𝕒𝕤𝕡í𝕕𝕒 | shield

The Beginning of the End

The world smelt like smoke.

His nostrils were filled with the scent of smoke and fire and rotting flesh. The scent of hell - of Tartarus. Percy thought he'd never again have to smell that horrid acid air, but here he was, stuck in a living hell.

Everything hurt. It was the cost of returning to the world of the living after being thrown into Tartarus and surviving its territory. His skin burned like it had in the pit, blisters and balls of puss attacked his skin, making the scars disappear beneath them. They scratched and burned under the thick bandages wrapped around them, concealing them from sight, but Percy knew what they looked like.

His lungs were an entirely different matter, filled with the murderous substance that had been killing him slowly since he was sixteen years old. The pain he felt with every breath he breathed was something he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, not even Voldemort.

For a short moment, then, Percy wished he'd been killed back when it was possible, wished he hadn't fought so hard to stay alive. If he had just died then, he wouldn't have to face this pain now. He would never have had to feel any pain at all. He should have just died that night in Godric's Hollow with his parents.

'No,' a voice said in the back of his mind, 'You've had a good life.'

"One filled with suffering," he muttered to himself bitterly. Despite him saying that, images flashes through his mind; faces, memories. He remembered Lily and James, though vaguely, and how they'd given their lives for him. He recalled Harry's face and the years Percy had spent fighting to protect him from Voldemort, and he remembered Annabeth, her smile and her hair and her love for him, as his love for her was just as strong, and their life together, however short. He had a good life.

As another wave of shuddering winces escaped Percy's throat. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

He found himself daydreaming to pass through the pain. Well, more like remembering; remembering every single thing he could from his short yet long and complicated life.

One question came to mind as he drifted down the paths of his memories, each door holding something horrible or beautiful, or both; should he have died?