A/N: Before I start, I just want to clarify that: yes, I am a Octavian sympathizer, and no- I have no shame.

I did a frick-ton of research on this, as well as taking from some of my personal experiences in some of the particular situations in which you'll encounter throughout this story. I put a year's-worth of effort into this, and re-read books, as well as a lot of fandom-wikis in effort to get this thing off the ground.

Now, I'm not trying to gather sympathy or anything (gods know I'm not the only author who has gone to such lengths), I'm simply attempting to persuade you to keep an open mind and to please review, even if it's harsh. I always love a good argument.

There aren't a lot of Octavian sympathizers out there, and I've been that person at the movie theatre who cries when the villain dies (or even when they're treated badly, honestly), because I've never believed in "an eye for an eye". I think that everyone deserves to be treated with kindness, especially those who don't treat others as such.

And this fic is my attempt at creating what I feel Uncle Rick should've at least begun to create- character development and background. I feel that way with a lot of characters (Chiron, Octavian, and Dionysus, among many others), and I hope that others try to create more for them as well. Octavian in particular seemed a challenge, though, and I love challenges, so I gave it a shot.

Admittedly, I like what I churned out.

And yes, I agree that Uncle Rick has done excellently with other characters' development, and can't exactly cram all of the emotional condominium of every character into his amazing books.

That's what fanfiction is for XD

Anyway: again, I implore you to keep an open mind as I go forward with this. I simply want to present my case.

Pay close attention.

TW: mild gore, implied depression, mild suicidal thoughts

Octavian stumbled again, hot, thick blood seeping lazily through his fingers. His legs shook fiercely, breaths forcing themselves out in quick, desperate wheezes. Patches of his skin stung viciously like a burning brand, residing in swells of scarlet across the expanse of his flesh.

His lower back was grievously wounded where his hand was attempting to clutch it, and a ringing of white noise played innately in the back of his deteriorating mind. His vision was slowly blackening around the edges, coming rapidly in and out of focus.

He was, in every respect, exhausted.

He made to take another step, his muscles flaming like magma in the midst of an eruption. His knees finally gave out, hitting the ground hard, and he fought fervently to keep the rest of his body upright.

He had to get up, had to lose Michael Kahale, for surely that traitorous boy would make no qualms of injuring him again, just to make sure he died.

Octavian had been sucker-punched, if you will, by the attack: Michael had been standing between the three demigods, had promised to help him, to keep this last loyalty the augur had.

Then Octavian had turned his back for an instant, and suddenly blazing pain was racing across his back. A cry had been wrenched from his throat, and it was all he could do to stay upright as his head whipped around to look wide-eyed at Michael. The boy had- in an instant of insanity and ire, perhaps- slashed Octavian's backside, leaving a deep, bloody crevice.

Kahale hadn't shown any sign, any clue that he had been planning to betray Octavian, and so quickly, too; yet there Octavian was, struggling just to make it to the few feet left to the famous pine tree on Half-Blood Hill.

Realization struck him then with the force of a cyclops' club: Kahale had taken of Octavian's own disadvantage; he remembered having to rip his toga from the onager's ropes and tear off his jewelry in order to flee Michael's almost murderous gaze and keep his life. Michael, the di Angelo boy, the Solace boy, everyone: they all wanted Octavian dead.

They were going to just stand there and let Octavian inadvertently kill himself.

Tears sprang to his eyes, but he blinked them away defiantly, resolve settling in his chest. Fine, he thought with what he told himself was anger, if they want me dead so badly, so be it. I'll just die once I reach the border. There's nothing left here, anyway.

Apparently, his body didn't get the memo his mind had. The moment he tried to get back to his feet, every muscle burned painfully; another cry was forced from his throat as he fell, effectively getting a mouthful of dirt.

He groaned in pain and frustration, sprawled limply on the ground, then stilled a moment to catch his breath, the white noise and dark spots in his vison growing ever stronger. His head was beginning to feel steadily heavier, as if it were filling with sand.

Vaguely, through the muddled sea of his mind, he could make out a quick clopping of hooves, heading directly towards him. Then hands were gripping his shoulders and a faintly familiar voice was trying to break through to him.

It came through at that moment, and his breath caught at the abrupt clarity of his senses, "Can you hear me, child? You must try and stand, and I can carry you the remainder of the way." From the kind, worn nature of the voice, Octavian could tell it was Chiron who was speaking to him.

Clearly the benevolent centaur did not realize who he was talking to, for surely he would not have even approached him if he did. He lifted his head with much effort, to try and persuade the centaur to leave, but he could hardly see the teacher, for his vision was nearly obscured now, and everything kept fading in and out of focus.

The centaur did not scoff, however, or leave, or throw the boy back into the dust. He simply gazed back at Octavian with eyes full of worry and concern, "Octavian, child, you must get your feet beneath you. Come now."

Octavian shook his head, puzzled by the centaur's plea. He lashed out weakly, a desperate attempt to hold up the front he had built up over the few years of his life, "Away from me, vile monster! I do not need your help. I can take care of myself." As if Chiron was either vile or a monster. As if he was in any condition to remedy himself.

Still Chiron did not leave, instead hooking his hands under Octavian's arms and lifting him to set him on his feet. Octavian could only sag there like a puppet with his strings cut, "Absolutely not. Where have you been injured?"

For some reason, Octavian found himself responding, "Lower back. I. . . I've been slashed." His voice was hollow, as if he was only now processing all that had happened.

Chiron inspected the wound, then nodded grimly. "We must bring you to the Big House for medical attention, quickly." Then he was being lifted, and held tightly yet carefully aloft by the old centaur as they made their way to the Big House.

"Who wounded you, Octavian?"

"Michael. . . Michael Kahale," he murmured, eyes slipping closed gratefully, desperately; gradually, exhaustedly. "Why?" he muttered, even as the topic slipped from his fingers like water.

"I will speak with him later," Chiron explained, though it more to himself than to Octavian. His voice rose to a shout, "Clarisse, retrieve Michael Kahale, whatever it takes, but do not kill him. Bring him to the Big House as soon as possible."

Octavian heard a distant shout of compliance, and again wondered vaguely why Chiron cared who his murderer had been.

Murderer?

He hoped it wasn't too early for that.

He didn't know when he passed out, or when he arrived at the Big House; he remembered, vaguely, waking for a short time as his wounds were cleaned and mended.

Then too often darkness would force its iron grip around him, snippets of conversations whirling above him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Why is he here?"

"He is a camper in need of medical attention, Percy-"

"He tried to destroy the camp, not to mention the world! And he- he killed Leo. He's an enemy and a traitor, Chiron."

"Gaea was the one who tried to do both, Jason. And Leo. . . he- he did what he did of his own accord, to save us all, as I am sure you are well aware. And as for traitor, Chris Rodriguez was as well, yet he is a respected camp member now."

"This is different!"

"How?" Silence. "Regardless of parentage or taken sides, he a is a demigod, and only eighteen. Scarcely a good age to die, I should think."

"Will, you shouldn't be helping him."

"Like you should talk; you should be in bed. Doctor's orders."

"Will Solace-"

"Nico. . . he is related to me."

"Very distantly."

"Yeah, but. . . I just feel like this is the right thing to do."

". . . Alright, I trust your judgement. But you both better hurry, if you plan to save him. I can feel his life force slipping."

He woke calmly, as if he had timed it, staring blankly for a few moments at the fresh whiteness surrounding him.

He thought, for a fleeting, joyous moment, that he was dead.

Then he lifted his eyes and the saw the structure of the Big House infirmary looming above him. The room seemed softly sunny, the air surprisingly still and quiet, as if he was in some strange, clarified dream.

He thought to move, but knew, somehow, that doing so would yank him out of this blissful, hazy death in which he found himself.

But then a door creaked open somewhere to his right, and it was no longer his choice to make. He was suddenly aware that he was lying on his stomach, arms laid carefully at his sides. A slight burning sensation was blanketing his entire body, as well as random, sharp pains.

He groaned in disappointment and pain, already longing for the bliss to return.

The sound of old wheels on wood sounded from the door until rounding the bed, and then Chiron was peering at him with a sad smile. He grabbed a hand towel from the end table, soaking it in water, "I am heartened to see you awake at last, Octavian." A long pause. "You really do look so much like Luke did," the old centaur murmured, laying the towel on the back of the Octavian's neck.

He let out a shaky sigh, as the coolness alleviated some of the pain. Chiron's smile grew, a little more hopeful this time, "How do you feel?"

". . . Why do you care?" He was surprised- not only by the physical properties of his voice- but also by the degree of his tone. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been crying for hours, and his tone empty and hollow, as if someone had used a knife to carve all the emotion out of it.

Chiron's gaze filled with a fatherly authority, "You are a demigod, and, whether Roman or Greek, I am- by divine order- responsible for your care as your teacher, my boy."

"But why do you care?" Octavian repeated, voice cracking. He hated himself for being so suddenly emotional, but the pain and exhaustion from his wounds and the war had shaken him, stretching his emotions taut like bowstring. He tried desperately to blink away an onslaught of tears.

The old centaur looked puzzled for moment, before understanding dawned on him, "I care because you are an eighteen year-old boy who appears to me very lonely. It is obvious that you need someone to be friend, a person to you. I shall be that person, since no one else seems willing to help you."

"Why?" It was meant to be a demand, it really was. Instead it came out a slipping plea, a shattering desire for answers, explanations. He wanted again to die, to go back to sleep; at least in sleep he wouldn't hear everyone's scorn. "I am merely a descendant of Apollo. I am nothing. My great-grandparents were both praised demigods, passing the glory down from generation to generation until it went too far to stand. I am too far. I stood on the sidelines, shunned, while the glory and legends of my ancestors collapsed. I am merely an anemic loser, just as that Solace boy said."

"Everybody is alive for a reason, child. It make time to find what that reason is, but you will find it. And I can assure you: if to no one else, you are important to me."

Octavian shook his head furiously, hiding his face in the pillow when tears began streaming down his cheeks, "No, no I'm not. I'm not- don't tell me that, you don't mean it, you don't-" His heart felt like it was beating sluggishly, as if Chronos had slowed time again and created a bubble just for him.

Chiron reached out, placing a gentle hand on the small of Octavian's back. Immediately he stiffened, hardly daring to breathe.

The centaur sighed, "We shall always have bad days, or people, who may seek to hurt us in some way. But that is why we have the good days, and the good people: to help us through it all. The bad does not cancel out the good, but simply helps us to better appreciate the good."

Octavian was silent a moment, picking at the loose threads littering his pillow until he had regained enough of his composure.

He peered almost shyly at the kindly centaur, shining trails still prominent on his pale cheeks. "Can I get up?" the question was quiet, uncertain. He didn't know himself if he wanted to move out of this space. What if it broke this alliance, this streak of kindness being shown to him?

Chiron hesitated as well, for good reason. "Yes. But I must insist caution, child."

Octavian nodded, and Chiron pulled back the blanket, slowly helping him to sit up. He groaned as he rose, letting his legs hang over the side of the cot as he inspected himself.

He hissed as his fingers grazed carefully bandaged burns, examining intricate patterns which matched the bandages covering his lower back and stomach, just above his waist. He was wearing only pajama pants.

He swiped at his eyes, rubbing the bandages absently and taking a shaky breath in an effort to still his nerves. "Thank you," he said softly.

Chiron smiled kindly, eyes crinkling at the corners, "Now, I would assume you're hungry? Perhaps we can join the others for lunch-" His voice died off when caught the expression on the augur's face.

Sad would be an understatement.

His very aura was empty and downcast, his shoulders drawn as if he was attempting to make himself smaller, and his mouth pressed into an empty line. He looked, for lack of a stronger word, devastated.

Chiron's eyes softened, well-worn lines of concern etched deep into his features, "Octavian?"

The augur swallowed, "Nobody wants to see me; you all hate me."

Chiron shook his head firmly, "Even if you are right, I should like you to join us anyway, so you might get some sun on your skin and some food in your body. You have been in and out of awareness the past two days or so, and any improvement, however small, would lift both our spirits."

Reluctantly, Octavian nodded. Then, in a tone bordering almost on amusement: "Could. . . I have a shirt, please?"

A/N: Kind of a strange ending, I know, but of the two possible places I could have ended it, this was the less strange one.

A bit of a rocky start, I know, but it gets better, I promise. Please bear with me for a little while.

I don't really get into the good stuff until the next chapter, so just hold your breath- with this as your oxygen tank- until I get the next one up. It'll actually be soon this time, I promise.

Again, thank you so much if you've read far enough into this to be reading this author's note right now.

I really do appreciate it.

Here's the Fact of the Day(#15): I recently discovered an incredible word while reading fanfiction: nary. It's a nonstandard form of not. An example: He finished the assignment nary a minute too soon. I just thought it was pretty awesome word.

Remember to leave a review: I would LOVE, LOVE, LOVE to know your guys' thoughts on this, and where you think it might be going.