A Crown of Golden Leaves: A Percy Jackson Fanfiction

Caput XLIV: The Left-Hand of Justice

Warning: I dedicate this chapter to Kishia, which means that there's angst and doom and gloom everywhere. :) I can't believe I'm actually posting this on my birthday of all days... 

(Do you hate me yet?) 

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"The moral arc of the universe bends at the elbow of justice." – Martin Luther King, Jr.

Caput XLIV: The Left-Hand of Justice

ANNABETH looked wane when she sat down next to him, but before Percy could say anything or ask if she was all right, she curled her arm across his shoulders and pulled his head down to her shoulders. For a moment, he stayed there, not sure what she was trying to do—or what she was asking him to do, for that matter. But then he found the tension he hadn't even realized that had built up in his neck and back swoosh away, and he pressed his forehead against her neck to hide the prickling in his eyes. Her fingers carded through his hair.

"How is he?" she asked quietly, and his voice wasn't working so he just shook his head, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He couldn't have a breakdown here and now—he wasn't, and he wouldn't—but it was still... he didn't even know what it was that made this whole thing so terribly disgusting.

He had duties he had to attend to, and assurances to utter, and he had to keep looking for a cure for this plague since the gods have clearly forsaken them. Not even the Pontifex Maximus had been able to contact them for guidance, no matter how many rams were slaughtered and sacrificed. They were on their own, and Percy couldn't help but feel bitter toward the gods for turning their backs on them when they needed them.

Fine. We'll just make it through this on our own then. The gods turn their backs on us, so we'll turn our backs on them.

Sure, they – the gods, that was – would probably impose on the weak mortals when they needed them to do something for them, but Percy was afraid that if wasn't furious with the gods, then he would just give up and accept Rome's fate. It was better to be angry at something and use it to propel you forward than to let yourself be stepped over. He couldn't stop fighting—not now, not ever.

At least, that was how he felt. After all, even the greatest generals cared about the soldiers under their command.

"I don't want to lose him," he whispered, because he knew that only she would be able to hear the way his voice was trembling. "I can't... he's my best friend. It's not fair."

"I know." Her arms tightened and her fingernails were almost painful as they pressed into the skin through the folds of his clothing. He pressed a quick kiss against her shoulder before he straightened up and began to pull himself back together again, slamming his mental shields down on his emotions to keep them from controlling him. There were things he had to do, and he was the only one who was able to do them. His pater wasn't going to do anything helpful after trying to convince him to run—Percy wouldn't be surprised if he went down into one of the bunkers with a bottle of the finest wine.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her eyes wide as she gazed up at him with worry written on her face. He took one of her hands in his and squeezed it, giving her a small smile that was supposed to be reassuring.

"I'm fine, Annabeth. Don't worry about me."

Her face was unreadable, which was a little frightening because she wore her heart on her sleeve whenever it was just the two of them. He found himself fighting the urge to squirm or say something as she stared at him without speaking or smiling. But then she nodded minutely, and her expression cleared into something softer.