A/N: This was inspired by how although August 18th was the day Percy and Annabeth, you know, and the day they saved the world, there were unexplored consequences. I wanted to show how the effects of war never really fade, how people mourn them, even though many good things have happened since then. Anyway, I started with that scene which slowly developed, moulding with another plot idea that I had. Well, read on, and reviews (and constructive criticism) will be appreciated greatly.

Summary: ""Remember when I disappeared for two weeks? I know you know where I was – Calypso's Island." A flash of pain cuts into her dusky eyes, clawing down her frozen face. "She was sweet and kind and trusting – unlike you," he spits. A hot wave of fury drenches him, manipulating him, he wants to hurt her – really hurt her."

Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, and I probably never will…

Echoes of the Lamenting Wind

Every year, at this time, they mourn. The steady rain pours, cries, the heavens weep outside the borders – although it would be fitting to let the barriers down, and the moaning wind wails. The roaring waves slam onto the glistening, white sand, contrasting starkly to their deep, obsidian clothing. Small specks of foam arc through the air, keening in synchronisation to the echoes of the wind and the resonating Greek lament. He grips her hand firmly, to let her know that it's alright; that she can cry, she can let down those walls she has built up all those years, and she can take the mask off and feel – really feel, because sometimes, pain needs to be felt.

She squeezes back tightly, a gasping choke racking her thin frame – the first sound she's made since they arrived. The sky is overcast with angry, grey clouds, brooding and bruised, and her long, blonde locks flow, streaming behind her, whipped by the bitter gales. She ducks her head, keeping her eyes trained on the pure specks of sand. And that's when the tears overflow. Each glimmering drop darkens the shore, and each gasping sob is snatched away by the wind.

He gathers her in his corded arms and they clutch each other like a lifeline; his face is contorted with overwhelming despair, and he's not too proud to cry. His tears streak her sun-kissed hair with darker tones of honey, ash and dust. And they stand there, two pillars – crumbling, broken pillars, and each gust knocking their foundations looser and looser. Their ragged breaths are synchronised to the rapid beats of their shattered hearts.

"Happy birthday," she whispers. He almost doesn't hear her as her trembling voice is swept away almost instantly.

"Happy anniversary," he murmurs back, into her hair, and she closes her eyes in forgotten pain and loss. But somehow, having him there, she feels that each hole in her soul is slowly being filled up again. It isn't fair, they think – but is there anything in life that is perfectly balanced? Perfectly proportioned? Perfectly fair? August 18th was a day of death, destruction, dust, ash and blood – fated since before his birth, destined in a prophecy, yet, it was a day of happiness, of beginnings after endings, emerging like a newborn phoenix out of ash. It was a day of choice, of death, of pain and of blue birthday cakes. Why was it that, on that day, their hearts felt so hollow, so empty? How could something barren and vacant feel so much – so much pain, so much agony?

And they gaze with overwhelming intensity at the weathered, white, stone plaque.

Luke Castellan – Hero of Olympus, saviour of the world, hero of the prophecy, son of Hermes and beloved friend. Died August 18th.

Silena Beauregard – Heroine of Olympus, sacrificed herself for her friends, daughter of Aphrodite, counsellor of Cabin Ten, joining her love in Elysium and beloved friend. Died August 18th.

Charles Beckendorf – Hero of Olympus, sacrificed himself for the world and for the lives of many others. Beloved friend, son of Hephaestus, head counsellor of Cabin Nine and master of the forges. Died August 11th.

Michael Yew – Son of Apollo, counsellor of Cabin Seven, hero of Olympus and beloved friend. Missing in Action, presumed dead. Died August 18th.

Ethan Nakamura – Son of Nemesis, former lieutenant of Kronos, last death by the hand of the Titan Overlord. Died August 18th.

He wraps a cold arm around her waist and they trudge away, each step heavy and filled with despair as they remember the heroes of the battle, the ones who had sacrificed themselves, and the forgotten, unsung heroes. Each and every one of them. Her face is ashen, her lips are bloodless and her usually tanned face is pale – the summer's day is frozen and lifeless.

"Hey," he says softly, as if the silence was something delicate, fragile. "I'm nineteen today… Wanna do something?" The swollen heavens seem to nod in agreement.

She lets her curtain of curls hide her crumpled expression from him. "Not today," she croaks out, her voice thick with tears and suppressed emotion.

"I think it would do you good," he murmurs. "Really…"

She shakes her head in conviction. "Not now. I – I need to be alone for a while." She turns to walk away but he grabs onto her bare, goosebumped arm. "Let me go!" she says forcefully, wrenching her arm out of his grasp, and his tumultuous, green eyes flash with hurt. But he lets her go, watching as she makes her way to the grey cabin, before he leaves for the warmth of his own.

The despairing wind howls and the lonely rolls of thunder bellow.

The weathered door creaks softly as she coaxes it open, and he stirs slightly in his fitful sleep. The night is dark and crisp, the lonely moon casting pearly beams, and the silence is louder than imaginable. Her halo of gold enters the darkened room first before the rest of her slips in quietly, and she settles herself on his downy bed and watches him sleep. Even in deep slumber, he has shadows angling the panes of his face, and he has a dark, bruise-like quality to his grief stricken visage. She reaches out one pale hand and caresses his cheek and trails her fingers down before resting it upon the base of his exposed throat, and he stirs, rising from his recurring nightmares, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheek. He jerks awake suddenly and exclaims groggily. "Hey," he says blearily, when he realises that it's her.

"Hey to you too," she says softly back, retracting her hand, and burrowing herself in the radiating warmth of his covers.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He reaches out and curls a strand of her hair around her finger. The grey hair from their third summer, and they remember, together, the crushing oblivion of holding up the sky. He releases her grey curl wordlessly and settles back into his wrinkled sheets.

She leans closer to his warmth. "I just wanted – needed to see you," she murmurs, and he smiles faintly. "Happy birthday…"

"It's not my birthday anymore – is it?" He places a warm hand on her cold ones and plays with her fingers delicately, as if she was a fragile, china doll.

She extricates her fingers from his. "No, you've still got an hour." A melancholy, yet warm silence descends upon them like a downy, airy, white cloth. The quiet lullaby of the calm, rushing ocean croons in the background, and the soft sheets are slightly damp from sea water and salty sweat.

"I love you," he says quietly, breaking the silence.

Her eyes widen slightly and in an instant she in out from under the covers, the crisp, cold air striking her bare legs. "What?" she stammers, unlike her usual confident façade.

"I – I love you." He does not sound so certain anymore.

"No – no you don't," she grits. Her body is quavering and she is halfway to the door.

"Wait!" he half yells, deafening in the night time silence. "Marry me." He rummages through the back pockets of his dark, mourning pants, which are in a pile, hastily pooled upon the floor.

She's frozen, unable to move, unable to comprehend, as he pulls out a glinting ring, silvery platinum and a shimmering blue-green gem. She closes her eyes and tips her head back, her hair tumbling, cascading down her back, dragging her down like a weight. In an instant, he's out of the bed, latched onto her arm.

"I – I can't."

Pain cuts, carves into his heart. "What do you mean? You've always told me – you wanted me to take the first step – make the first move."

"We can't – we're not ready –" Her word are shaking, shivering in the tension.

"We're not ready, or you're not ready?" he asks, desperations ringing in his voice.

She closes her eyes, as if to shut it all out. "You don't love me."

"I do. I have not been so sure of anything before, ever." He's baring all emotion for her to see; his voice cracks on the last word. "We've known each other for seven years; we've dated for three of those. Look, it doesn't have to be now. I'll wait. Five years, ten years, twenty years. I'll wait for you."

She doesn't reply, and her ragged breaths fill the air, like the waning tide.

"Is there someone else?" he asks quietly. His voice echoes faintly with supressed torment.

"Seaweed Brain…" She has tears welling in her eyes, but the emotion is closed, her eyes are guarded.

Hearing that nickname; usually endearing, something breaks in him. He sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes, tipping his head. "Okay, you know what? You're right. This isn't working. Gods why do you have to be so damn uptight and closed! Why can't you trust me? I know people – everyone let you down in the past, but don't you know that I never will? I can't take this anymore. I just can't take this anymore!"

She stares back at him, her defiant façade crumbling like a castle of sand in a storm, swept away by the roaring waves. "I –"

"And you know what else?" he continues, ignoring her, and pacing agitatedly. "Remember in our fourth summer, when I disappeared for two weeks? I know you know where I was – Calypso's Island." A flash of pain cuts into her dusky eyes, clawing down her frozen face. "She was sweet and kind and trusting – unlike you," he spits. A hot wave of fury drenches him, manipulating him, he wants to hurt her – really hurt her, maim and to wound. "But you know why I came back? For you. I came back for you. I'm starting to think that was a mistake now. I should've just stayed there. I should have fucking stayed!"

A choked sob claws its way out from deep in her throat, tearing itself out, and in that instant, she looks truly vulnerable – more than she's ever seemed before. And he knows that he's made a mistake. "Wait," he cries, desperation trembling in his voice, but she's already out of the doorway, her blonde hair streaming behind her, shimmering in the light of the solitary moon, and the muted thuds of her footfalls on the damp blades of grass thump. He reaches out a hand as if to pull her back, but it's too late; she's already gone.

He sits on the darkened, shadowed beach, sifting the silvery sand through his cold fingers. The moonlight reflects patterns on the crashing ocean, and the laughing wind mocks him with its cooing. Stupid, he thinks to himself, so freaking stupid. It's all over now. The leaves of the stoic trees framing the beach rustle accusingly at him. The salty tang of the ocean; wild and untamed, drifts along releasing a bittersweet underlying taste. He desperately wishes she is there. Fragmented images of her fill his mind. Her laughing at him, her kissing him when he did something stupid, her lecturing him on several architectural wonders of the world; Hoover Dam, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Sydney Opera House…

He sighs a long, shuddering sigh. From his pack pocket, he pulls the ring, reflecting off the full moon. He holds it up, pulls his arm back, and flings it out to the ocean with all his force. It arcs, glimmering softly before disappearing into the furious waves, sinking down, down, down.

Swallowed by the uncontrollable seas as he swallows his despair in that cold, August night.

She treads softly, carefully to the place she knows he'll be. The cold, dry sand flops beneath her bare feet, making absolutely no noise. She can see his silhouette, dark against the backdrop of the silvery moon; he is hunched over, shivering slightly, his dark hair stirring slightly. Two minutes to midnight. She makes her way to him; she cannot hear the thundering of the sea, over the hammering of her heart and the rushing blood to her head. "Hey," she whispers, looking anywhere but at him as she settles herself on the pale sand.

Shock transforms his face flittingly before he composes himself. "Hey," he replies hoarsely.

She is suddenly acutely aware of her billowy, white nightgown. She shivers.

"Here," he says, offering her his jacket.

Always the gentleman, even when she'd broken his heart, and she does not even object. "Thanks," she murmurs softly. And they sit in silence, gazing out into the unpredictable ocean.

"I'm sorry," he blurts suddenly. "I – I didn't mean – "

"Hey," she interrupts. "It's not you who should be sorry, it's me." It takes a lot for her to admit this, her fatal flaw being hubris.

He draws a shuddering breath, and bends his head to hold in his shaking hands. "I still shouldn't have said – I mean, it was uncalled – I – I –" He cannot find the right words to describe his heaving emotions, untamed as a wild stallion.

She cuts him off, the melodic wind lilts in the background. Each leaf on the surrounding trees quivers in anticipation. "Don't. I can't stand this anymore. It's my fault. I'm so, so sorry," her voice shuddering on each syllable. And to his horror, she begins to cry. Each broken sob shatters his already battered heart. "I'm sorry. Now I've just ruined everything. Stupid past, stupid problems. Stupid me." She keeps her head turned away from him, and the strands of the pale moon dance languorously on her glimmering curls.

"Hey," he whispers. "Marry me?"

She turns her tear-streaked face up towards him; her grey eyes probe him for any hidden emotion. Her breath hitches. "Yes."

He smiles; the first time in a very long time. And he kisses her. Softy, slowly, apologising.

Three.

Two.

One.

Midnight.

The fragmented stars, frosty in the stained night sky wink, constant and steadfast – like him. Their ragged breathing permeates the air, which resounds with the one, hopeful word. A word of hope, love, new beginnings, whispered against the echoes of the lamenting wind.