The Curse of Achilles (PJO AU)

The House of Hades (Part 8)

The Doors of Death, Tartarus

Getting killed by Tartarus didn't seem like much of an honor.

As Percy stared up at his dark whirlpool face, he decided he'd rather die in some less memorable way—maybe falling down the stairs, or going peacefully in his sleep at age eighty, after a nice quiet life with Annabeth. That sounded good.

It wasn't the first time Percy had faced an enemy he couldn't defeat by force. Normally, this would've been his cue to stall for time while Annabeth came up with a plan or they waited for reinforcements.

Except they had no reinforcements, and his voice wouldn't work. He couldn't even close his mouth. He was drooling as badly as he did when he slept.

Percy was dimly aware of the army of monsters swirling around him, but after their initial roar of triumph, the horde had fallen silent. Percy and Annabeth should have been ripped to pieces by now. Instead, the monsters kept their distance, waiting for Tartarus to act.

The god of the pit flexed his fingers, examining his own polished black talons. He had no expression, but he straightened his shoulders as if he were pleased.

It is good to have form, he intoned. With these hands, I can eviscerate you.

His voice sounded like a backward recording—as if the words were being sucked into the vortex of his face rather than projected. In fact, everything seemed to be drawn toward the face of this god—the dim light, the poisonous clouds, the essence of the monsters, even Percy's own fragile life force. He looked around and realized that every object on this vast plain had grown a vaporous comet's tail—all pointing toward Tartarus.

Percy knew he should say something, do something, but his instincts told him to hide, to avoid doing anything that would draw the god's attention.

Besides, what could he say? You won't get away with this!

That wasn't true. He and Annabeth had only survived this long because Tartarus was savoring his new form. He wanted the pleasure of physically ripping them to pieces. If Tartarus wished, Percy had no doubt he could devour his existence with a single thought, as easily as he'd vaporized Hyperion and Krios. Would there be any rebirth from that? Percy didn't want to find out.

Glancing at Annabeth, he saw that although the Death Mist no longer shrouded her face, she still had the complexion of a corpse.

Tartarus stood in front of them. Tartarus. The living, breathing embodiment of the pit they had been fighting to escape from ever since they got there. He was older than anything Percy had ever faced before. Percy had no idea what to do, but he had a feeling that if he crossed Tartarus, the Curse of Achilles would be as useful as a paper shield.

He'd thought he'd been scared when they first fell into Tartarus. He'd thought slowly dying from the arai's curses had terrified him. He'd thought he'd horrified himself with what he did to Akhlys and Annabeth. But this was an entirely new level of fear.

Percy did something he'd never done before. He dropped Riptide. It just fell out of his hand and hit the ground with a thud.

Tartarus hissed again—possibly laughing.

Your fear smells wonderful, said the god. I see the appeal of having a physical body with so many senses. Perhaps my beloved Gaea is right, wishing to wake from her slumber.

He stretched out his massive purple hand and might have plucked up Percy like a weed, but Bob interrupted.

"Be gone!" The Titan leveled his spear at the god. "You have no right to meddle!"