Falling into Tartarus
Percy didn't know how long he and Annabeth had been falling—hours? Days? It felt like an eternity. They'd been holding hands ever since they dropped into the chasm. Now, Percy pulled her close, hugging her tight as they tumbled through absolute darkness.
Wind whistled in Percy's ears. The air grew hotter and damper, as if they were plummeting into the throat of a massive dragon. Adrenaline coursed through his body, washing away his earlier exhaustion from the fight against Otis and Ephialtes.
Your voyage may be a little harder than you expect, Bacchus had said. Yeah, Percy would say that searching for the Doors of Death in Tartarus—a place that not even the gods went to and that had almost driven Nico insane, while fighting off hundreds of monsters—qualified as a little harder than he'd expected.
He wished he weren't here. He wished Annabeth weren't here. It was ripping his heart to bits that she was here, about to encounter their worst nightmares. He couldn't save her this time. They would probably be flattened on impact once they reached the bottom of this pit—assuming there was a bottom.
The one who was to blame, however, was Arachne. Annabeth had tricked and trapped her, but she'd still gotten her revenge by tangling Annabeth's leg in her spider silk and dragging her over the side of the pit, with Percy in tow. He almost hoped Arachne was still alive somewhere below them in the darkness. He wanted to make her pay for everything she'd ever done to Athena's kids—but especially for tormenting Annabeth. Annabeth had done beautifully in outsmarting her, but Percy knew how terrifying it must have been for her. She had told him about her encounters with spiders in the past, and the whole Mark of Athena thing had rattled her. If they managed to reach the bottom alive and find Arachne, Percy was going to enjoy himself.
Annabeth wrapped her arms tighter around Percy, and he thought he heard her choke back a sob. Percy didn't blame her. He'd never expected his life to be easy once he found out about his father. Most demigods died young at the hands of terrible monsters. That was the way it had been since ancient times. The Greeks invented tragedy. They knew the greatest heroes didn't get happy endings. That was why Percy's mother had named him after Perseus—the only hero to actually live in the end—in the hopes that Percy would inherit his luck.
This wasn't fair. Percy and Annabeth had been through so much together just to survive. Annabeth had done the impossible and recovered the statue of Athena. Just when she'd succeeded, when things had been looking up and he'd been reunited with her, they had plunged to their deaths.
Even the gods couldn't devise a fate so twisted.
But Gaea wasn't like other gods. The Earth Mother was older, more vicious, more bloodthirsty. Percy could imagine her laughing as they fell into the depths.
Annabeth pressed her lips to Percy's ear. He could barely hear her when she said, "I love you."
Percy squeezed her tighter. "I love you," he told her. He was thinking the same thing she must have been—if they died, he wanted those to be his last words.
Percy had no plan. It didn't seem like Annabeth did either, which would have been surprising if the situation weren't so hopeless and terrifying. As a daughter of Athena, she almost always had a plan. But Percy didn't blame her for not having one now—they were literally falling into Tartarus. What was there to do?
Neither of them had the power to fly—not like Jason, who could control the wind, or Frank, who could turn into a winged animal. If they reached the bottom at terminal velocity . . . well, Annabeth had taught Percy enough to know it would be terminal.
Something about their surroundings changed. The darkness took on a gray-red tinge. Percy realized he could see Annabeth's hair as he hugged her. The whistling in his ears turned into more of a roar. The air became intolerably hot, permeated with a smell like rotten eggs.
Suddenly, the chute they'd been falling through opened into a vast cavern. Maybe half a mile below them, Percy could see the bottom. He was too stunned to think properly. The entire island of Manhattan could have fit inside this cavern—and he couldn't even see its full extent. Red clouds hung in the air like vaporized blood. The landscape—at least what he could see of it—was rocky black plains, punctuated by jagged mountains and fiery chasms. To their left, the ground dropped off in a series of cliffs, like colossal steps leading deeper into the abyss.
"Percy!" Annabeth yelled in his ear. "Water!"
She gestured below them frantically. Percy glanced down and saw a ribbon of glittering black liquid—a river.
Percy understood immediately and nodded. He might still be able to save them—if he could keep his newfound fear of drowning in check.
Assuming that was water below them, Percy might be able to cushion their fall somehow. The river hurtled toward them as Percy reached out with his mind and concentrated. The river felt like none he'd ever encountered—cold, dark, sad, and hopeless. Filled with misery.
None of that mattered now. At the last second, Percy grabbed on with his will and yelled defiantly. The water erupted in a massive geyser and swallowed them whole.
The impact didn't kill Percy, but the cold nearly did. Freezing water shocked the air right out of his lungs. Annabeth slipped from his grasp. They started to sink. Strange wailing sounds filled his ears—millions of heartbroken voices, as if the river were made of distilled sadness. The voices were worse than the cold. They weighed him down and made him numb.
Water and sadness pressed against Percy's chest, reminding him of the muskeg. He fought back the panic. This was water. Percy couldn't see Annabeth in the murky water, but he could sense her. He grabbed her hand and together they kicked up and broke the surface. Annabeth gasped for air. Percy summoned his strength and created a whirlpool to buoy them up. The water swirled around them, obeying his will.
"Land," Annabeth croaked. "Go sideways."
Percy barely heard her. He was utterly exhausted. Usually water reinvigorated him, but not this water. Controlling it was taking every bit of his strength. The whirlpool began to dissipate. He worried that if he sank again, he might not have the strength to swim back to the surface. He had a sinking suspicion he might not be able to breathe underwater in this river. His energy was draining rapidly.
Annabeth hooked one arm around Percy's waist and struggled across the current. The river worked against them: thousands of weeping voices whispering in his ears, getting inside his brain.
Life is despair, they said. Everything is pointless, and then you die.
"Pointless," Percy murmured. His teeth chattered from the cold. It would be easier to sink and let the river carry his body away. He stopped swimming and began to sink.
"Percy!" Annabeth shrieked. "The river is messing with your mind. It's the Cocytus—the River of Lamentation. It's made of pure misery."
Only one thing registered in Percy's brain. "Misery," he agreed.
"Fight it!"
Annabeth kicked and struggled, trying to keep both of them afloat. Some part of Percy knew something was wrong, but it was drowned out by the voices.
What's the point of struggling? You're dead anyway. You'll never leave this place.
They were right. There was no use in fighting. It was just a matter of time before they died. Something here would get them. Why not speed it up?
The other part of Percy laughed at the irony: Percy, the son of Poseidon, dies from drowning.
Annabeth hugged Percy tighter and kissed him. "Tell me about New Rome," she demanded. "What were your plans for us?"
Some of the fog cleared from his mind. "New Rome . . . For us . . ."
"Yeah, Seaweed Brain. You said we could have a future there! Tell me!"
Percy knew what Annabeth was doing and tried to cooperate. "Architecture," he murmured. "Thought you'd like the houses, the parks. There's one street with all these cool fountains."
Annabeth started making progress against the current. Percy's limbs felt like bags of wet sand, but he helped her now. He could see the dark line of the shore about a stone's throw away.
"College," Annabeth gasped. "Could we go there together?"
"Y-yeah," he agreed, feeling more confident.
"What would you study, Percy?"
"Dunno," he admitted.
"Marine science," she suggested. "Oceanography?"
"Surfing?" he asked.
Annabeth laughed, and the sound sent a shock wave through the water. The wailing faded to background noise. Percy wondered if anyone had ever laughed in Tartarus before—just a pure, simple laugh of pleasure. He doubted it.
Percy used the last of his strength to reach the riverbank. His feet dug into the sandy bottom. He and Annabeth hauled themselves ashore, shivering and gasping, and collapsed on the dark sand.
Percy wanted to curl up next to Annabeth and go to sleep. He wanted to shut his eyes, hope all of this was just a bad dream, and wake up to find himself back on the Argo II, safe with his friends (well . . . as safe as a demigod can ever be).
But, no. They were really in Tartarus. At their feet, the River Cocytus roared past, a flood of liquid wretchedness. The sulfurous air stung Percy's lungs.
Annabeth tried to sit up and gasped in pain. Percy immediately shot up and reached for her. Her arms were covered with an angry rash. Jagged black-glass chips were embedded in her palms. The beach wasn't sand.
Percy felt a pang of guilt as he helped her pick the pieces out of her hands. The air might have been affecting him, but the glass did nothing. He wished he could share the Curse of Achilles with Annabeth, or give it to her altogether. He'd take all the injuries he could to protect her. But this time, he couldn't.
So the air was acid. The water was misery. The ground was broken glass. Everything here was designed to hurt and kill. Percy took a rattling breath and wondered if the voices in the Cocytus were right. Maybe fighting for survival was pointless. They would be dead within the hour.
Percy coughed and tried to lift Annabeth's spirits. "This place smells like my ex-stepfather."
Annabeth managed a weak smile. Percy had told her stories about Smelly Gabe.
If Percy had fallen into Tartarus by himself, he would have been doomed. He wouldn't have had Annabeth to pull him out of the Cocytus' misery. He would have succumbed to his fear of drowning. He would have become another ghost, melting into the Cocytus.
But he wasn't alone. He had Annabeth. And that meant he couldn't give up.
They didn't have much. Annabeth's backpack was gone. She didn't have her dagger. No food, no water . . . basically no supplies at all except Riptide.
Off to a promising start.
Percy glanced at Annabeth and found her looking at him. She looked pretty bad. Her T-shirt was torn in a few places, her hair tangled in knots and looking pale and lifeless. She was shivering. Her hands were bleeding. But at least she had removed her makeshift cast of wood and Bubble Wrap around her ankle, which must have meant it was healed. Percy pulled out Riptide and cut away the remaining strands of spider's silk attached to her foot.
"We should keep moving or we'll get hypothermia," Annabeth said, and Percy realized he was also shivering. "Can you stand?"
Percy nodded. They both struggled to their feet.
Annabeth put her arm around Percy's waist, though he wasn't sure who was supporting whom. He felt more tired than he should have—a combination of the Cocytus' tainted water and the Curse of Achilles. That was worrisome. If he was too tired to do anything, he wouldn't be able to protect Annabeth.
He scanned their surroundings. Above, he saw no sign of the tunnel they'd fallen down. He couldn't even see the cavern roof—just blood-colored clouds floating in the hazy gray air. It was like staring through a thin mix of tomato soup and cement.
The black-glass beach stretched inland about fifty yards, then dropped off the edge of a cliff. From where he stood, Percy couldn't see what was below, but the edge flickered with red light as if illuminated by huge fires.
Percy inhaled sharply. "Look." He pointed downstream.
A hundred feet away, a familiar-looking red Italian car had crashed headfirst into the sand. It looked just like the Fiat that had smashed into Arachne and sent her plummeting into the pit.
Annabeth gripped Percy's hand, and they stumbled toward the wreckage. One of the car's tires had come off and was floating in a backwater eddy of the Cocytus. The Fiat's windows had shattered, sending broken glass like frosting across the dark beach. Under the crushed hood lay the tattered, glistening remains of a giant silk cocoon—the trap that Annabeth had tricked Arachne into weaving. It was unmistakably empty. Slash marks in the sand made a trail downriver . . . as if something heavy, with multiple legs, had scuttled into the darkness.
"She's alive." Annabeth sounded horrified.
"It's Tartarus," Percy said. "Monster home court. Down here, maybe they can't be killed."
Percy immediately wanted to kick himself. Way to boost team morale, he thought. He gave Annabeth an embarrassed look. "Or maybe she's badly wounded, and she crawled away to die."
"Let's go with that," Annabeth agreed.
Secretly, Percy hoped she wasn't dead. He wanted to make sure Arachne knew what Percy thought of her tormenting his girlfriend.
Annabeth was still shivering. Percy wasn't feeling any warmer either, despite the hot, sticky air. The glass cuts on Annabeth's palms were still bleeding. Her breathing got more and more labored—Percy started to notice the strain in his, too.
"This place is killing us," she said. "I mean, it's literally going to kill us, unless . . ."
Annabeth trailed off, and Percy once again wanted to scream at how unfair it was. The Curse of Achilles might protect Percy, but clearly not enough. Even so, he could tell that Tartarus wasn't affecting him as quickly as it was Annabeth. If she died and he didn't because of the curse, and he couldn't save her . . . he didn't want to think about what he'd do.
Annabeth had that look in her eye like she had an idea. "Unless what?" Percy prompted. "You've got a brilliant plan, haven't you?"
"It's a plan," Annabeth murmured. "I don't know about brilliant. We need to find the River of Fire."