Hi! My name is Marian--like Maid Marian or Marian the Librarian from the Music Man. Welcome to my space on the internet. This blog is about books, fandoms, and, above all else, bettering my writing skills. At least once a week, I will upload some story--anything from a personal chapter of one of my stories to a fanfiction oneshot. I hope you enjoy! *Name still under construction*
My take on An Oath to Keep with a Final Breath and Percy and Annabeth's last day together before the events of The Lost Hero. Written for Viria because her blog gave me the idea.
Annabeth should have known better than to play games. She should have known that sitting in the woods alone with Percy, waiting for a monster to cross their paths was beyond stupid, but there they were, waiting for something to fight. Well, at least they had been for the first thirty minutes.
“So, two truths and a lie?” Annabeth asked.
“We could play spin the bottle, but we didn’t bring a bottle,” Percy said.
“And there are only two of us,” Annabeth responded.
“I like those odds,” Percy quipped. He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and Annabeth punched him on the shoulder. They had been dating for three months now, and for some reason it seemed like a good idea to fight something together. They hadn’t fought a monster together since Cacus, but tonight the forest was mysteriously empty.
“I’ll go first,” Annabeth volunteered, “I despise spiders; my middle name is George; tomorrow is my birthday.”
“Your middle name is George?” Percy asked, laughing.
“Do you think that’s the lie?” an enigmatic smile twisted her lips.
“No, I just can’t believe that the goddess of wisdom would middle name her beautiful daughter after Hermes’ snake.”
“Does that mean you didn’t buy me a birthday gift?” Annabeth pretended to pout.
“Well, no, since your birthday isn’t for another six months,” Percy pointed out, “Now, back to your reptilian middle name…”
“It is not reptilian,” Annabeth said, “I was named after the author George Eliot.”
“Mmm,” Percy said, “So, the goddess of wisdom named her beautiful, dyslexic daughter after some old writer dude?”
“If by old writer dude, you mean forefront of the feminist movement during the 19th century, then, yes, she did. Are you just trying to get monsters sent at you?” Annabeth asked, casting a glance at the sky.
“Well, that is the whole purpose of us coming out here, right?” Percy asked, “To kick some monster butt?”
“Yes, and making Athena mad is a great way to end up a monster yourself, not incite a monster fight,” Annabeth pointed out, “She tends to turn people into things, not sick giant boars on them.”
“Aww, so I should make Artemis angry then,” Percy said.
“Or you could just take your turn,” Annabeth suggested.
“Fine, I like to piss off the gods, I have been dating the ugliest demigod for the last few months, My girlfriend, the lovely Annabeth Chase, is going to make out with me,” Percy stated. Annabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Are you attempting to trap me?” Annabeth asked.
“I believe I already have.”
“Well, I guess I have no choice—but this won’t work again,” Annabeth warned him, leaning forward. Their lips had barely touched when a low growl interrupted them.
“Not now,” Percy mumbled, but they broke apart and turned to face the hell hound. Percy cursed at the ground in Ancient Greek. “Hades! I didn’t even offend you tonight!”
“Maybe he felt left out,” Annabeth responded as she aimed a short blow at the hell hound. Percy joins to her left, uncapping riptide, and slicing at the hound’s legs. The rest of the night passed in a flurry of slashes and strikes, both from the two of them and from the monsters. The first hell hound was followed by draconae, harpies, a few vultures with what looked like liver on their beaks, and a pack of hell hounds.
Eventually, they stumbled out of the forest, Percy supporting Annabeth as they made their way to Cabin 3. “I don’t know what was up Hades’s butt tonight,” Percy muttered.
“You wanted monsters,” Annabeth pointed out. Both of their shirts were tattered. Annabeth was scraped up, but none of the cuts were serious. That ankle though…she would need ambrosia for that.
Annabeth leaned against the wall as Percy opened his cabin door. The salty scent of sea water rushed over Annabeth as Percy helped her hobble inside.
He dashed to his bedside table, after sitting Annabeth on his bed, and grabbed out a square of ambrosia from the drawer. Annabeth took it from him and finished it in a few small bites. The warmth spread through her; she could feel cuts begin to knit together and the pain in her ankle subsided to a dull throb.
Percy climbed beside her onto his bed, “Better?” Annabeth nodded. She could already see the adrenalin leaving Percy’s form. He needed his post-battle crash. She would need to leave soon—but she didn’t want to…
“You know, Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth said, “I wouldn’t want anyone calling me the ugliest demigod.” Percy smiled.
“Well, you know what you can do to stop that.” They leaned forward again, and for a moment they kept the empty space between them even as they kissed. That quickly changed. Percy had one hand on Annabeth’s back and the other tangled in her curls. Annabeth’s were both in his short hair. She loved the feeling of his hair, slightly coarse yet soft—it was a contradiction. As they kissed, she slowly moved her hands down from his hair to his back. He groaned; she moved her hands up his shirt to hold him at the center of his back; he groaned again...and retreated?
They broke apart, and Annabeth noticed the pained look on Percy’s face and felt the wetness on her hands. She looked down and saw splatters of blood on her palms. “Perseus Jackson, what have you done?”
“I—uh—mm,” he muttered. His eyes looked disoriented. Panic welled in the pit of Annabeth’s stomach. She forced it down. She had to keep her head.
“Turn around,” Annabeth commanded.
“Wha—why?” he sounded tired, his posture sagging.
“Just do it now,” Annabeth’s voice sounded too high in her ears. Percy turned, and Annabeth raised his shirt. At the middle of his back was a small gash that was oozing far too much blood. Annabeth took in a shallow breath and blinked quickly to hold back a few tears. Strong, stay strong. She tore a small section of shirt off and pressed it to his back. “Hold that in place,” she said, grabbing his hand and placing it against the cloth.
Annabeth peeled herself off the bed and hurriedly pulled open the drawer of the night stand. An ancient Greek curse rose to her lips, and she slammed back the drawer in despair. All that had been inside was an empty plastic bag. “Where is the ambrosia?” Annabeth asked, her voice wavering.
“I gave you the last piece,” Percy replied. He was resting his head against the wall. His eyes were closed. “Why?” He was extremely out of it, and his skin looked a shade paler than usual. Annabeth bit her bottom lip and walked to the door.
She whirled around and pointed a threatening finger at Percy. “Keep that pressed on your back, and don’t you dare fall asleep while I am gone,” she barked. Annabeth through open the door and scrambled from his room, quickly trying to choose her best course of action. She could head to the Big House or to her cabin, but that would only lead to too many questions. She needed a cabin that would keep the questions minimal and have an easy-to-access supply of ambrosia.
Cabin seven! Annabeth made the decision with a jolt and ran towards the Apollo Cabin. Within moments, she was furiously knocking on the door, praying that at least one Apollo kid was still awake to every god she could imagine. Will Solace opened the door, groggily rubbing his eyes.
“Annabeth?” he mumbled, “What are you doing—“ His eyes snapped into focus as he took in Annabeth’s appearance: her ripped shirt, healing wounds, and terrified expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I need ambrosia,” Annabeth told him because that was all she could force out. Will said nothing, though he looked like he wanted to. He just ran in and quickly returned with a baggie of ambrosia.
“I hope he’s okay,” Will said. Annabeth nodded, sure he somehow knew her exact need for the ambrosia. Despite her curiosity, she did not ask how he did.
Annabeth ran back to Poseidon’s Cabin. Percy was lying on the bed, his eyes barely fluttering open and with an arm behind his back. “I didn’t fall to sleep,” Percy offered up this victory weakly. He looked awful.
“Good,” Annabeth said, “take this.” She passed him the ambrosia. Percy took it and ate it. Some of the color returned to his face, and he no longer looked tensed in pain, but his eye lids still drooped sleepily. “Is it still bleeding?” Percy shook his head. “Good. I’ll come back early tomorrow to check back up on you.”
Annabeth moved towards the door again but stopped when Percy spoke quietly. “I’d do it again.” His words slurred together, but Annabeth understood him.
“What?” Annabeth asked.
“If we were both dying and there was only one piece of ambrosia left, I would give it to you,” he explained. A lump hardened in Annabeth’s throat. He was delirious.
“No, Percy,” Annabeth tried to dismiss his words, “Go to sleep.”
“But I would,” he stressed.
“Go to sleep, Seaweed Brain.”
“I swear…”
“Percy, stop!” he did not seem to hear her.
“I swear on the River Styx that I would give you that piece,” Percy murmured. His eyes slid shut, and Annabeth could have killed him as the thunder crashed overhead.
“No!” she yelled at the ceiling, “That doesn’t count, that can’t count! He didn’t know what he was saying.” Annabeth received no response. No flash of lightning lit the room. No bird flew in through the window. Percy did not sit up suddenly to tell her everything was alright, that that promise would never affect their lives. Their war was over. Even if he had, Annabeth would not have believed it.
Instead, Annabeth stood and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Annabeth walked into Cabin 3 early the next morning, only to find it empty. Percy’s bed looked unslept in, despite the fact that she had seen him there not ten hours ago. Today was not an inspection day, so the sheets should have been tumbled in heaps on the ground, not sitting untouched on the bed.
Annabeth rushed to the dining pavilion. No Percy. She went to the sword-fighting arena. No Percy. She searched the climbing wall and around the Big House. No Percy. She even checked the Archery Arena. No Percy.
It took Annabeth 10 hours and two camp search parties to admit to herself that Percy was missing. Even before she found Jason, Leo, and Piper, before she knew that they were in the center of the next great prophecy, one line ran through her head:
An oath to keep with a final breath.
A/N: This has been running through my mind for over a month since an anon told the amazing artist Viria that he would give her the last piece of ambrosia. I have written it at least four different ways, and this is the one I actually liked. Hope you enjoyed.
Out there somewhere is a person whose life is dependent upon my Activity graph. His heart beat rises and falls in that pattern. I've killed him so many times.
Happy birthday to the woman whose stories ignited my mind as a child. Thank you, Joanne Rowling, for all that you have done for millions of kids and families.
“To Harry Potter and to another great year!” Ron slurred out. His cheeks were red from fire whiskey. Harry laughed, his voice hitching with a hiccup. This had become tradition. Every year on July 31st, Harry and Ron would head out alone to the Three Broomsticks at night. Hannah Longbottom would let them in through a side door and quietly usher them to a private parlor. Neville, Seamus, and Dean would all join them there—and that was the party.
Together, they would pretend to be back in Hogwarts—just five boys in their dormitory. None mentioned May 2nd or the time Seamus believed Harry was mad. Instead they sat with firewhiskey in hand and a pile of Weasley Wizard Wheezes’ candy in the center of their table.
It was a refreshing break from the Ministry packed birthday parties he felt required to throw each year, where he had to mingle with people he cared nothing for instead of with his real friends and family. His family birthday was always held the next Sunday at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley would do all of the cooking (neither Ginny nor Hermione had the touch Molly had with food). Every one of the Weasleys boys would port in with their families. Even Charlie would come in from Romania. They would eat outside with heavy charms placed around the Burrow to keep back rain.
Harry’s time at the Three Broomsticks and with his family were the most important events of his year because it reminded Harry that people existed who knew him. He had a family, despite all of the members he had lost over the last 33 years, who loved and cared about him, not the Boy who Lived or the Chosen One, but for him, Harry James Potter. Even if he had to work late every other day in the year, Harry knew he had friends who would drop by the pub with him for a drink and a family to go home to.
“Are you going to blow out the candles, Daddy?” Lily asked from his lap that Sunday. In front of Harry sat a large cake, this one masterfully shaped to look like a Quidditch pitch. He still remembered Arthur’s last cake—Molly had shaped it to look like a rubber duck.
Harry looked down at Lily’s carroty braids. She always insisted upon her hair being plaited just this way, and Harry was proud to say he was much better at her hair than Ginny was (even though neither of them could get the braids straight without the use of a wand).”But there are so many, Lils,” Harry said, “I could use your help.”
Together Harry and Lily blew out the 33 candles. Harry couldn’t wish for more than what he had now—a large family and good friends.
and that was my shoddy gift. I wrote it today, so it was roughly edited.
This is to you, the few, the valiant, the wonderful 25 who have taken the time to read some of my posts and have added me to their feeds. Thanks! That being said, I would love to get to know some of you. Send me asks. It's getting kind of lonely over here just surfing my news feed.
I was back at the Star Wars screening for the fifteenth year in a row and probably the least excited person in the room. Around me, people gallivanted towards their seats, many of them dressed in costumes that ranged from ridiculous to scarily accurate. There was this one Yoda that came every year who I wasn’t convinced was wearing a costume. None of the Hunters were with me—I never invited them—but to my left sat a late thirties couple dressed as Leia and Han. Percy insisted that he and Annabeth join me every year. He alternately said the reason why was because he was a good friend or because Annabeth wanted to find Luke just as much as I did, but I knew he really went for the films.
Being a hunter, sometimes I forgot that not everyone stood still like I did, that others grew older while I stayed stagnant. I still thought of Percy and Annabeth as teenagers. Occasionally, I still saw Annabeth as that bright-eyed, seven-year-old girl Luke and I found in an alley. Looking at them, though, it was obvious they had lived lives—the happiness and the tragedy. Annabeth was definitely a woman now and a mother. It was written in the lines around her mouth and the wear on her hands.
Percy’s hair was speckled with grey, not the grey streaks that you get from holding up the sky, but the grey that only comes from the exasperating work of raising a teenage girl. Annabeth was greying a little too, around the temples, but her grey blended with the blonde while Percy’s salt and pepper stood out.
“Popcorn?” Percy offered me the bucket. The movie had not even started yet there was already a large section of the popcorn gone.
“Nuhuh,” I shook my head, “Not now.” I had to focus on the crowd, at each passing movie goer. If Luke was here, I was not going to miss him.
“He’d be eighteen now,” Annabeth said. She was looking around lightly for Luke, taking in minute details in quick glances that even my eyes, sharpened from the hunt, missed. Neither of them really knew what to look for, what details would pass on to Luke’s reincarnated soul. Would he look like Luke—if so how much? Would he act like him? He wasn’t a demigod, at least not a claimed one, and unclaimed eighteen-year-olds were basically unheard of now. Yet I was certain that he would know. He had to be a hero like the original Jason, no blood connections to any gods but still dogged by monsters.
Two years ago, I thought I had found him. The kid looked like Luke, blonde hair, blue eyes, and the facial structure. He was not an exact duplicate, but, after sixteen years of searching, I was willing to make due on resemblance. “Look,” I had said, grabbing Annabeth’s shoulders and shaking. I had stared at this possible Luke for several minutes, trying to measure him up to my memories of Luke. The haircut was even the same. Annabeth glanced in his direction and then adamantly shook her head.
“No,” Annabeth had replied, “Definitely not him. Notice his stance, it’s too loose, and his hands—they are completely uncalloused. He’s never touched a weapon or done any level of labor.” She had just started wearing reading glasses that previous year, but apparently her far sight was perfect.
I trusted her quick judgments.
We sat in the front row of the raked seats to the far left so that everyone had to pass by us when they entered the theatre. As each group of people passed, I compared the boys who fit the age range with my memories of Luke. That kid had the right hair; the boy who came in with a large group’s eyes were the right shade of blue.
Annabeth stiffened next to me. “There,” she pointed to the non-raked rows below at a kid who was walking toward a seat. He was tall and gangly with a light saber strapped to his back, but other than that he was not costumed. I had noticed him when he entered but had dismissed him. He looked nothing like Luke, dressed nothing like him.
“Him?” Percy asked, following Annabeth’s finger. “He doesn’t exactly scream Luke Castellan.”
“Annabeth, I don’t think…” Annabeth cut me off with a glare that she aimed at both me and her husband in turn.
“Look at his light saber,” she said. It was thicker around the blade than most light sabers, and slightly glowed. “He’s concealing a magical sword in it. I would guess a celestial bronze one from the glint. His hands are calloused, and when he turned earlier I saw a scar on his face.” How had I missed that? I wondered.
“He could just be a demigod, and the scar could be a fan thing. Anakin Skywalker had a scar,” Percy rebutted.
“It’s him,” Annabeth said fiercely. I could see her as the little girl again. “The scar is on the wrong side. No one who would come to this would make that mistake.” My eyes widened slightly.
“Do you really think?” I asked the useless question. Annabeth nodded, a slight smile tugging at her lips.
“It’s him, Thalia. The way he moves, the scar…everything.” She was excited, her eyes bright. I believed her.
“I have to talk to him,” I decided just as the lights faded and the movie started.
“After this episode,” Percy said, “Or else there might be a scene.” I slumped back in my seat to watch New Hope for what felt like the millionth time and longest time.
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There you are. Part 2 is getting underway now, but it might be a bit. No later than the tenth, I promise. Hope you enjoyed.
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