capsize
chapter forty-four | til death do us part
He shouldn’t have left. He knew that, terribly.
The second he left the hotel and met with Grover—who, by the way, chewed anxiously on bits of expensive furniture—all he could think of was leaving his best friend behind. And he felt terrible about it. The desire to seek out his mom grew by the minute, for advice, for safety, to make sure she was okay what with the whole city being on sleep lockdown, but each and every way he turned, somebody else needed his attention, his opinion, his action. There was no time for anything else, anybody else, and that included the sick and dying. That included his best friend, laying in a random lobby fighting for her life.
“I’ve mobilised the majority of the nature spirits,” explained Grover, adjusting his jacket, talking through a mouthful of material. Percy nodded his head as Grover talked, but he couldn’t offer him all of his attention, looking off to the side. “The ones that’ll listen to me, anyway… I had no idea it would be so difficult to convince people that we shouldn’t all let the world burn to the ground. But, anyway, we’re doing what we can.”
‘Doing what we can’ wasn’t what Percy wanted to hear. He wanted somebody to tell him ‘we’ve got it covered, man, go take a break’. ‘Doing what we can’ didn’t cut it. He held himself back relatively well, in his humble, irritated opinion “Thanks, man.” Grover nodded, his doe eyes shiny and tired, and pressed his hand to Percy’s shoulder. “You’re holding up okay, too?” Percy asked, just so nobody could say he wasn’t thinking of anyone else. Which he most certainly was doing.
“We’ve got dryads, wood nymphs, as many satyrs as we could gather, all uptown. It’s holding, but I don’t know for how much longer. We just need more. More everything. More everyone.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it. Besides the young ages of some of the campers, and their varying abilities, without the Ares cabin, without any stronger beings on their side, it wasn’t looking amazing. Everyone had reached the metaphorical half-mast. Nobody was high enough to see what was coming for them. There weren’t enough shoulders to stand on. Too many campers had been decommissioned through injury or fear, unable to spring back into fight at the push of a button.
Broken concrete crunched underfoot from the street corner. Both he and Grover tensed, only calmed once Thalia Grace made herself known, emerging from the shadows with another girl at her side. Their silver coats had been torn up and burnt in odd places: elbows, backs. Their bows remained intact, as did the fierce expressions they wore on their faces.
“Any news?” Percy directed to Thalia. “Good news?”
“We’ve shut off the subway tunnels into Manhattan. I made sure the best Hunters got to it, so, uh, it’s done properly. Um, and Kronos’s attacks are getting slower, we think it’s so he can get used to his new form, as in, Luke. It’s taking up a lot of his power to keep slowing time around the city. Typhon’s destroyed the Ohio River Valley approximately…” Thalia checked her wristwatch, “a half-hour ago. I know if Athena and Artemis could be here, they would be. But Zeus won’t let them leave his side.”
Nodding his head, Percy closed his eyes. “So, we’ve got, like, two days at best before they all show their faces.” He almost heard your voice, right next to his ear, whispering but we can’t fight for two more days!
“Kronos forced his teams to change positions whenever we moved,” Thalia rehashed. “When you guys approached the bridge, so did he. It’s not…normal. It—gah, I can’t think!”
Grover rubbed his forehead. “Like he knows where we are at all times.”
Thalia nodded grimly. “Exactly that.”
His feet were beginning to ache, and he was pretty sure a hole had burnt through the rubber sole, so not only were his feet aching, but one was wet from the burst water mains that went up with the explosions. This wasn’t time for giving up—you, or Fate, or both, had got him here. This was his second chance to keep going for the greater good, and given your current state, he, Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon in an atrocious situation, wasn’t going to waste it.
“Inside information. That’s how he knows,” he clicks his fingers. “I—we—B and I, we called it a few days ago. He’s got a spy on our side, someone who’s been in camp with us this whole time. It has to be the only right guess. Otherwise how else is he finding things out?”
“But it could be anyone,” said Grover. He cast a nervous gaze around the group. “Majority of the people here were around when you gave the orders. They must have a communication device on them, to contact Luke.” Thalia’s fierce face flashed red. Grover gulped. “Kronos. Sorry.”
“But what is there to do? Frisk everybody here from camp to see if they have anything worthy of being a communication thingy? We don’t have time for that. At all.”
He was sick of being the leader. He was sick of being in this whole situation. Grover and Thalia stared at him for an answer, and he, Percy Jackson, the child of the prophecy, hadn’t any idea of what to say that could ease their worries. Percy didn’t want to be the leader, having to explain and reason with a dozen people around the clock. He needed you, you who knew his actions and his movements and where to go next. Neither you nor he had to ask, you just did things together and they worked. But now you were lying in a hotel lobby, hopped on sedatives and fighting for your life. He desperately required an equal, except that equal was out of action for the time being.
Percy took a shaky breath in, properly filling his lungs up. “Okay, well just keep fighting. We can obsess over this and get suspicious of each other. That’ll only cause more unrest. You guys are doing great, you’ve been amazing—so let’s just set up a rotation for the rest of the night. We all need to rest while we can.”
“You, too,” Thalia threw out her sword at him. It just missed his throat. “We’ll keep an eye on things ‘round here. You rest for a while. Go check on…your girl,” she teased.
He could’ve told her to shut up. “How’d you know about her being hurt?”
Thalia raised her eyebrows. “News travels around about a girl at Percy Jackson’s side who took a brutal knife wound for him? Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out, you total airhead. Now, rest.”
He tries. Really, he does. The earth isn’t forgiving and neither is his mind. Percy tries to rest, and by that he means he sat for two seconds and decided he couldn’t sit around doesn’t nothing. And after a meeting with a giant, a long, drawn-out meeting which consisted of:
Prometheus: “Kronos will attack tonight. You will be forced to retreat to the Empire State Building, and it is there that you will be forced to surrender.”
And, Percy: “I won’t let that happen.”
It is your sacrifice that keeps him going. Percy replays over and over again until the image is burned in his long-term memory the vision of your wound gushing that ruby liquid that never seemed to stop, your painful cries as Will tried to help. Those images kept him going; your offering was not going to be for nothing.
“Don’t forget you are refighting the Trojan War, here,” explained Prometheus shortly before his departure. “History repeats itself. Patterns emerge. I hope you paid attention in school,” he winked, wickedly.
When things got ugly—which they did, quite soon after the surprise meeting with the loser who decided to put an even bigger downer on their night—it was beyond the most difficult thing he’d ever had to face thus far in his short life. They gave it their best, honestly they all tried their hardest. But the more people who became injured, the less faith Percy had in their cause. They were short two people—you, whom nobody had said anything about to him since he’d left your side, so could only pray you were doing alright. And Annabeth, who apparently didn’t want to leave you, her sister’s, side. He chose to look at it as an act of sisterly devotion, and not a bad sign.
The saving grace came in the form of the centaurs. While Chiron had previously refused to engage in fighting, he must have changed his mind at the thought of everyone getting in on the action without him. They came, they fought, and they saved. Without their backup at the perfect time, Percy knew they’d have been done for, entirely, totally, for the rest of time. Everything was steady for a while longer. They were gaining and holding on to the upper hand! The Athena cabin was cheering, somebody even yelled your name as they brutally ended a monster’s life; spark and flint.
He almost felt better about the situation.
Until he stupidly brought up you.
A break in the fighting provided ample opportunity for Percy to see how you were getting on. He mentioned this in passing to Connor Stoll, walking back to the hotel he sort of remembered you to be at. He’d have continued his silent journey in steady pace, if not for the look on Connor’s face. He paled, and his mouth drooped sadly. Shuffling on his feet, uncomfortably, Connor cleared his throat, looking down.
“Oh…” he hushed. “We didn’t want to tell you until it was all over.”
For the first time in his life, Percy understood what it meant when the elders would say somebody walked across their grave. Goosebumps raised over his exposed arms, skin cold, missing his coat. You still wore his jacket he passed over what felt like hours ago. A chill ran through his veins, his bones, his organs and skin, as if his soul tried its hardest to exit his body and prevent the injury that Connor’s news would inflict on the tired, wispy soul sobbing inside. He wished he could turn back time, to a moment before he heard those damn words leave Connor’s throat.
The other boy shook his head sorrowfully, parting his dry lips. His shoulders slumped. “Percy, I’m so sorry. She passed not too long ago. Annabeth is with her.”
Percy didn’t understand death. There were criminals and monsters out there in the world right this very minute trying to sway the beings that were into becoming vile creatures themselves, and yet, it was innocent souls suffering and losing. This wasn’t okay! It didn’t feel real. There was much too much life and spirit inside of you, that couldn’t just go away. He failed to recall how he got to you, later. Percy crashed through the hotel’s front doors, and witnessed that sad scene. Annabeth knelt at your side. She didn’t talk, or raise her head from the curled over position she sat in, face pressed into her arms. Rather, your sister shook her head wordlessly, as if she could just sense it was him.
No, it wasn’t right. This was never going to be okay. This shouldn’t have happened. Not at your age.
Percy didn’t have the guts to uncover you, to look at your ashen face one last time. He couldn’t undo the blanket Annabeth draped over your motionless body. And gods that felt so wrong to think. You would have, if it was the other way around. You’d have pulled back the blanket and started talking to him as if he were still there. Personally, Percy didn’t have it in him the way you did. You were the courageous one, not him—no, he was about to puke. He had been separated from you for a half hour. That was all. When did you go? Was it painful? Did you say anything? There were too many questions in his mind, all jumbling together, a whirlpool of sodden, sorry words.
He knew then and there that it couldn’t wait. No chance would he let your body lay in wait for the next few days. He was ending this tonight. Now.
You open your eyes, face-to-face with Bobby Early’s birthday poster.
It’s on the ceiling. It’s on the walls. It’s right in front of you, your cheek pressed against a sticky, mahogany tabletop that smells of booze and peanuts. You fling yourself to sit up, coughing. Music you’re unable to make out blasts over the tinny speakers, and hot air circulates via the ceiling fans above on the ceiling of this dingy, dark place. Neon lights flicker on the restroom doors, flies fluttering around them, faded wood where hands rubbed away the surface paint over the years. To your left, a group of workers in high-visibility jackets, smashing bottles together in cheers. To your right, slot machines against the black walls, accompanied by a very familiar man in tropical shorts and a mismatched top.
"Damn you, Pac-Man! Level seven-hundred is supposed to be easy!"
"Who told you that?" slips from your tongue before you can stop it. Your hand flies to your mouth, slapping it shut. Your fingers tingle as if they've gone dead, laid on for too long as you slept, perhaps.
Mr.D, the legendary, drunken Dionysus, turns the way a gameshow host does, like he's about to announce you're the winner of a godforsaken game. You find it a little creepy, admittedly, shrinking back in the wooden-spined chair. Dionysus waves around a can of cola, splashing it all over your table. The sticky soda corrupts your shirt, even more than the tabletop did.
"Good, you're awake!" he proclaims, pulling out the chair opposite, collapsing heavily. "Where is your mother? Hm?"
Shaking your head, you avert your gaze from the pudgy, red-cheeked man. When you look back, he hasn't turned away. "How am I supposed to know? I think I just died back there,” you jab your thumb over your shoulder. “But I’m here with you?” You stress the line between your brows.
Dionysus chuckles. Just once. Like laughter is costly. He doesn't smile. "Your mother brought you here. She's keeping you as far from Hades as spiritually possible, although knowing that old codger, he'll see the numbers aren't adding up soon enough."
Your body freezes up, so you roll your shoulders back, to rid the ache from your bones. "Spiritually? I'm not here physically?"
He claps sardonically. "Well done, little girl! No. Your body is resting in Percy Jackson's arms as we speak. This party has been going on for so long, I've been here all night! You came out of nowhere. But, Bobby Earl and his friends know how to celebrate, I'll tell you that for free. Anyway, yes, your soul died, your body hasn’t, not yet., and all that jazz. The son of Nemesis killed you. Bad luck. Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to catch a falling knife?”
Your memories are a little murky. Blinking at the table, focusing on the dirty beer mats, you can’t help but bring on a headache. Slowly, things start to clear up. “I stepped in front of Percy. I was stabbed instead of him.” You swallow the hard ball in your throat. Folding your arms, clasping your fingers around your elbows, you settle into the chair and look away from him. It's hard to take in. It hurts as it goes down. "So that's it?" your throat tightens. "I'm stuck here like this forever?!"
Dionysus scoffs and rolls his eyes, letting go of his empty can. "Goodness—you young ones really are so dramatic. The boy is reasoning with the gods, right this second. Your body is...frozen, so to speak. It hasn't decomposed. Yet. Not if he's quick with what it is he is trying to do."
You sniffle and wipe your nose with your sleeve, unable to look up. “Stop being so cryptic. Spell it out for me if you have to. What did my mom do? Why has she sent me here, with you?"
“You prayed to your mother. You died. She grabbed your soul before the old man could and sent it far away, here, to Bobby Earl's birthday party! Lucky you! The fighting is over. Peace talks are underway. And Percy Jackson is using you as a fine example of good people taken too early. He wants you back safe and sound. Apollo's boy is talking about Lazarus Syndrome."
"Lazarus syndrome? What?"
He throws his head back and groans, making you jump. "It is also known as apparent death, or suspended animation. The body appears dead, no breathing, no pulse. Suspended animation refers to, get this, all of your biological functions slowing so drastically you look dead, but they do not totally stop functioning. You look dead, physically, but you're very much alive. Think of this as a special case of half-blood Lazarus-slash-suspended-syndrome. Your soul passed on to a half-way house.”
"Creative."
"Isn't it just." He drags out the S and pops the T. "Now, are you ready?"
Behind you, at the bar, Bobby Early is saying thank you to everybody, clapping hands with the men.
“For what?”
Dionysus leans forward, and spins the cola can in one mean go. It leaves scratches on the table. "She wants you to recreate a story. Your, favourite love story. Not for fun, but I guess it does put a unique spin on things.”
Your stomach drops like a coaster dipping. Of course, everybody knows who they were. They were famous before fame was a thing. "He went after her," you say thickly, "Orpheus took Eurydice home from the Underworld, except he couldn't look at her. If he turned back, she'd go back."
"Bingo! Everybody, we have a winner!" he cackles. Suddenly, Dionysus straightens up, as much as a fat man is able, and takes his cola can, popping it into place as well as can be. With the snap of his fingers, the can is overflowing with cola, a fountain spilling into the sticky carpet. He throws his head back to the maintenance door behind him, beside the restroom door.
“Through there. I'd hurry, if I were you. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
He doesn’t have to say it twice. “Percy’s through there?” You jump into action.
Dionysus leans forward. He grins. “Run, before Hades catches you!”
You’re unsure if it’s the anxious state you’re stuck in or if it’s him acting calmer than he typically does, but everything feels particularly off-kilter and increasingly wicked the closer you walk to the black door and further away from the table. Dionysus’s laughter turns more manic, the beer glasses raised in cheers sound more like alarm bells than alcohol; everything is amplified to the point you can hear your shoes sticking to the carpet with every step. The room stinks of beer getting stronger in scent. The world begins to tilt, until you feel like Alice slipping through the rabbit hole. Shoving through the door, heaving against the heavy wood, shoes slipping on the grip-less carpet, you fall into the nothingness.
And nothingness it is. The floor disappears beneath your feet. You’ve jumped off a cliff’s edge in the dark, and everything around you disappears too. All you can see is the light streaming beneath the door way up high above as you fall, fall, fall, down the rabbit hole, screaming. Inside, your organs flip, doing summersaults, up and down, dragged this way and that by gravity in this lawless universe. Clenching your fists, squeezing your eyes shut tight, you try to believe that if you’re able to make yourself fall asleep here, you’ll wake up safe and sound in your bunk at camp, under the window where the sunlight wakes you up every morning with a dash of yellow warmth on your face.
This is a nightmare. It has to be. You’re in a terrible dream and you’ll wake up soon. You keep thinking you’ll wake up when you hit the ground, but when you do, the darkness remains. Slowly, so slowly, you force your eyes open, but much to your horror, you can’t see a damn thing. Nothing at all.
Since you’re only here spiritually, hitting the ground doesn’t hurt. In fact, nothing does, now that you think about it. Your stab wounds don’t kill, your chest doesn’t hurt when you brush your fingers over the area, and you don’t feel tired or worn in like you did before, walking to that hotel where your physical body gave in. No, there isn’t an ounce of pain that cripples you when you make contact with the ground, this cold, rough floor, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t make a sound. Slowly, you sit up, trying to find your bearings in the darkness, gently sliding your palms along the floor. It’s littered in tiny stones that catch between your fingers, clinking away like marbles. You always thought death would be calm, peaceful, considering the body no longer experiences pain. You’ve got one part correct, but the rest is wrong. What feels like icy water begins to fill in your stomach, rising to your chest, where your heart takes it in. A sudden surge of terror grabs you by the throat, cutting off all messages to the brain except for one: panic. Your fingertips begin to tingle, and your throat starts to close up. You slide your hands up to your throat, choking. You’re dying for real now, convinced this is the end. Whatever Percy tried has turned sour and now you’re being left here to die properly, alone and scared. Your breaths begin to come in short pants. It’s like your body has been hijacked by some unknown enemy, taken over by an unknown force. It’s consumed everything except for a small sliver of your brain, which cries for you to gain control, an internal alarm that won’t shut up.
“It’s okay,” you tell yourself shakily. You feel as though you’re going to vomit. The tears freefall. You’re glad there’s nobody here to see them. “It’ll be over soon…” you whisper it over and over again. Your hands feel hot, tingling, a gentle swirling over your palms. You keep mumbling to yourself until you can no longer, like your bodily functions are caving in. You can’t continue talking, and you’re glad. It means you’re able to hear the rough voice of a boy.
“You’re going to be fine,” he boy mutters slowly. “It’ll be over soon.” His voice rolls from his throat and off his tongue like honey, a balm to your terrified psyche. It’s the type of medication you need in the moment to totally chill you out. It quells the anxiety you had never quite gotten the hang of handling by yourself.
Sniffling, you try your hardest to hone in on the voice. “Percy? Percy, is that you?” Please, tell me it’s you.
“I’m here,” his voice shakes. He swallows a sob half-escaped. “Right here. You’ve got it. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t…you can’t look at me.”
That’s the very thing you want to do! Being told you can’t do something only makes stronger the temptation to act on that thing. It makes you wonder is this really Percy? Although what are your options? Stay here and sob, or take a risk?
You whisper, “Why not?”
He swallows. You hear the sound. “That was part of the deal. You come home, if you do it blindly. I don’t want you to see where we are. It’s a temptation trip. Selfish, I know, but I want you to come home. I want you home so badly. We did it. We won. You did so good.”
You trust Percy with your life and always have done so. What makes this any different? So, you nod your head, then realising he can’t see in this darkness, you clear your clogged throat and say through thick tears, “Okay. Take me home.”
A relieved sigh escapes him. Suddenly your hands feel cool, air hitting your sweaty palms, and you know then that they felt so warm because Percy was holding them. He’d been with you almost the whole time in this endless abyss. “There’s just one rule.” Something rustles. “I had to agree to it. Part of the deal with Zeus and Hades. Your mom is in a lot of trouble with them for hiding your soul from the Afterlife.”
“She saved me. I didn’t think she would. I had no faith in her,” you admit, and then hope she can’t hear you. It prompts Percy to settle his hand on your shoulder, a heavy warm touch meant to reassure you.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he pleads desperately. “If you open them, you have to stay. A test of your faith in me. That is the deal. You laid your life down for me, so I have to prove I’m worthy of that. Your mother’s rules.”
Fury strikes through the dwindling anxiety. “She wants me to suffer?”
“No,” he sighs. “She wants me to. Athena says this is my fault. My actions killed you.” All you hear is shuffling, where you sit on your knees, feet underneath. “Does it hurt? Where you were hit? I can’t look at you. My eyes are closed for now. We’ll go slow, I don’t want to make it worse.”
Now, this is confusing. You frown. “Hurt? No, it doesn’t hurt at all. Wait—looks painful? It’s pitch black in here, Percy. How can you see me?”
Silence settles between you. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I’m just—confused. But you’re not in pain?”
You shake your head. “Not a bit.”
“Okay,” Percy clears his throat, behind you, slipping his hand under your right armpit, taking your left hand in his left so he’s supporting you. It doesn’t make sense, because you don’t hurt at all. “Let’s go.”
You sniffle. “Where are we going? I can hear, like, stones.” Percy lets go of you to hold your hand, carefully picking your hand up, fingers wrapping around your own, soft skin against your cold own, pulling you along. Remnants of your panic attack slosh in your stomach. Or is this what they mean when they say it’s butterflies?
You cough. It echoes. “Is it far?”
Your friend sounds unsure. He hesitates. “No! No, it’s, uhm, just up there.”
Unimpressed, you huff. “Don’t lie to me, Percy Jackson.”
“It’s not far. Not really.”
“Then why do you sound so…?”
“Damn,” he laughs, but it doesn’t sound right. Almost wet, and throaty, like he’s been crying. “You’re still so persistent even in death.”
The words are jarring. Even so, you don’t want to let him down. You shrug your shoulders. Something pops in the left one. “Can’t keep a good woman down.”
For a little while now, neither of you talk. Not about your final moments, or what might have happened after you sorta-died. Is Percy avoiding it, for fear of making you uncomfortable, or upsetting you further now you’ve calmed down? Or are you avoiding bringing it up because he is doing the same thing? If you bring it up, it makes this experience all the more terrifying? Growing up, you’d always imagined death to be a destination full of warmth, where you could meet your lost family members, reunite with them, forever and always together again, never to be separated. But finding out about your true heritage, your real self, brought to light at the hands and direction of the boy pulling you along up this hill blindly, stumbling on slippery rocks, falling to your knees time and time again, proved all your former beliefs wrong. You are inexplicably horrified at the thought of dying again, because what if this is it? What if, next time, there is nobody there to greet you?
Percy calls your name. “You okay? I’ve been talking but you haven’t…it’s like you’re not here. No pressure, or anything! I don’t expect you to be super upbeat after…oh just forget I said anything—”
You hadn’t even heard him. Clearing your throat, nodding, you confirm you’re alright. “Sorry. I got, uh, a little lost in my own head.” Nothing new there. “Are you doing okay?“
“I’m good!” He squeaks. “I’m fine. Really glad to be here. Just happy I can hold your hand again.” Your stomach swoops. A smile breaks out, coy, glad it can’t be seen. “Your sister covered you over, after I told the gods what happened, so I couldn’t hold you anymore. Your mom wanted to see your body. It won them over.”
You’re confused for a second or so. “What happened after I passed? Did we win? Oh—what happened to Luke?! Annabeth, Grover? God, even Thalia? Is everyone okay? Damn, I didn’t even think!”
“We won,” he answers, voice a little tougher than before. “I’ll tell you later what happened properly, fully. But we won. We made a deal with the gods that they try to acknowledge their children, and claim them, so every half-blood has a home. I figured you’d be happy with that, considering your own home life. I think we—I mean, Annabeth, and well, me—I think we made the new declarations with you still in mind. Pretty hard to ignore you, really, I couldn’t let you go until your mother made me.”
It’s a lot to unpack. But he’s got the important parts down pat, delivered to you clearly. Kronos lost. The Olympians won, somehow. And they’ve made a deal to be better. It’s more than you could have ever dreamed of; the gods agreeing to better the world they made so unbearable for so many.
Your heart feels whole, full of warmth. You smile so wide it hurts, so you cover your mouth with your hand. “There are going to be so many children who feel like they belong, because of you, Percy Jackson.”
He stops short, stones falling down the hill, echoing sharply. “It wasn’t me. Don’t you see?”
“If I could see you right now, I’d pull a face.”
Percy laughs a little. It’s not as sad it was earlier, when he first found you. It warms a little bit of sun in your stomach to experience something so familiar. “I know. Come on, not much further, I shouldn’t think.”
“What do you mean? You don’t—don’t you know where we’re going?”
He chokes on nothing. Panic. “No, of course I know where we’re going!”
“Percy.”
“Fine! I can’t see either. The ultimate test of your faith in me.”
“So we’re getting home with the help of, what? Touch?” You begin to panic.
“Close!” His voice tightens. “Gut feeling!”
“Gods! This is one big joke to them isn’t it.” You cry out. “Okay. Don’t panic. Let’s just…trust your gut, yeah?”
He squeezes your hand firmly, pulling you along as he trails ahead. “We’ve got this. It’s all uphill from here, right?”
Being blinded in the darkness impairs your sense of time. Either that, or you’re still shook up from Luke’s time job on the city. But for some reason, though Percy swears it’s not much further, you’re beginning to grow tired. Your knees feel weak, your calves numb. This part of the hike has the sensation not dissimilar to hiking uphill, a very steep one.
“My feet hurt,” you complain, ducking your head, huffing. In your stomach a fire is lit, just beginning to smoulder.
“Not so far to go,” Percy promises. “I can tell we’re nearly home.”
A few minutes later, the pain begins to bloom elsewhere. The hill feels harder to climb, but you’re managing, slower than before, regardless, but still making it. Just about. Rubbing your free hand across your stomach, your other squeezes Percy’s, and you can’t help pulling on him for support. “It’s starting to hurt. Are we nearly there?“
Percy hums quietly. He pants with exertion. “Gotta be.”
It worsens the further you go. What starts out as a burning sensation, growing across and into your stomach, wrapping around to the back, turns sharp and stabby, where you know there’s an injury crying out for attention. Which means, just like he said, you’re getting closer to home. Closer to your physical body.
You’re slowing down. Percy tugs impatiently on your hand. “You can’t stop,” he orders. “You can do this. Trust me.”
“I’ve been trusting you!” Snapping, you raise your hand to rip your fingers out of his. Percy practically pounces at you, snagging you by the upper arm. Together, you slide blindly backwards just a touch. The sudden movements send stones clattering down the hill. They land at the bottom with a pop that doesn’t sound anything like the stones from earlier. “Is that—is that water?”
Percy responds tightly and pulls on your arm. “Yes. We’re running out of time. Don’t let go of me, okay? You can do this. I believe in you.” He snags your wrist between his fingers in a crushing grip. He’s never hurt you so badly before, and up here, things feel so real, so sharp. So emotional. Tears spring to your eyes.
Your chin ducks to your chest. “Glad someone does.”
He hauls you now with a strength you never knew Percy held. It is the will of a boy who refuses to give up. Growing weaker the further you go, your free hand sneaks up around Percy’s forearm, the one that holds your hand, for dear life.
There’s a sound in the silence, dancing between the stones and footfall, and Percy’s panting. It’s a beautiful sound you hadn’t even noticed was missing.
The sound of your own breathing.
“Percy,” you gasp shallowly. “We could be going the entirely wrong way right now. This could all be for nothing! I can’t do this. It hurts too badly. We have to stop.”
He doesn’t say anything or do anything but breathe raggedly, violently so. You’re going insane in the nothingness, anxious, angry, and tired. With every inhale the lungs fighting inside cry out for relief from this never-ending climb. Your legs finally give in, falling to the stones scratching the sensitive skin of your knees. Everything hurts beyond belief.
Percy snaps at you. “Get up!” Anger and desperation line his throat.
You loosen your hands around his arm, shaking your head. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sob. “I can’t.”
“This isn’t the time to give up!” He leans down blindly and scratches your wrists, ripping you from the stones with vigour. “Get. Up.”
“Just leave me!” You yell broadly. “I don’t want to anymore. It hurts too much, Percy, just leave me!”
Bones jostling with such ferocity when Percy pulls you to your feet, there is little choice at hand but to be yanked along with him. Something warm begins to flood your middle, and the darkness surrounding you both starts to lighten. In the distance, tiny white lights blink, sparkling, like stars greeting you after a hard days night. For a second, the sight is a balm to your bruised mind. It’s beautiful. There are more the further you walk, almost climbing at this point. Percy is relentless, both hands around your arms, bruising grip far from forgiving.
Just when the pain is beginning to overwhelm you, blinding the stars out again, you take one more step, and slip right off the edge into nothing.
There is no relief. No comfort in what comes next.
The stars brighten and lighten until it is a blinding light and not a blinded darkness. You fall and fall in the long abyss until your body collides with the ground, and this time, it is accompanied by an unbearable shock. Winded, you lay on the cold concrete alone, teary-eyed, unable to move. Where is Percy, you wonder. Where did he go? What happened to him? Did he really leave you behind? Blinking, the light too bright for your tired eyes, noise suddenly scares your nervous system. And then you’re home.
Your eyes open uncontrollably, burning, greeted by the sight of a dark-haired figure directly above, whose warm, salty tears drip on your dry lips. He sobs violently.
“Percy.” You whisper brokenly through a sore throat.
The ceiling high above the two of you in this cold and empty room depicts many things. Silver stars, midnight-blue banners, cherubs with pink-gold wings in peaceful slumber. And, right in the middle, a girl and a boy, connected by their joined hands, in sorrowful embrace. You can’t help thinking the girl resembles yourself. The boy’s laurel crown is tilted on his soft set of black waves. The girl smiles coyly.
He smiles through his tears, this boy in real life above you, laughing softly with glee. Percy leans forward, the skin around his eyes dotted pink with sadness, and presses his forehead to yours. He’s warm like he has a fever, or maybe you’re just freezing?
“You’re here,” he croaks. You rest in the crook of his arm. “Thank you. I’m so proud of you.”
He is the first ever person to say so, and mean it.
“You need a blood transfusion,” he whispers. You can’t help laughing weakly at the humanness of the simple sentence. Percy huffs, smiling, into your hair. “And a bath. You’re so sweaty.”
You could never comprehend how he had the strength to pick you up after all that happened that night. But he did.
Percy Jackson got to his feet and carried you far from the room with the stars, the girl and the boy.
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