The Tyrant's Tomb

Hazel frowned. “Juno, doing someone a favor?”
“Doesn’t sound like her, I agree. She does have a soft spot for Frank,
though.”
“She had a soft spot for Jason, too.” Hazel’s voice turned brittle. “Not
that I’m complaining that Frank is alive, of course. It just seems…”
She didn’t need to finish. Frank’s survival was wonderful. A miracle. But
somehow it made losing Jason feel all the more unfair and painful. As a
former god, I knew all the usual responses to mortal complaints about the
unfairness of dying. Death is part of life. You have to accept it. Life would be
meaningless without death. The deceased will always be alive as long as we
remember them. But as a mortal, as Jason’s friend, I didn’t find much
comfort in those thoughts.
“Umph.” Frank’s eyes fluttered open.
“Oh!” Hazel wrapped her arms around his neck, smothering him in a
hug. This wasn’t the best medical practice for someone just returning to
consciousness, but I let it pass. Frank managed to pat Hazel feebly on the
back.
“Breathe,” he croaked.
“Oh, sorry!” Hazel pulled away. She brushed a tear from her cheek.
“You’re thirsty, I bet.” She rummaged for the canteen at his bedside and
tipped it toward his mouth. He took a few painful sips of nectar.
“Ah.” He nodded his thanks. “So…are we…good?”
Hazel hiccupped a sob. “Yes. Yes, we’re good. The camp is saved.
Tarquin is dead. And you…you killed Caligula.”
“Eh.” Frank smiled weakly. “That was my pleasure.” He turned to me.
“Did I miss the cake?”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Your birthday. Yesterday.”
“Oh. I…I have to admit I completely forgot about that. And the cake.”
“So there might still be cake in our future. Good. Do you feel a year
older, at least?”
“That’s a definite yes.”
“You scared me, Frank Zhang,” Hazel said. “You broke my heart when I
thought…”
Frank’s expression turned sheepish (without him actually, you know,
turning into a sheep). “I’m sorry, Hazel. It was just…” He curled his fingers,
like he was trying to catch an elusive butterfly. “It was the only way. Ella