The Rise of Gaea

Percy 21

*****song credits to Panic! at the disco******

     His voice dying in his throat, Percy gaped up at the massively horrible being before him.

     "Perseus Jackson." Tartarus boomed. "And Luke Castellan."

     His voice sounded like a backwards recording; scratchy, gritty, grating, and just wrong. Percy had messed around with his mother's old record player before, and had accidentally made it play backwards. He remembered his surprise as the horrid noise began, and his haste to make it stop.

     The only good thing about Tartarus' words were that they affirmed Luke's presence.

     "You have scrambled around for long enough. Neither of you belong down here."

     Percy wanted to come up with something to say; anything to stall, but his mind was a complete blank.

     As Tartarus raised a gnarled, wart-covered arm, the air between his fingers darkened. It was almost as if he was ripping a hole in the fabric of the universe. The hole widened, shooting forward like a tear.

     It was a sword, Percy realized. But because of it's likeness to a void, it was almost more like the absence of a sword. 

     His knees were weak.

     He knew that Tartarus would not let him escape. Tartarus was more than a god, more than a Titan, or even a giant.

     He was The Pit of Darkness.

      Percy's chest heaved as he tried to think, to strategize. But that was Annabeth's strength, not his. Percy was usually responsible for making rash decisions that ended well maybe 50% of the time.

     Gathering his wits, Percy shouted, "At least fight me like a man. No magic tricks. Just you and me, blade to blade." This technique had worked when fighting Luke/Kronos. Maybe it would work now.

      Sadly, Percy's words only seemed to anger Tartarus.

     "You order me to fight you like a man? You? A puny demigod? I am a primordial! I am older than the gods themselves! You are a mere speck compared to my vast power! Yet you presume to attempt to order me around?" Tartarus lowered his blade; the length was so long, that it nearly stabbed Percy in the chest. "Congratulations, Perseus. You have shown yourself to be worthy of the greatest torment of a primordial!"

      Then Tartarus did stab Percy in the chest.

     Percy gasped as the coldness registered in his brain, and then watched uncomprehendingly as black lightning raced towards him. A shriek ripped from his throat as blinding pain swept through him. It was worse than any pain he had ever felt, or even imagined.

     It was as though white-hot magma laced with gorgon's blood and electricity and metal spikes was pumping through his veins. His limbs were lightning bolts, and his head was an explosion multiplied by the number of Zeus' exes. The fire in his chest was a raging, uncontrolled inferno, worse than even Leo could handle.

     Then the mind games began. Tartarus' terrible voice filled his mind.

     "Your blonde princess doesn't love you, Perseus. She deserted you." Cruel humor emulated from his words. "Why would you still love her? She pulled you down to me, and let you fall. She moved on."

     Oh, so this was the endgame? Tartarus wanted Percy to give up on Annabeth. He grimaced in pain, before screaming out, "No! She loves me!"

     Tartarus seemed to smirk; Percy could just make out the amusement on his face through blurry eyes.

     "Your brain really is full of kelp." Tartarus mocked.

     He twisted the sword, and some sort of inhuman cry tore from Percy. The pain he had previously been experiencing was reduced to a tickle compared to the tsunami of mind-cracking agony that consumed him.

     Percy could barely string two thoughts together.

     After an interminable amount of time, Tartarus spoke again. "If you give up on her, I'll kill you quickly." He offered.

     Percy concentrated painfully for a moment, then shouted, "I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, ANNABETH! I SWEAR IT ON THE RIVER STYX!"

      He scraped together an image of her, clinging to the safety her very image gave him, and quietly sang.

          "This is gospel for the fallen ones

          Locked away in permanent slumber.

          Assembling their philosophies

          From pieces of broken memories."

      Tartarus recoiled a little. "What are you doing?"

     Percy steeled himself to look straight at him.

          "The gnashing teeth

          And criminal tongues

          Conspire against the odds

          But they haven't seen the best of us yet..."

       Summoning every last scrap of energy, Percy screamed,

          "IF YOU LOVE ME LET ME GOOOOOOO!!!"

     He willed all the monsters in the vicinity to attack Tartarus; blood-bending those who resisted.

     Tartarus bellowed in outrage, and his sword slipped from Percy's flesh. Finally, Percy was able to concentrate.

     "Percy..." Luke was calling his name, voice shaking with fear. "Percy, what do we do?"

     Percy willed part of his song to impress upon Luke to cut the chains on the Doors of Death, and most importantly, not to allow Percy to stop singing.

     He felt the lingering agony of his torture in every part of his being; a dark, coarse, terrible tide. Staring at Tartarus in growing rage, Percy decided right then and there that he was no longer a tool of the gods, or, in Tartarus' case, a toy. He was done being used.

     Closing his eyes, Percy stopped fighting the pain, and instead, he embraced it. It ran like liquid darkness through his veins, and Percy felt as powerful as a god. The rage he felt became burning hatred and ruthless fury.

     Percy raised his arms up, clenched his fists, and with another inhuman shriek, he ripped Tartarus apart.

     The primordial bellowed again in rage, then in fear and pain. Then he tore into pieces.

     Icor rushed out in waves, and Luke's horrified gasp rattled around in Percy's head.

     He sank to the ground in complete exhaustion, feeling as though he were melting. The energy used to kill Tartarus was astronomically tremendous, and Percy wasn't sure how he had done it.

     He instilled in himself the reminder to keep singing, before dissolving into unconsciousness; the image of his beautiful Annabeth being the last thing in his head.