✺ THE MEMORY OF A FUTURE ✺
What have you done?
What have you done?
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
The wind whistles in (Y/N)'s ears as she ducks under a sword. She barely feels the pull of her muscles as she maneuvers her weapon, barely comprehends the movements of her opponent as her instincts begin to take control. The clanging repetition of metal on metal accents the thoughts that drum in her mind, the impacts rippling through her bones and making them ache.
Every blink brings her face-to-face with the deadened eyes of her loved ones. Every breath echoes with the haunting rasp of her voice.
This is just who I am.
With a grunt, she spins, hooking her foot behind her opponent's ankles while extending her arm across their chest. They keel off-balance, and (Y/N) disarms them in the midst of their fall.
They squeeze their eyes shut upon impact with the ground. In (Y/N)'s mind, the boy droops back, his eyes closing.
Applause.
She gives her head a firm shake.
Forcing a pleasant expression, she offers her arm to the demigod. They take it, pulling themselves up with a grateful smile. At the edge of the Field of Mars, a small collection of campers clap at the duel's completion, most staring at (Y/N) with widened eyes and opened mouths.
The daughter of Persephone fights a grimace. She mumbles quick points of feedback to her opponent before patting their shoulder and turning to leave. Her sword slides into its sheath with a 'ring'.
Light dances behind her eyelids as she closes them. Her hearing tunes out, deafened by the prolonged scrape of metal on leather. The dream glares at her.
It had been weeks.
Five weeks, and her nights had been undisturbed. Five weeks, and she had nothing but the memory of a future, the ghost of a premonition.
Five weeks, and she still couldn't go home.
It was almost worse that her sleep was no longer haunted. She would rest, preparing to see the terrible results of her handiwork, and it never arrived. She would wait, expecting to be struck with the weight of her wrongdoings, and it stayed away.
Her nights were plagued by the concerns and fears and expectations for what should have been seen—yet it never was.
But she had not been released from its grasp. Not that easily.
Instead of her dreams, the future wove itself into each moment, each opportunity, each second it could find in her days. Everything thrust her back into the images of what was to come.
No dreams. Only memory.
No foresight—only dread.
There was nothing new. And that meant that there was nothing to build on.
No hints to a solution.
No clues for an understanding.
No guarantee of safety.
In the storms of (Y/N)'s turmoil, Lupa's training was a rare touch of solace. Along with honing the Roman values of ruthlessness in her mindset, the half-blood consulted with the goddess on how to best strengthen the connection with her newer abilities. The secluded clearing in the woods was always undisturbed, leaving (Y/N) to train particular aspects of her powers—and fail repeatedly—without interruption. Lupa's watchful eye was an unfamiliar intrusion for the first week, but with time (Y/N) had grown to be grateful for her presence and insight. And her extensive training did not go unrewarded, either.
Over time, (Y/N) began to leave the clearing with a renewed energy, rather than excessive fatigue. She felt the alien power in her system gradually meld with the rest of her soul, weaving through her being and finding a growing welcome there.
The progress was a nice sense of achievement amidst the ever-present reminder of her inevitable failures.
"(Y/N)!"
She sighs, opening her eyes. Footsteps thud from behind her, but she doesn't look at Julius as he bounds up to her side.
He was another complication—slight as it may be.
Since her arrival at Camp Jupiter, he had been insistent on being in her presence. He would sit by her at mealtimes, constantly ask for her feedback, adjust his training schedule to align with hers, approach her with the dismay of not having a sparring partner so that she would assist him. It was all too familiar.
It was what Luke had done.
And much like Luke, Julius couldn't seem to interpret the meaning behind (Y/N)'s indifference. She longed to play the one card that he would immediately retreat from, but she couldn't. Not when he would ask questions. Not when he was a person she was sworn to keep Percy's—and the entirety of Camp Half-Blood's—existence a secret from.
"That was really impressive," Julius says, sticking his hands in his pockets as he walks in step with her.
She presses her lips into a smile. "Thanks."
"How did you know to spin out of the way like that? His side wasn't even open for an attack, but the moment you moved there, it was unguarded."
(Y/N) shrugs. "I don't know."
Julius scoffs. "Funny. But seriously, how—?"
"I'm being serious," (Y/N) interrupts, glancing at him. "I don't know. It was instinct. Nothing more."
His eyebrows twitch together. "That's . . . huh." He tilts his head at her. "That doesn't seem normal. Is everything okay?"
If he hadn't been entirely clueless about what was really going on, (Y/N) would have burst into laughter.
Oh, sure! I just can't go home to my family because I was shown to kill them, and to top it all off, I'm reminded of it by everything and everyone every single day. So yes, life has been absolutely perfect!
Her teeth ache from the force she clenches them together with. "Yeah," she huffs, forcing another smile. "I'm just tired. Thanks for your concern, though." She stops, turning to Julius and reaching over to pat his elbow. "You're a good friend."
A slight twinge of guilt pokes at her heart when Julius's expression falls. He quickly puts it back together, but shadows continue to swirl in his eyes.
"Oh, um, yeah," he stammers, pulling his shoulders back. "Just . . . let me know if I can do anything to help."
(Y/N) steps away. "I'll be fine," she assures. "Thanks."
As she turns to leave, his figure weakens. She ignores the regret that tries to diffuse into her system.
A dull tug works aimlessly at her chest, searching and stretching and screaming for the one person who wasn't there. And as was typical, her heart yearns for her steps to carry her back home to him.
— x —
Percy's heartbeat was dull.
He could scarcely feel the thuds in the hollow of his chest, could hardly tell that he was still alive.
The connection attached to his soul throbs weakly, lazily, reaching for her as it always did. It was tired of looking, tired of waiting, tired of extending infinitely with no response. It had once echoed the rhythm of his pulse. But now, it was sluggish, exhausted, defeated.
The hair on his neck pricks upward. A rustle passes over the forest floor.
Percy opens his eyes.
Snarls echo from the shadows.
A jolt of energy prods at his heart, and it leaps with a swell of hatred.
At last.
In the midst of numbing emptiness, there was something.
Dull with ichor, Riptide glints as it forms in his hand.
— x —
At the sound of muttering campers, Annabeth looks up from her book. She leans back against the steps to the Athena cabin, watching as the son of Poseidon walks across the clearing. The ground rumbles with his footsteps.
Drenched in golden blood, skin taut over his veins, gaze sharp and murderous—it was the same every single day.
After the dreams had stopped, after they'd come to terms with the fact that they couldn't learn anything more, Percy started to lose his patience.
He had taken to sitting in the shadowed forest, waiting for monsters to find him. Apparently, the satisfaction of killing something was a balm for the pain of (Y/N)'s absence. He'd stopped caring for anything other than the feel of a sword in his clutch and the tang of ichor in the air as life drained from a creature's eyes.
All it did was scare Annabeth.
Fury never left his face, his features set with hatred so immense that campers were afraid to get close to him. His muscles were always tense, ready to pounce on anything that disrupted his space. And the ichor on his skin seemed to constantly reflect in his eyes, glinting with a gruesome reminder of everything he had killed—and everyone Annabeth had lost.
She would look at Percy and see the rage that Luke would hide, his eyes brimming with the gold of Kronos's control. Amidst the crashing waves, she would find traces of soft humanity, but the shimmering backdrop would pull (Y/N)'s face to her mind. She would look for her friend, but Percy's kindness was locked away behind the mask that he couldn't seem to let go.
She misses them all.
But Luke was dead. (Y/N) was gone.
And Percy didn't want to be helped.
And only one person would be able to do that, anyway.
— x —
Everything was golden. Warm.
Her.
Hellish.
Flames dance in every corner of Percy's vision as he stares into the bonfire. With each flicker and spark and leap of the fire, he sees a ghost. An echo, a memory of a hand sparking with flame, of eyes glimmering with power. It was all he could see.
All he could bear to see.
Because if he looked away, everything would go dim. Everything would be filled with the absence, the emptiness, the pure lack. Everything would remind him of how she wasn't there.
He would rather be laughed at by her mimic than haunted by her distance.
His jaw clenches when something rustles in the radius that no camper had dared to break. His muscles tense when a figure enters his periphery, tilting their head at him. Leaves crunch as they sit beside him with a scoff.
"Something you'd like to say?" Percy asks, neglecting to look at the younger girl.
She nearly releases a bark of laughter. "Many things, actually. But you seem to want to wallow in your misery rather than listen to anyone."
The lilt of her voice scratches at some sort of memory. His breath hitches, and his nose tingles at the scent of toasted marshmallows.
And only then does he realize the way the bonfire seems to dance in time with her breathing, the embers that float towards them before dying in the air, the immense energy that radiates from her body and sets his hair on end.
The tension remains as Percy turns to face Hestia. Her red eyes, seemingly full of gentle flame, glance his way before returning to observe Camp Half-Blood.
"What do you want?" he asks. He would have winced at the ice in his voice, had he not been constantly agitated and on edge for the past few weeks.
Hestia hums in consideration. She leans back against the tree trunk that she now shares with Percy, scanning the clearing almost lazily. Campers bustle between their tables and the bonfire, chatting with friends or scraping away offerings to the gods. With each addition to the flames, Hestia's eyes appear to gleam brighter.
"That's an interesting question," she muses. She glances again at Percy. "What do I want? It's probably been millennia since I was last asked that."
The words were odd, especially coming from the mouth of an apparent eleven-year-old. But more so than that, they were spoken with pure amusement and disbelief, pulling the goddess' lips upward as they escaped into the evening air.
"You don't care what I want, Perseus Jackson." Hestia smooths out the sleeve of her plain brown dress, tugging the cuff to fall over her wrist properly. "No, child. You want me to tell you what you want. You want me to give you something to do—something to keep you busy, something to give you a purpose again because, my dear boy, you are wasting away."
Percy rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't say—"
"You have done nothing but channel your anger and sorrow into your sword," Hestia interrupts, her relaxed expression irritating the son of Poseidon further. "And you feel that shedding blood and expending your energy is making an impact. You are ridding your home of the dangers that lurk on the boundary. But you feel no accomplishment. No peace. Rather, it is rage, and hurt, and desperation."
Percy's cheeks flush with heat. His fists clench. But his chest goes hollow when he finds no contradiction to her words.
"And the cycle continues." Hestia's throat rumbles with a soft chuckle. "You use your pain to fuel your purpose, but you reap no reward. And it goes on. And on. And on." She turns her head to look at Percy. Her eyes turn yellow as she pulls her gaze from the fire. "You experience so much, and it is getting you nowhere."
Percy's jaw ticks as he grinds his teeth. He lets out a scoff, turning away to face the bonfire. His heart hurts at the sight of the golden embers. "Why are you here?"
Hestia releases a long sigh. She mirrors Percy's position, her irises shifting tones once more. "To ask that you hold on to hope."
After Hope has fallen, the Father's rise shall be complete.
Percy gives his head a firm shake. It was over. The prophecy had played out.
"Things are likely to become complicated," Hestia says, picking at her hands. "When are they not?"
The traces of amusement in her tone fail to mask the stress that flickers on her face.
"You have been through an incredible ordeal, and for the most part, I can assure you that it is done."
A hint of tension seeps out of Percy's muscles. He was right.
It was over.
"But more is yet to come. More which is yet to be understood or accepted. More which particular individuals feel the need to fear."
Percy's stomach twists. He examines Hestia's expression carefully. She remains outwardly calm, though sorrow accentuates her sharp features.
"So I bring you some advice. Call it a request, if you will." She turns to meet his eye. Her gaze carries the edge of a blade, dark and intense. "It is imperative," she says, "that you protect your friends. Even those who may make it difficult to be protected."
Percy swallows, but his throat knots around itself. His breaths feel thin at the reminder of his foresight. Trying to ignore his apprehension, he huffs a chuckle. "I'm in love with (Y/N) (Y/L/N)," he says, his chest tightening at the thought. "I have some experience with difficult people."
Hestia smiles. Her expression grows somewhat fond.
But still, her lip holds a quiver, her knuckles brace against a tremble—still, she shows an unmistakable display of fear.
"You and (Y/N) both understand the dangers of the world and your capacity to brave them." She swallows, her words now slower as she visibly struggles to keep them steady. "But there are those who fear the dangers that they, themselves, can unleash. And they are no less deserving of safety and care."
Percy's eyebrows twitch together. He casts a wary glance around the campers dispersed through the clearing.
"People may be given power and strength," says Hestia, "but they may not have had a choice. They do not understand the implications of their existence and the consequences they must bear. Decisions have been made for them—against their will, without their say. And thus, the victims are marked as those at fault. So they suffer. When they have done nothing at all."
To Percy's surprise, a tear slides down Hestia's cheek. She makes no move to wipe it away, continuing to hold Percy's gaze with her eyes brimming and glossy.
"For the sake of those who cannot defend themselves, who never had a choice in the life they were given, I ask that you choose to protect them. No matter what they may be capable of. No matter what they may do without intention. Because their circumstance was not of their creation. And they should not be painted guilty for what is done in innocence."
Percy struggles to respond, taken aback. A goddess was sitting beside him, crying, and cryptically pleading for him to do what she asks. He merely stares, unsure of how to convey his confusion.
Hestia doesn't seem to mind. Instead of waiting for a response, she wipes her cheeks and stands, sniffing and easily putting on a mask of composure. She nods down at Percy, who can do nothing other than watch her actions.
Her dress swishes around her ankles as she turns. The air loses its energy while she walks away.
— x —
Percy blinks, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows flooding the Persephone cabin. He breathes in the rosy fragrance that tinges the air, and his chest grows hollow with the emptiness of the space.
Dust dances in spirals as he runs his finger along the bookshelf. He moves instinctively, barely comprehending the layout of his vision as he curves around the edges of furniture, steps away from the creaky floorboard near the back entrance. He stops before the desk, closing his eyes as he imagines the feeling of her in his arms as they stood here—after the weeks of division, and anger, and pain, this was where they finally found each other.
He can nearly feel the curve of her wais, and he pushes closer. His fingers cut through the air. The walls bounce with an echo of his sigh. He opens his eyes, his shoulders loose. His hand falls on the handle of one of the drawers.
Faint grooves seem to outline his fingers, as if the wood had been gripped so many times that it had sculpted to fit the shape of (Y/N)'s hand. Percy's eyebrows furrow as intrigue pokes at him, and he pulls the drawer open.
A simple, square box rests amid a collection of trinkets and papers. Carefully, Percy lifts the lid.
Tears spring to his eyes.
Even in the darkness, golden paint sparkles up from the ridges of a shattered seashell.
All of the pity and fear and sorrow and rage and despair that Percy had kept barricaded off now break free. His breaths choke as his throat grows tight. He struggles to see through his tears.
Despite everything he had said to her, everything he had done, she had kept this gift. His token of friendship that she had sworn to wear every day, his expression of his early feelings that eventually became a mark of her own—she had kept it.
After it had been destroyed. After he had backed away. After she had believed, fully and completely, that he wanted nothing to do with her.
And the love he feels for her grows tenfold, filling him with warmth while simultaneously constricting his heart.
She'd held on. To a memory of affection. To a promise of friendship.
To hope.
As he picks up the fragments of the shell, squeezes them in his fist and feels them dig into his skin, Percy vows to hold on for her.
And he prays to the silence of the night that she'll finally come home.
— x —
With her exhale, (Y/N) can feel the power of the world rush into her system. She focuses on it, feeling it retreat and approach in time with her breaths. In the corner of her senses, Lupa's scrutinizing eye shifts to pride.
Inhale. The power withdraws.
Exhale. It nears.
Inhale. It ripples outward.
Exhale. A force as powerful as lightning barrels into her.
Awakening each of her nerves and jolting her muscles with electricity, the power shoves itself through her body. Something in her veins grows agitated as her connection to the workings of the world strengthens. Her body shakes with the rhythm of its energy. She struggles to hold on.
"Do not worry," Lupa says, though (Y/N) fails to place the direction of her voice. "Do not break away."
"I—" (Y/N) grits her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut further. Her fingertips tingle, aching to let flame or shadow or wind flow through them. She needed to let go, to release her hold, to do something other than stay connected. "It's too much."
"It is yours," Lupa reminds, more firm this time. "And it is trying to tell you something. Do not break away. Allow it to guide you."
(Y/N) can barely feel her breaths as they grate against her throat. But she trusts her mentor.
So she tightens her grasp on the connection and refuses to let it slip away. She focuses on the power in her own system, willing it to reveal its intentions.
"It's . . . dark," she says, her words trembling with the vibrating ripples of energy that pass through her. "Angry."'
Something inside her was aware of a bigger picture. A plan, perhaps, sinister and evil and selfish. The essence speaks to her soul, though she cannot understand its origin.
"It knows something. Something's going to happen, something's . . . being put into motion, and it's going to be terrible."
She can practically envision Lupa calmly tilting her head.
"Good," the goddess says. Her words are smooth, unconcerned. "Now look closer."
(Y/N) takes a deep breath, preparing herself before diving into the connection. She can feel the twists and turns as her mind travels through the Earth, gathering the alien emotions that swell within her chest before attaching them to the trail that stretches her way. Something was calling to her, something was reaching for her, and something was reaching back, yearning and longing and starving for the link to snap into place. She pushes her focus forward, feeling herself get closer, closer, closer—
Her eyes open with a gasp, and she nearly falls backwards.
A burst of golden light passes through the grass as her palm slams into the ground for support. The trail severs, leaving nothing but the gentle hums of energy in the clearing and the rapid pace of her heart.
Lupa steps forward. "What did you see?"
(Y/N)'s lungs strain as she fights to keep breathing. She squeezes her eyes shut, giving her head a firm shake. The image stays.
She couldn't forget that boy's face. His eyes.
What have you done?
"The boy." Her voice sounds odd, hollow and distant. "From the dream." She looks at Lupa, her eyes childishly wide and afraid. "The one who's never been to Camp Half-Blood, who- who's there . . . when all of it happens."
Lupa's tail flicks lazily. "And?"
(Y/N) again shakes her head. Her chest thuds hollowly with her pulse. "And he's in danger," she breathes, feeling his eyes bore into her from the back of her skull. "He has to be. I can . . . I can feel it." She taps her sternum. "I know it."
Her heart aches.
"What . . .?" Her eyebrows pinch together, and she stares at Lupa with every plea she can muster. "What do I do?"
The wolf's eyes appear to glitter with amusement.
"If- If I go after him, I only put this into motion quicker. But if I don't . . ."
Lupa's whiskers twitch, her throat rumbling with a sort of chuckle. "Fate," she says, turning her snout down to the half-blood, "cannot be avoided. But guilt and regret? Those will linger for the rest of time."
(Y/N) swallows, her throat tight. Wind seems to roar in her ears, her thoughts overtaken by the deafening rush of a squall.
"Are you truly the kind of person who acts out of fear for the future?" Lupa asks. Her eyes glimmer with skepticism, telling (Y/N) that they both already know the answer. "Or do you uphold the values you believe in, despite the circumstance?"
(Y/N) turns her eyes to the grass. Her lungs seem to collapse at the reminder of the pained hue in Percy's eyes the day she left. And then the dream flashes in front of her, forcing her gaze upon the cold, bleak, empty nothingness that would fill them before they closed.
But the boy . . .
He was a child. Someone who was calling out for help, likely without even knowing it. Someone who couldn't possibly fight against the forces that were reaching out to him. He needed a protector.
(Y/N) could try to save her camp. She could try to save this child.
She was caught at a crossroads, unsure of which path to take.
But fate couldn't be avoided.
And the road bends, inviting her to follow its direction. Beckoning her with the comfort that she still didn't know what her foresight had been telling her. And some sort of instinct guides her to take the first step.
Her shoulders relax with her sigh.
"You're right," she says, her words soft with resignation, but steady with certainty. "I can't just stand by."
Lupa's canines sparkle in the moonlight. "Then fight."
———
ugh the new show is amazing!! our trio is so precious
just a reminder: please do not pester me to update!!! not only were there comments on the last chapter (which I have deleted) but I got a few PMs basically ordering me to post this one — as I've mentioned many times, I'm busy. so updates are gonna be spaced out, and there's not a whole lot that bugging me can do about that.
otherwise, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!! we're steadily building up to one of the plot points that I've had planned out for a long time now, so I'm very happy to finally be able to share everything with you :)
much love to you all, stay safe and well xx