PHILOXENIA ➸ Percy Jackson¹

έντεκα

Ciaran couldn't stomach to watch anymore and turned to the right. This path led down toward a gated community settled in a small valley, where beyond the walls lay the only bright spot in the Underworld. The valley consisted of neighborhoods containing houses with architectural styles from all different eras—sprawling Roman villas and castles with sky-high turrets and cozy cottages that belonged in an English countryside. The flowers bloomed with even more intensity than their above-ground counterparts and the air was imbued with laughter and the smell of barbecue smoke that reminded Ciaran of Camp Half-Blood.

He didn't need a sign to know that this was Elysium.

In the middle of that valley were three islands on a glittering blue lake, the type of place that you would see advertised on TV as the ideal spot for a vacation or a destination wedding. Ciaran recalled Annabeth's lesson about the Isle of the Blest, where people who had chosen to be reborn three times reached Elysium all three times spent their eternity. 

He wondered whether the spirits that chose Asphodel ever found themselves looking longingly here, or do they stubbornly focus on the left and convinced themselves that at least their fates were not as horrible.

They left the judgment pavilion and moved deeper into the Asphodel Fields. It got darker and the horde of spirits began to thin out.

After a few miles of walking, they began to hear a familiar screech in the distance. Looming on the horizon was a palace of glittering black obsidian. Above the parapets swirled the Furies.

"I suppose it's too late to turn back now," Grover said wistfully.

"We'll be okay." Percy tried to sound confident.

"Maybe we should search some of the other places first," Grover suggested. "Like Elysium, for instance—"

"Come on, goat boy." Annabeth grabbed his arm.

Grover yelped as his sneakers sprouted wings and shot him forward, pulling him away from Annabeth. He landed flat on his back in the grass.

"Grover," Annabeth chided. "Stop messing around."

"But I didn't—"

The wings began flapping again, levitating him off the ground and dragging him away from them.

"Maia!" He yelled, but the magic word had no effect. "Maia, already! Nine-one-one! Help!"

Ciaran and Percy got over their surprise and dove to grab Grover's hand, but he was too fast for them. The shoes took him downhill, causing them to have to run after him.

Annabeth shouted, "Untie the shoes!"

He tried to, but it was difficult to sit up and reach the laces when the shoes were pulling him feetfirst at full speed.

They did their best to keep him in sight as he ripped through the ephemeral legs of the spirits, who chattered at him in annoyance.

For a moment, they were sure Grover would barrel straight through the gates to Hades' palace, but his shoes made a sharp turn to the right and picked up speed as they led him down a slope. They were sprinting at this point, breathless as they ran through a tunnel.

"Grover!" Percy yelled, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. "Hold on to something!"

"What?" he yelled back.

There was nothing for him to grab but gravel, nothing big enough that could slow him down.

The tunnel became darker, and the already cold air became frosty, causing the hair on Ciaran's arm to bristle as if he was touched by ice. There was a foul stench ahead, and gruesome images flashed in his mind—a scythe glistening with ichor, a baby's cry as it was forced down a cavernous pit, bodies upon bodies littering the scorched earth.