The Path Of Glory (Annabeth Chase x Male Reader)

35. The Sirens' Singing

Sitting on the deck, they watched the Hercules constellation rise in the night sky.

Y/N's eyes were heavy, and it didn't take him long to fall asleep.

He woke with a start.

Ethan was shaking him. His mouth moved, but Y/N couldn't hear any word. The only sound that came to Y/N's ears was the rush of blood in his head.

Ethan pointed at his own ear. There was an earplug in it, made out of candle wax—same thing in the other ear. It didn't—no, it did not—make him look like an idiot.

Y/N touched his ears. He felt candle wax in them, too. At least, I've not become deaf in my sleep, he thought.

When he frowned to ask why he had that in his ears, Ethan pointed at the foremast.

Annabeth was there, ropes wrapped around her waist. And she strained against them. Her eyes were opened wide, and her expression was clear: She had to get out. This was life or death.

Y/N didn't understand anything till they neared the island ahead of them.

He couldn't see much of it—just mist and rocks—but floating in the water were pieces of wood and fiberglass, the wreckage of old ships, even some flotation cushions from airplanes. However, he felt voices vibrating in the timbers of the ship, pulsing along with the roar of blood in his ears. He got it at once; the Sirens' voices, like in the Odyssey. Annabeth was listening to them!

He glanced at Percy, who held the rudder and closed his eyes, apparently trying hard not to look at Annabeth and be tempted to cut her free.

"No!" Ethan's yell had been a whisper in Y/N's ears, and he turned to see what was the problem. He yelled too.

A heap of cut ropes lay beneath an empty foremast, Annabeth's bronze knife next to it. But that wasn't the worst.

Annabeth stood next to the rail, ready to climb over it.

Who's the bloody idiot who forgot to disarm her? Y/N cursed in his head.

He jumped up and rushed forward. Wind rose and pushed him from behind. For a second, it was so strong his feet got off the ground.

He arrived at Annabeth's level just as she jumped overboard. He reached out and caught her ankle.

For a fraction of a second he thought he could stop her, holding with his free hand to the rail. But her momentum pulled him with her, and he went overboard.

He'd never had any swimming lesson at Champlain, and he had no idea what to do right now.

Currents tossed him back and forth, up and down, and he waved his arms and legs madly, trying to keep his head above the surface.

His throat burned as water rushed in.

He dove under the wrecked hull of a yacht, wove through a collection of floating metal balls on chains—mines, he'd realized later. He had to hold his breath like never before to keep from drowning.

He didn't know how, but he found himself in a half-moon-shaped bay. He peered through the water to find something steady to put his feet on. The water was choked with more rocks and ship wreckage and floating mines. Then he saw it; the beach was black volcanic sand.

Annabeth was there, too.

Luckily or unluckily, she was a strong swimmer. She had made it past the mines and the rocks. She was almost to the black beach.

Then the mist cleared and he saw them—the Sirens.

To know what they looked like you should imagine a flock of vultures the size of people—with dirty black plumage, gray talons, and wrinkled pink necks. On top of those necks, human heads, but human heads that keep changing.