welcome back, besties :)
before we start, i'm going to address something that i really don't want to. let me preface it with this: i love your support. i love knowing that you're excited to find out what happens next. but please do not ask me to update. over the past few weeks i've received multiple comments on the last chapter that only beg me to do so. i wish i could more frequently, but i can't. i've made that clear far too many times.
"i can't wait for the next chapter" is fine. "i'm excited for the next update" is fine. that gives me encouragement. but please, don't outright ask me to. i can't write all the time and i can't spare every ounce of my minimal free time to this story. comments that beg me to post a chapter just make me feel worse that i'm not able to. if you commented like that, please don't apologize. just take it as a learning experience. i'm not asking for sympathy. i'm asking for basic consideration.
that's all. again, i adore your support—there are just better ways to express it for right now.
enjoy!
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this chapter contains descriptions of physical abuse (punching/choking/cutting/etc), poisoning, and blood. please read at your own discretion.
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Each blow feels like a punch to the gut.
The reason likely is because most of them are.
(Y/N) barely winces as her ribs, stomach, and collarbones are battered; she feels the pain, yes, but the frustration that seeps out of Chris' pores—all due to her lack of response—numbs her to any adverse sensation. Besides, she's been stabbed and cut and broken so many times that as the bruises form and layer upon one another, the warmth that emits feels almost like a blanket.
A blanket reminding her that, 'Hey, you fucked everything up. This is your well-earned punishment.'
Instead of punching a surface herself to increase the multitude of scars on her knuckles, she allows herself to be hit until her skin becomes marred with color and blood. To her, it's only fair.
What hurts most, however, is how her friends force themselves to look away, the sight of her torture far too painful for them to endure.
Percy's muscles strain against their binds, his breaths hitching and body tensing at every blow; he can hear the jewel on Chris' ring make contact with her bone every time it strikes her ribcage, can smell the blood on her wrists from the too-tight ropes that work away her skin like sandpaper until her flesh is exposed. He vowed to suffer alongside her, he took it as his responsibility to keep her safe by any means; that was his self-sworn duty when she decided to be his partner. And there she was, giving up her safety—hell, her life—with the same justification, all because she cared just a little bit too much.
It's infuriating how much more it makes him feel for her.
Annabeth has to fight off her furious and helpless tears, trying to keep her mind focused on an escape plan and not the repeated sound of a fist or knee making contact with her best friend's skin. Annabeth was the wise one; she should have known ahead of time that this would happen, should have been able to read the clues and come up with a proper plan so they'd have a safeguard. Any other solution to their dilemma, any other way to stay safe that didn't put (Y/N) at risk, and Annabeth would take it without a second's hesitation—but the daughter of Persephone's stubborn love for her friends proved to be a curse in the worst possible moments.
Grover whimpers as he struggles against his ropes, wishing and praying that it could be him as the sacrificial target instead of her. Every single blow to her body reminds him that he failed to do his sole duty, that he can no longer do anything to keep his closest friend from suffering. He was the protector, he earned his horns for the uncomfortable responsibilities, he was the one most expendable out of all of them. Not her. And yet she had too much care, too much selflessness, too much fucking pride to accept anything else. He'd told her countless times over the years that one day, it would get her killed.
He hopes to every god in existence that that future was mispredicted.
Not even Clarisse has the strength to turn her head, keeping her teary eyes focused ahead while she forces back the memories of how Chris used to be around her. He was kind, and caring, and sweet beyond measure—only to follow a maniac's orders to beat a restrained girl that doesn't share his ideologies. A girl who happens to be her ally, her . . . friend. (Y/N) didn't deserve any of this; no one did.
Chris punches high this time, his aim slightly off due to his tiring muscles. The ring on his pinky breaks the skin on (Y/N)'s jaw, the blow forcing her head to the side as a small ripple of pain sears through her cheek.
The surprise that results prompts (Y/N) to inhale sharply, gritting her teeth as she looks back to the son of Hermes in front of her. "That one was kind of weak," she says, brow furrowing slightly. "You getting tired?"
"Shut up," Chris growls, his breaths heavy.
The daughter of Persephone lets out a light chuckle, tilting her head. "You need to build up some endurance, Rodriguez. I'm not gonna lie, it feels like I'm being hit by a toddler."
A hand instantly grips her throat, slamming her skull back against a very solid metal pole. "What did I just say?" Chris pants, his breath warm. (Y/N) wants to writhe with discomfort as it falls on her skin, glancing at Percy who—completely past the point of enraged—snaps his head in her direction, glaring daggers at Chris. Protests and muttered threats for the son of Hermes reach (Y/N)'s ears; she can sense Annabeth and Grover's focus, as well, but her periphery blurs too much to see them properly.
As her neck gets squeezed, breaths thinning, (Y/N)'s vision flashes white. Chris' skin instantly feels like cold metal, and her throat begins to throb against the reddened indentation of her necklace; her Camp Half-Blood choker seems to tighten on its own accord, her supply of air feeling far less than its plentiful state.
"Rodriguez!" Footsteps sound from behind Chris, their owner's face out of (Y/N)'s view but his voice perfectly distinct and utterly loathsome. Evander places a hand on Chris' shoulder, gently tugging it back. "Hurt, don't kill."
Chris seethes at the man's touch, but his grip loosens. He shoves (Y/N)'s head back once more before letting go completely, stepping away and shrugging off Evander's hand. "I don't see why we can't just knock her out."
"You know how Luke feels about her," Evander reasons, sliding his hands into his pockets. "It'd be your funeral."
"Yeah, well . . ." Chris glances warily at (Y/N) before lowering his voice, unaware that she can hear him perfectly well. "—with her still awake, we may as well be walking to ours."
The corner of (Y/N)'s lips quirks up slightly as her vision begins to clear.
Evander tilts his head, his demeanor unnervingly calm. "Do you doubt him, Rodriguez?"
Chris grits his teeth, straightening his spine as the son of Eurus steps closer to him, a threat underlying his words.
"Do you not believe in his purpose? His duty to our world?"
"I never said that," Chris responds, "nor did I mean to imply it." He bristles at Evander's mocking gesture of apology. "I only meant to reason that we're dealing with a liability here. I don't want emotions to prove irrational."
Evander takes in Chris' stance, nodding thoughtfully. "Well, then," he starts, stepping away, "I'd suggest you put yours in check before that becomes a problem."
(Y/N)'s eyebrows lift in surprise and amusement at Evander's remark, her jaw throbbing slightly as a light chuckle escapes her throat. The son of Eurus turns to her with intrigue, mouth upticked in what (Y/N) identifies as a taunting smirk with the intention to throw her off her game.
She's used it before. On him.
"Is there a problem, sweetheart?" Evander asks, gesturing for Chris to move as he steps forward. The son of Hermes grunts quietly in frustration, shuffling over to stand ready by (Y/N)'s side.
(Y/N) gags internally, but she takes care to remain outwardly stoic. "Oh, no, it's just . . ." She pauses in thought, nodding. "No, yeah, I was right."
"About?"
"Well, I was wondering what happened to make you so snarky, you know?" she explains, shrugging as best she can with her arms tied behind her. "Because I remember how you used to be, and my gods, you had no clever comebacks at all. Right, guys?"
"Right," Grover agrees, nodding solemnly.
"Shut it," Chris warns, earning a scoff from Annabeth.
"Oh, yeah? What're you gonna do about it?" she asks, knowing he can't do anything to physically hurt her thanks to (Y/N) and Luke's deal.
"Anyway," (Y/N) starts, coughing slightly before continuing, "I figured you took a little lesson from our interaction. Always good to learn new things; I'm proud of you for that. Makes you a whole lot less boring—you're welcome, by the way."
Evander lets out an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head. "You submitted yourself to torture and you're still trying to flatter yourself?"
"Oh, I'm not trying to. I am. I submitted myself to torture and I am still flattering myself." She shrugs again, her mannerisms dripping with pure embodiment of 'duh' as she glances down at the ropes around her chest. "I'm bored, and you've really given me nothing better to do until I get out of here."
Evander's eyebrows lift in amusement, leaning back slightly. "Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart—"
"Call me 'sweetheart' one more time and I swear to Rhea, I will rip your arms off," (Y/N) hisses, her joking demeanor gone within an instant.
"—but you're never getting out of here," Evander finishes, eyes gleaming with triumph for breaking her act.
(Y/N)'s gaze shifts behind him, her heart beginning to pound faster when Alabaster—who is clearly exhausted, his skin pallid and weight resting primarily on his similarly weakened brother, Cyrus—emerges from the large crevice in the far cave wall. The sons of Hecate stumble over to Luke, presenting him with the item they spent a great deal of their magic working for.
Percy follows her line of sight, filling with dread when Luke snatches the Golden Fleece from Cyrus' hands.
"Yeah?" (Y/N) forces away her concern while moving her focus back to Evander—her cheeks are flushed, her ribs beginning to ache with each breath. "I wouldn't exactly put your money on that bet."
Evander arches a brow, his eyes moving over her restrained body and flickering with thought. When he meets her gaze, her irises gleaming with determination, it clicks.
He knows that look.
He'd admired it once.
How could he not have noticed it before?
"That's it," he breathes, stepping closer as shock overtakes his expression. "My gods; finally, that's it."
Percy struggles against his binds as Evander takes (Y/N)'s chin, keeping her face turned towards him with a touch so surprisingly careful and gentle and considerate. With reverence.
She doesn't say anything, stiffening at the feeling of his skin on hers. Her breaths grow heavy as she fights the urge to spit at him, to retort, to do anything against her bargain with Luke.
"That's how I know you," Evander says, looking carefully at her features.
(Y/N) scoffs, incredulous. "We've met before, idiot."
Evander rolls his eyes, releasing his grip on her face. "To think . . . to think that you don't even know." He chuckles, shaking his head in amazement. "You don't even know."
"You're repeating yourself," (Y/N) says. "You know that, right?"
The son of Eurus merely looks at her, bringing a hand up to rub his jaw in thought, eventually dropping it as his eyes glaze over briefly in memory. "He never told me," he mutters, shaking his head. "And they never told you. You don't know, do you?"
(Y/N) forces her desired reaction away, her voice bored. "Don't know what?"
Evander meets her gaze once more, his eyes flooded with remembrance and anger and hatred, all of it swirling over a backdrop of . . . pain. Sorrow justified by whatever she doesn't yet understand—misery so deep and terrible that it nearly makes her shiver. "Your past," Evander responds. "Your history. You have no clue who you are. But I do. I know who you are."
(Y/N) steels herself as he steps closer.
"The daughter of Persephone, (Y/N) . . . Elpis (Y/L/N)."
Her breath hitches, eyes flashing with shock.
Evander tilts his head. "Do I have that right?"
(Y/N)'s apathetic expression falls, her heart skipping what feels to be eight thousand beats as time goes still, as the sound of the world simultaneously echoes and dampens, as her fear intensifies only to be mitigated by her determination. "How do you know that name?" she breathes, her heart beating again, pounding and thudding as though trying to rip free from her chest.
Annabeth, Grover, and Percy look between Evander and (Y/N) with widened eyes. How the son of Eurus came to acquire such information about her, they have no idea, but it worries them beyond belief.
Evander's eyes glint at their reaction. "Ah, so I did. Elpis. Isn't it ironic?"
"How do you know that name?" she growls, fury sparking at Evander's consequent amusement.
He chuckles. "You were named after the spirit of hope, and you were abandoned; hopeless, parentless, loveless . . . in—what was it? Oh, yes—Woodberry Home."
Annabeth's chest constricts with the sudden understanding of what is to come, the prophecy ringing in her ears. "Shit," she says, her voice barely a whisper and filled with terror.
(Y/N)'s breaths quicken, muscles beginning to strain. Her glare intensifies at the man who somehow knows her middle name, the man who knows the orphanage she lived in—the man who is now a far greater threat than she could have ever imagined.
Luke didn't even know that information.
"Who are you?" (Y/N) asks, struggling to keep her composure.
Evander mockingly lifts a hand to his heart. "Don't tell me you forgot."
"Cut the bullshit."
Evander laughs, the sound trailing off in an amused sigh. "It's cute, really," he says, tilting his head, "but maybe it's kinder if I don't tell you. Shall I be kind?"
"What do you know?" Her voice is low, nearly a rumble deep in her throat. Evander smirks, his expression dark and sinister. He shakes his head, waving for Chriss to continue his job.
"See," he starts, moving away, "it's more fun to keep it from you instead. Just . . . hold onto hope, if you want."
Usually, she wouldn't lose control. Usually, she would let comments and taunts such as his roll past without heeding them twice.
The circumstances have long since pushed her past that point.
"Tell me!" she roars at his turned back, lurching forward only for her restraints to dig into her flesh.
Chris reacts at her sudden movement, unsheathing a dagger and swinging it in her direction, the blade slicing across her cheekbone.
(Y/N)'s head turns to the side at the feeling, the cut barely painful and the blood that trickles down her skin more of a nuisance than anything. Her best friends begin to protest (while Clarisse flinches and looks away), silencing themselves when (Y/N) shoots a warning glare in their direction.
Evander pauses in his steps, grinning. "Oh, you're desperate," he muses, turning to look at her. "I see it makes you feisty. I like it."
(Y/N) scoffs, panting with anger. "Have you always been this much of a creep?"
He shrugs, "Only because it riles you up, sweetheart." A growl sounds in her throat while her wrists twitch against their binds, earning a laugh from the son of Eurus.
(Y/N)'s breaths calm as she contains herself, not wanting to turn the situation into something she'll regret. Her emotions are soon hidden behind her usual mask of apathy and stoicism, and Evander pouts.
"Pity," he sighs. "Maybe a little longer and I'd have told you. Seems like all you'll do now is just take the punches for your weak little friends."
(Y/N) does nothing other than grit her teeth as he walks away, glaring at Chris when he steps in front of her. Her anger seems to amuse him, and he smiles before directing a punch right at her diaphragm—after his brief period of rest, his aim is now spot-on, the blow carefully calculated and executed with precision.
The air in her lungs instantly escapes, and she clenches her jaw tighter so as to not give him the satisfaction of coughing. As she inhales, the oxygen that enters her nose is far too thin, and it rushes out when the next strike lands on her stomach.
Her gasp for air comes in a choke, and Chris grins. The next punch forces a coughing fit, the following blow so strong that her clavicle fractures. Tears automatically spring to her eyes, earning a desperate, "Chris, stop!" from Percy.
Chris glances over, triumphant. "Finally. You both broke. This'll be even more fun for me now."
The following barrage of attacks is ceaseless, unrelenting. (Y/N) takes each and every hit with dwindling determination, her body finally betraying her mind—or maybe it was the other way around, she doesn't know—and failing to stave off the pain.
It was all too constant, too persistent, too much.
Her breaths are backed by whimpers, pitiful and miserable and so fucking weak.
Every muscle in Percy's body tightens at the sound. He begins to tremble with tension, his heart thudding and blood rushing so fast that his skin burns with sweat.
In the large cave's center, Luke approaches the decorated sarcophagus, Golden Fleece in hand. "Lord Kronos—"
Grover nearly begins hyperventilating as (Y/N) struggles to breathe, the satyr unable to curse the air blue this time as he kicks and pulls and struggles to get free. Failure makes him weak, his pleas soft and rushed and begging anyone to make it stop, please no, please stop, just let her go, let her go, let her go.
"—he who was betrayed by his sons—"
Clarisse squeezes her eyes shut, forcing her tears away as she swallows the lump in her throat. This was too far, it was too cruel, it was too wrong for anyone to condone—so where the fuck was his common sense and why the fuck was he still hurting her?
"—hear now the words of one betrayed by his father—"
Annabeth screws her face up to choke back her sobs, tears already streaming down her face as her entire form goes limp. If she'd been quicker, if she'd been more understanding, if she'd just been less stupid, then maybe they wouldn't be in this situation and maybe they'd stand a chance and just fucking maybe they could have gone home battered and bruised instead of half-dead.
"—I bid you," Luke carefully sets the Fleece atop the sarcophagus lid, stepping back slightly, "rise."
A tear finally falls from (Y/N)'s left eye, trailing down her cheek to mingle with her blood before it plummets its painfully slow distance to the ground.
A single speck of golden light draws up from the Fleece, holding steady as it brightens. Luke backs away as the gold is accompanied by specks in a multitude of colors, the lights swirling together above the sarcophagus. Evander steps up to Luke, looking on with intrigue, "I thought it'd be faster."
"Patience," Luke says, his eyes gleaming with the colors of the lights in front of him.
Chris leans closer to (Y/N), the glee in his expression completely manic. "They're already begging me to stop. I wonder if you will, too," he muses, searching her glossy eyes for a hint of compliance or submission.
All he finds is hatred.
(Y/N) shakes her head, a weak scoff interrupting her gasping inhales. She swallows, every inch of her torso screaming in agony. She ignores it, instead retorting with a pained, yet fierce, "I dare you to hold your breath until I do."
More lights accumulate and swirl above the casket, creating a nebula of sorts. (Y/N)'s heart begins to pound as the power emanating from the mass seems to fixate on her, shooting through her body a sense that screams, 'DANGER'.
The lights gather into themselves, diminishing into a humming freckle of white before it stills.
A heartbeat later, it explodes. When light and air shoot outwards in all directions, Luke's closeness to the source prompts him to fall back, the power forcing the same reaction from many others. Chris ducks out of the way just in time, the impact landing instead on (Y/N), slamming her head back against the pole. She gasps, trying to ignore the thudding that ripples through her skull, accompanied by a growing dampness that could only be her blood.
Percy's breaths quicken as he looks fearfully between Chris, (Y/N), and what is soon to be the resurrected Kronos. His fear worsens when Chris' attention is drawn to (Y/N)'s handmade sword.
The flame-shaped pommel is just slightly off-center, evidently displaced due to the forceful rush of air from earlier. Contributing to Percy's dread, it just so happens to have a poisoned blade hidden inside—and the son of Hermes doesn't shake off his curiosity regarding the imperfect alignment.
Chris stares at the hilt with intrigue, reaching over for it.
Pushing himself up from the ground, Luke laughs in amazement as the pieces of Kronos' form fight with others to break free from the sarcophagus, each one shooting away before they retreat inward—thick shards of what look like onyx and dark glass piece together slowly, painstakingly, gleaming in the colored mess of glaring light. Large, pointed fingertips outstretch, reaching forward to some unseen beacon of hope before they tighten and curl, seemingly in pain as more shards attach.
Chris twists the metal fixture, pulling it from the rest of the sword's handle after it releases. "Interesting," he muses while examining the attached blade, unaware of the fear that ripples through (Y/N), Annabeth, Grover, and Percy. He holds it up to the light, watching the slow drip of straw-colored liquid slide down the sharpened edge. His nose scrunches when the poison's scent reaches him, and he holds the blade slightly farther away. "Hemlock, huh?" he asks, looking over to (Y/N) for confirmation—her lack of response apart from grinding teeth gives him the answer he needs, and he looks back to watch briefly as Kronos' form gradually pieces together.
"I have to be honest, here," Chris starts, returning his focus to (Y/N). "I can't let you get in the way of this."
Grover's frantic begging becomes manic, everything about him screaming his terrified state to the rest of the world. Annabeth whimpers, and she throws herself against her binds in sheer desperation. Clarisse stares at the son of Hermes in horror and shock, wordlessly shaking her head without pause.
Percy blinks furiously to fight worried tears, growling threats at Chris while simultaneously trying to connect to any source of water around him—his anger and fear prevent him from concentrating the way he needs to, the situation too dire for him to do anything else but panic.
(Y/N) shows no sign of fear as she looks Chris dead in the eye, her breaths stable and mind just calm enough for her to maintain the barest façade of strength. "You're not allowed to kill me," she says, a smirk tugging on her lips. "You'll be signing your death warrant if you do."
"A price to pay for the greater outcome," Chris says, shrugging. "I don't have much left to lose, anyway."
"Chris, don't!" Clarisse finally begs, the pain in her voice so striking that the son of Hermes flinches.
"Since when do you care about her?" he asks, keeping his eyes away.
"Since I learned to see past a difference in opinion," Clarisse says, hoping to reason with him. "You know you can't do this." His failure to look at her breaks her heart, and her voice weakens. "You can still walk away; you can still fight for the right side. Please don't do this. Please."
Chris shakes his head, turning to face Clarisse properly. "You don't understand!" he says, words cold. "You don't get what it's like to have a father who ignores your every call for help. You don't get what it's like to- to go to sleep and wake up every day alongside all the people that weren't claimed, that never did enough for a parent to care about them. You have your siblings; you all know who you are. You ask Ares for help, and he answers. You get to live in your little bubble of what you think our parents are like. But me? I have to watch kids break down because someone else got claimed and not them; I have to comfort the ones that just wanted to be good enough; I have to see, every fucking day, that the gods just don't care!"
Clarisse flinches at his tone.
Noticing her reaction, Chris softens, his anger fading into disappointment.
"You wanna tell me that I need to support the 'right side'?" he asks, scoffing gently. "There is no right or wrong side anymore. There's only the truth. Our parents couldn't give a shit whether we live or die, whether we find the rest of our family or stay isolated. They don't care. And now?"
Clarisse fills with dread.
"Now, neither do I."
(Y/N)'s throat burns with a scream as Chris stabs the blade into her right shoulder, dragging it down her bicep and ripping it away.
Chris ignores the shouts of hatred sent his way, leaning in closer to (Y/N). Her eyes are widened with shock, breathing stuttered from pain. The son of Hermes stares victoriously into her undulating pupils, not minding the blood that coats his hand as he drops the small dagger to the ground.
Percy's ears rush with the sound of liquid, his anger strengthening his connection to the water that runs through Chris' veins.
"Not so strong now, are you?" Chris asks, barely feeling the tug in his muscles as Percy's focus falters, the son of Poseidon caught between fury, concern, and terror.
(Y/N)'s breaths steady as she searches for the poison in her veins, feeling the life in her cells slowly blink out, her arm gradually losing sense of the pain and starting to tingle before what is undoubtedly going to be numbness. "You're going to pay for that," she growls, her fingers beginning to tremble against their accord.
"I don't think I am," Chris says, a grin beginning to form. "I think I'm just going to enjoy this even more because I get to see your friends' faces as they watch you die."
A wave of pain rushes through her body, and (Y/N) grunts, fighting to remain alert.
"There's nothing you can do to stop this. Any of it." Chris backs away, his face an expression of evil victory. "It's about time you give up."
Indescribable agony rushes through every vein, every nerve, every muscle in her body; her vision sears with brightness as her pupils dilate, her eyes and head suddenly feeling under intense compression; and the echo of her scream is drowned out by the chaos of Kronos' resurrection, but it sounds loud and clear for those next to her.
"Fight it, (Y/N)!" Annabeth cries, watching helplessly as her best friend's body begins to convulse.
She goes unheard as (Y/N)'s world becomes nothing but pain, pain, pain.
Her hearing fades out from an endless wave of sonar-like ringing, her rapid loss of blood contributing to the headache that rattles her skull. Every inch of her skin feels aflame and ice-cold, burning in a way that makes her want to claw and tear at it until there is nothing left, if only for the barest sense of relief. Her sight floods to pure white, the cave's hues swirling around into a muddled grey before being shattered by rays of overpowering light.
A single color stays behind for the briefest possible moment.
Sea-green.
Without warning, everything goes numb.