and obstructing your veins with crawling maggots. Existing as a walking corpse isn't living.

He should've died the night Camp Half-Blood was attacked. He should've died in the spring of 1998, but he didn't because, unlike the rest of the children who lived there, Hiroki Matsuoka was too cherished.

Hiroki Matsuoka didn't die because of one person.

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He doesn't want to be cowardly.

He doesn't want to be like Hypnos.

He can't be like his father because yes, Hypnos is kind and loving with a golden heart, the best father anyone could ask for, but he is weak. If Hiroki wants his dreams to become true, he can't be like his father. He must be frightening. He must be strong enough to never be pushed again. Intimidating enough that no one would ever dare go against him.

Hiroki isn't enough. He'll never be enough. He must be more.

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Somewhere in Camp Half-blood, covered in dust and untouched for years in the archives of the library, a scroll documented a random, unremarkable day in the spring of 1998. A minor monster attack transpired that day. Thankfully, it occurred before the summer campers arrived, so not many demigods died. Only twenty or so campers perished before all the monsters were swiftly dealt with, and all those who died were cremated as heroes with special burial shrouds.

Interestingly enough, that unremarkable spring night was said to be the darkest night of the year with not a single star in the sky to be seen.

Perhaps the gods and all those in the great heavens were mourning the death of such bright heroes.

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He simply wants to be a god.

Yes, that is it.

Hiroki needs to become a god.

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And in that very same the spring night of 1998, as he rested still next to several corpses, drenched in gore with the stench of blood and vomit all around, a churning figure of ash and smoke gathered her smallest, littlest treasure close to her arms. She shushed him calmly as he gasped for air, smiling serenely as the child gripped her shoulder and hid hist face against her chest, reminiscent of a newborn inhaling the fresh air of life outside of their mother for the very first time after birth.

"My littlest prince," she cooed, wiping away the mutilated pieces of human from his soft skin. Covered in blood, he was the most beautiful sight she has seen in millenniums. "My littlest treasure, my precious Hiroki..."

And as Nyx carried her grandson away from the repugnant pile of humans, humming to him softly as she disbursed into the darkness of the night and travelled to her home in Tartarus, it could be argued that he was no different than the bodies left behind. 

In the spring night of 1998, Hiroki Matsuoka might as well have died too.