Fragmented Trajectory (A Percy Jackson Fanfiction) A Continuation

Chapter 8: Here's the Reason Why I Hate the Country

The only reason (I'm pretty sure, anway) that I wake up is the squawking.

Oh gods, the squawking.

I pry open my bleary, sleep-laden eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of the caterwauling - AKA the only thing I can hear for about a hundred miles.

I'm attempting to push myself to my knees when I realize I may or may not have sustained semi-serious injuries to several of my limbs and/or head, because not only do my arms give out before I'm even propped up two inches from the ground, but my vision swims and there's a hellish pounding infecting my skull that only seems to go away when my face is pressed into the soft, whispering grass I've found myself lying on.

Something's digging into my stomach in a not all-together pleasant way, forcing me to forsake the comfort of my dirt nap and roll over, cradling my abdomen while I try not to moan too pitifully. Whether or not there's anyone around to hear me, I'd rather keep my image intact as best I can.

My bow. It must have slipped from my bag while I was tumbling through the air like a disgruntled ballerina.

Thank gods. I didn't lose it in the fall.

In a jerky movement I roll off to the side, careful not to apply anymore crushing weight to the delicate instrument beneath me. Unfortunately (but not unexpectedly) a bolt of pain shoots through me, seemingly from all directions, from each battered limb and from my vibrating cranium.

The choked gasp that slips past my lips sounds all the worse when I promptly bite down on my already-bleeding tongue to keep from producing anymore pitiful noises; while it works, it also has the added bonus of cutting off my wheeze of discomfort so that it resembles a death rattle more than an exclamation of extreme pain.

Oh, gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods--!

Momentarily forgetting the damning fatigue plaguing my arms, I throw one up in order to clamp a hand over my tainted red mouth, and I let loose a scream so shrill and agonized that, if not for my hand, would surely have the neighbors running out in their fluffy slippers and threadbare bathrobes.

If I landed in a neighborhood, anyway - unlikely, considering no one's come to investigate the incessant squawking coming from the badly-bruised gryphon off to my left.

When I've regained control of my breathing (and somewhat brushed aside the matter of my insatiable agony), I pick myself up with the minimal amount of whimpers and sharp exhales and additional wounds to my battle-scarred tongue. I'm unsteady on my feet, the pounding in my head having not subsided in the least; instead, it's grown stronger, more violent, with every second I don't immediately collapse into a broken mess on the crushed grass from whence I came.

Ugh. Just ugh.

I waste no time in digging through my rumpled bag, pulling out the crushed ambrosia squares after a solitary moment of complete and utter panic.

Jasper would kill me if I lost the damn things.

The single bite I take from the edge of the flaky square blossoms across tongue, drowning the metallic tang of blood with the wholly blissful taste of my mom's homemade blueberry jam. It doesn't quite mesh with the texture of the ambrosia, but it is so easy to stomach due to the overwhelming nostalgia lighting up the pleasure points in my brain.

Feeling a little refreshed (not much, but to the point where I won't tear up with every step I take), I retrieve my bow from where I abandoned it to the wayward grasses, then set off to quell the wailing mythical beast.

Ok. Easier said then done, I have to admit.

I ease into a trembling crouch at Andrena's side. My hand unconsciously moves to caress her bristling fur, but I jerk it back an inch from contact. Too scared, I'd reason, too on edge.