Currently, Percy's world was made of grey stone and contrived coral. Unmoving manatees hung from chains and strings from the ceiling and cold, empty bunks that served as a testament to just how alone a hero could be.
He had been lying in his cabin for Zeus knows how long, just staring at the ceiling.
Actually, perhaps not even the gods knew how long he'd been here. After all, they didn't seem to give any thought at all to the fleeting nature of human lifespans.
Immortals cared for time as little as they cared for promises. Which is to say, only one half-step above not at all.
Those first few weeks after the end– of the war, of his humanity, of his heart– Percy had been catatonic. With clouded eyes, glazed with a layer of detachment reminiscent of a slaughtered fish. Or, more accurately, one waiting for slaughter.
Laying in his bed, Percy had felt as though he were dead already, and was just waiting for his body to catch up. It was Nico who had decided enough was enough. Shortly after he'd been let out of his own bed– in the infirmary, as all that was available in Cabin 13 were coffins,– the gloomy teen had pulled Percy out of his sheets, forcing him to wash up, eat, and sleep according to something resembling a healthy schedule.
Unfortunately, the one thing he couldn't force Percy to do was to care. It was also the one thing that would've solved the crux of the issue.
Percy didn't want to be a burden, but it felt futile to even try to move forward. Nico's presence was the line that kept him from drifting away completely, but Percy knew it was only a matter of time before he had to choose to either let go of that thread on his own, or to wait until it couldn't hold onto him anymore and he was washed away by the tides.
Having lived his entire life surviving everything from an abusive stepfather to military academies even before discovering that he has one foot in the world of magic and myths, Percy should've been accustomed to doing things on his own.
Growing up, his mother hadn't always been there, no matter how hard she tried, and his father had never been there. On top of that, it wasn't as though Percy had any friends at school, and the teachers either looked down on him or outright despised him.
He'd had a bit of a hard life, trying his best to be a good kid but only managing to be a troublesome one.
Percy just wasn't meant to be good. He was born a mistake, grew into a hero, and now rotted away as a hollow shell.
At this point, it was better that he stop trying. All his efforts brought were trouble, for himself and for those he loved more than the world itself– though that wasn't that difficult of a feat.
With Nico– with all of his family,– Percy rarely ever felt like he was dead weight until they turned their backs. It was almost as though that deep vortex of depression wanted to help him in hiding his weakness from his friends. Percy didn't know if he should be grateful, when all of those bad feelings began to suck him up after the fact.
As the son of the sea, Percy was naturally wary of two things.
The first was the sky, the domain of an egotistical and prideful *sshole who damned others for actions he himself had done in the past. The sky was foreign territory, somewhere Percy wasn't meant to be nor welcome in.
The second was the earth. Not because of a certain primordial who Percy shouldn't think about yet, nor his rather grumpy but nice uncle, but because of the nature of the ocean.
Percy was used to his freedom. The sea was vast and constantly moving, and due to that, someone who thrived in the ocean would never be able to tolerate the claustrophobic sensation of being trapped or suffocated. Percy had experienced the former many times, but most notably in the elevators beyond the Doors of Death; he'd also suffered from the latter when he'd nearly drowned in a muskeg of an Alaskan bog.
If he had choices, Percy could even survive a trip into the legendary Labyrinth. But without control, he felt helpless.
He was unsure if it was the human side of him or the godly blood that created the urge– or maybe some combination of the two– but Percy did know that either way, it gave him a lot to think about. To ruminate on.
Such as, for instance, if his protective, almost possessive, instincts were causing him to hold his companions back. If he was the sludge that clung to their limbs and darkened their vision and clogged up their throat.
Percy didn't want that.
He didn't think he could handle that truth– if it were the truth– now that everyone was dead.
And that statement just led him back to his starting point, as though his hyperactive mind were only running in circles this entire time.
His family had accepted him, had loved him, had put up with all of his shenanigans for years only to end up dying in the prime of their lives because of him. Granted, their sacrifices were not for him alone– he refused to cheapen their lives like that– but their deaths weighed heavy on his shoulders and conscience.
Percy didn't want to spend any more time holding them back.
Especially not Nico, who had only ever been hurt and punished and beaten, and who had only ever poured his everything into helping the people who hated him and condoned such reprimands despite all of that.
The son of Hades deserved better.
Luckily, it seemed he was getting that.
Will Solace was apparently noteworthy enough for Nico to dedicate a few frustrated rants to him, and Percy wasn't so out of touch with reality that he missed the red tips to the pale boy's ears. He thought it was nice. They would be good together, and Nico seemed happier than Percy had seen him in maybe ever.
The noirette was looking healthier by the day, his complexion just a bit more sickly than the blanched olive that had become Nico's normal since his claiming. Percy's lips almost managed a smile when he thought about how great it was that his cousin had someone to take care of him, even– especially– when Nico didn't need said protection, except perhaps in defence from his own self-sacrificing tendencies.
(Percy wasn't really in any place to judge on that, however.)
The younger teen was also making amends with the two camps. Although he'd been going back and forth behind both sides' backs for months, Nico had also played a major role in uniting the camps in the end. People were opening up a bit, trying to suppress some of their prejudices.
It was fortunate, since if they hadn't been willing to at least try, then Percy thought he and Reyna wouldn't have sat by and allowed such blatant disrespect.
Greeks and Romans alike were finally realising all that Nico had done for them, all that he'd sacrificed.
(With this opportunity, perhaps Nico would stop wasting his time on a half-dead son of Poseidon; eventually, he would have to comply with what was best for his own well being. Though certainly not out of lacking loyalty, Percy was certain Nico would need to move on from him, in more than one way.)
Looking back, hadn't it been Percy who had stood in the way of Nico's rightful recognition this entire time?
It was Percy who was showered with praise he didn't deserve. It was Percy who got all the credit after every battle, every war, no matter if he'd just stood by and watched, or held the sky for a few minutes. It was Percy who went down into Tartarus so that Annabeth wouldn't suffer alone, and it was Nico who had gone down with the hope that he would suffer alone.
And still, Nico stayed by his side, whispering words of advice and comfort.
Frankly, Percy wasn't quite sure if he was grateful or spiteful of Nico for helping him through this, making sure he lived on in a torturously bleak existence.
Now, what had he been saying? Ah, yes.
Percy had been rotting away in his cabin over the first couple of months. His face seemingly lost the ability to properly emote and he felt like hiding from the world, just so that he would feel comfortable in his emptiness. In the time after that, however, he had taken a very different approach to mourning.
Some may say that it was called overworking, but as a demigod, it was considered relatively natural to vent all of his terrible thoughts and feelings through his sword until he could barely stand. At camp, everyone had days where they trained past exhaustion. When Percy's limbs felt like the slightest motion would kill him from the strain, he felt justified in refusing to exert the mental power to attempt moving.
It felt as though he'd earned the right to collapse on the ground, like a puppet without strings.
And in truth, while it was never nice to remember he would always be considered a pawn on someone else's chessboard, Percy revelled in the moments when the control was severed, even if they were never happy moments anymore.
Hacking away at training dummy after training dummy, Percy focused on the burn in his muscles and the glide of his blade through the air, rather than the hatred lurking just around the corner of his mind. The hatred of his hands, which had been smeared with rivers of blood. The hatred of his body, which knew just where to rip into the fabric to make it a killing strike. The hatred of his mind, which screamed at him to stop and yet yearned for more, becoming clouded by anger.
Everytime he shook himself out of his daze, Percy fully expected those training dummies he'd demolished and gored to turn bloody and flesh-like. He expected them to have feathers woven into choppy hair or grease dripping down from behind an ear.
The slick feeling on his hands no longer felt like sweat, and he was taken back to flashes of blood and echoes of screams deep within the catacombs of his mind. Percy, who had always disliked being called stupid but had treasured the moments where he wasn't expected to save the world all on his own because his head was full of kelp, always ended up running away from those memories. Numbness would seep back into his bones and he'd retreat back into the stone walls of Cabin 3.
Eventually, though, Percy realised he couldn't just keep running himself into the ground.
His family would have wanted him to live the best life possible, even though they knew how hard their deaths would hit him.
They hadn't died for him. Nor had they died running wild or biting off more than they could choose. They had just died, and tragic as it was, if even one of the people who had survived because of their sacrifices didn't treasure the chance they were given, it would cheapen their decisions. So, Percy, as the person who had been closest to all of the Seven when they were alive and when they had stepped onto that battlefield, needed to protect this life, too.
No matter how much it hurt.
So, at Nico's insistence, he started leaving his cabin for more than training. He swam in the lake, and taught a handful of swords lessons when he was up to it. He bickered with Clarisse and feasted on mountains of blue food in the dining hall. He acted similarly to how he had before, save for the missing laughter and ghostly smiles.
It wasn't all fake, and it made him feel better when the survivor's guilt wasn't crushing his spirit. But even this role became tiring. His mask was so closely melded with his actual face that it was hard for even Percy to know what was genuine recovery and what was a front.
Nevertheless, Percy pressed onwards. When he picked himself back up and returned to the world of the living– even if he didn't feel as though he entirely belonged there anymore,– the other campers were happier. The older ones started to heal, too, and the younger ones were inspired to fight for their right to live.
That alone made his heart feel a little lighter, as though his struggles were worth it to see those small smiles.
The part that wasn't worth it was that Percy hadn't been the only one to pay for that happiness.
Most people had their moments when it just hit them that yup, this is my life now.
Yeah, Percy doesn't have those anymore. He's kinda desensitised to it at this point. As a demigod, his life warranted a whole other category from the usual existential question prompting events of a mortal. That word, 'mortal', would've been anyone's first guess as to that fact.
In his defence, who wouldn't have suffered aftereffects after surviving literal hell? Both Annabeth and Nico had confessed to feeling inexplicably different after the Pit. It wasn't just that something in their soul shifted a bit, but in that they viewed the world in a fundamentally different way.
In Annabeth's case, it was specifically her boyfriend that she saw differently. He couldn't blame her for that, given the things she saw, the things he'd done down there. But, gods, did it hurt to know that someone who had been the centre of Percy's world had at some point wanted to pull away from him out of fear.
ercy had never wanted to show that part of himself to anyone, much less her. Hades, he hadn't even known that part of him existed until that moment. That place had unveiled aspects of Percy that he wished had remained hidden.
Percy knew that he was...Well, that he was a lot of things, but among them, he was aware of the reactions drawn from his fellow demigods, and the connotations.
He was terrifying to some, demonstrated by the stiff set of their shoulders whenever he got too close. He was respected by others, shown by the salutes and awe-filled eyes that trailed after him like a cape secured around his neck and shoulders. Percy was a threat, a symbol, and a shield; he was all of these at once, and it could be seen in everything.
Percy hadn't told anyone about his time in the Pit and no one had asked. One thing about being revered as a god was that on topics like that– and most others– he was unapproachable. Anyone comfortable enough with him that they could talk normally knew that those experiences were too dark to discuss underneath the eternally bright sun of Camp Half Blood.
Furthermore, Percy's powers had begun fluctuating, requiring a new degree of control to restrain. Those he trusted enough to know about the problem were also those who would know just how much he was terrified of the changes.
Even during the Second Titan War, Percy had always had the luxury of acting relaxed and easy-going, the type of guy who only ever fought if necessary.
After enduring a place where if you weren't killing, you were dead, those morals had fractured. Although he'd retained his lucidity, his sense of self had wavered; even if it were only for a moment, Percy had become someone unrecognisable.
That person— the one who wore a mocking smile as he tortured a wretched goddess, the one who desired nothing more than to destroy another in one of the most thorough ways possible simply because his mental state was degrading and he wanted to bring them down with him— was not just a part of Percy.
It was Percy.
A force so insidious and closely entwined with the demigod that there was no way to lock one away without the other. A force that could only be suppressed by Percy's other traits.
Percy knew it was true, because he didn't regret doing those things. Only that others had been forced to witness his actions. His retributive justice was too cruel to condone, even for those who loved him.
Demigods we're exposed to hard truths early on. In order to deal with those truths, they relied on their siblings and their companions. If Percy ripped away the curtains, then would they be able to handle the reveal of a friend as a monster?
Half-bloods were best at fighting enemies when they were obvious about it. If it were a friend who lied to them, things became far too complicated far too quickly. So he kept up the façade, for them and for himself.
Percy's rage was like the ocean. As time went on, it shifted from a brewing tempest to a frenzied hurricane to an unavoidable tsunami. Nowadays, all he had to do was make sure that his anger took the form of still seas, only ever lashing out below the surface. His fury was to be directed internally, and never shown; it was to be covered up with an eerily neutral expression, as dead and blank as a doll. Or a corpse.
Percy wasn't allowed to feel those kinds of emotions, the strong, indomitable ones. Percy couldn't afford to get angry, to be subject to true, pure, and unbridled anger, without others suffering the consequences of his foolishness; his impulsive mistakes and restless nature could breed catastrophe for everyone else in his life, not just him.
This rule was not limited to anger. Any intense emotions triggered something on the edges of his mind and in the pit of his stomach, birthing death and pain and destruction, almost akin to when Pandora had first released the curses into the world.
But while Percy could repress it, this entire situation was like a dam on the brink of failure. And it was common sense, that when that barrier finally broke, the more water it had accumulated on the other side, the worse the resultant torrent would be. And for Percy the dam breaking wasn't an option; it was only a matter of how long he could hold back.
Oh well.
Those thoughts just made Percy more determined to live the rest of his life like this, only being able to release on his deathbed, and perhaps not even then.
Then his father's voice would come back full force, echoing in his skull and making Percy want to scream.
"The sea does not like to be restrained."
Percy...Percy was so tired.
He had never wanted to be a half-blood.
He had never wanted to be a hero.
He had never wanted these powers.
It was some type of hell, living his life not as a child, or even a person, but as a tool. He was born in a position that even if he became a perfect, obedient weapon against his own self, he would never be more than that. Should he try to resist, to defy fate and live for himself, he would be deemed a threat to be disposed of.
It was not Percy's fault he had been born.
But the Styx could not punish his father, and so the sins fell to his son to bear. Zeus could not start a fight with Poseidon, so he sneered at his child. Monsters could not reach the gods, so they instead hunted and devoured their bastards.
Percy hated that he was a ticking time bomb, the pressure building up inside him every moment he lived on, biding it's time until he went ballistic.
More than that, though, he was disgusted by the fact that this was the destiny of every half-blood, and that they were considered lucky to hit puberty without further trauma.
The gods perpetuated the suffering of their children and instead of feeling guilty or trying to fix the issues, they went out to make more kids they refused to take care of.
It just so happened that this generation of demigods were especially unlucky, with Percy at the vanguard.
Falling into the Pit had been the final straw— the culmination of godspawn being forced to survive on their own, abandoned by their creators. They pushed themselves in order to earn the pride and attention of parents who couldn't care less and came back with their terror being painted over with words of glory and praise. Even then, that praise never came from the one that they had tried to prove themselves to.
Still, Percy had fought Gaea.
Not for the gods. Never for the gods. He fought for those left in the shadows of such hypocritical deities so that they should have the chance to step into the light.
He would say so to anyone who cared to know it, just so that the narrative wasn't twisted into it being Percy's honour to defend Olympus, in the name of his father who had done so much for him.
The same father who had ignored him until he was useful. The same father who threw him onto a battleground expecting Percy to revere him for it. The same father whose blood had been so saturated with mistakes that Percy could not escape the consequences of being related to such an entity.
The son of the sea god.
Percy spent every night reliving his journey through the Pit. He woke up in the morning trembling on the floor, scrambling to pull himself together and make sure that the dirt did not shake with him, that he did not kill people by losing control of his fear. He was constantly reminded of what would happen if he slipped up.
Sea green eyes peered into the faces of people around him— those few friends still left standing and who saw him as a boy they cared about, not the 'great hero Perseus Jackson'— only to find that they were looking back at him with worry. With pity. With sadness, and apprehension, and horror.
In the mirror, that same dull gaze scanned over muscles earned through endless combat and eaten away by months of hunger. They saw a complexion caught somewhere between deeply tanned and sickly pallor. They saw shoulders weighed down by something heavier than the sky. They saw a jaded soul who had seen too much of the world to see beauty in it.
There were eyebags, too.
Percy figured that was the easiest thing to fix.
For months, the teenager prayed to Hypnos, sacrificed to Morpheus, even went so far as to ask Hades to remove his dreams entirely, to put him in a Death Trance every night if he had to.
He'd pleaded day and night for reprieve.
It never came.
And so Percy felt bitter once more, because the gods had let him down. Again.
Nevertheless, Percy wasn't the only one who'd changed.
Ever since the Giant War, everything was off. Most of the older demigods had gone to college, or were planning to leave elsewhere ASAP just to avoid finding themselves stumbling down memory lane. Who'd want to stay in a place that reminded them of all their failures, all their broken dreams, all the friends who they hadn't been able to save?
Percy was only here because he didn't have much choice, and he definitely needed demigod therapy. Maybe a change of scenery would do him well. What was it Leo had told him back on the Argo II?
"I figure the world is basically a machine. I don't know who made it, if it was the Fates, or the gods, or the capital-G god or whatever. But it chugs along the way it's supposed to most of the time. Sure, little pieces break off and stuff goes haywire once in a while, but mostly... things happen for a reason."
No. That wasn't right. Too optimistic.
Besides, what possible reason was there for Percy to remain alive at this point? Being a pawn, in his father's games? Not much of a reason. A husk would be better than him at this point. Less volatile, less unpredictable, and follows orders properly.
"Keep moving, and the past won't catch up to you. If the memories start coming back, take it as a sign. You need to move faster."
Ah, there it is. Percy agreed with that sentiment more than ever, and that was saying something, with his luck and the memories dragged along for the ride.
The new campers had no idea about the kind of world they were stepping into. They had no clue that they were surrounded by people who were war weary and broken, because everyone was so good, too good really, at wearing masks. But Percy could tell. His mask was better than all of theirs, because not only could he see through their guises, but they couldn't see through his.
A one way pane of glass, so that no matter what they thought he was feeling, they wouldn't be able to see beyond what he wanted them to. The comparison almost made him feel bad.
But at the very least, Percy cared about the people he was keeping locked out.
He figured it was because while he was half-Poseidon, he was half-Sally, too.
His mother had never asked much of him, in comparison to his father. She had only ever wanted him to stay happy, safe, and 'strong'. It wasn't an easy ask, but it was the sort of challenge Percy adored his mother for pushing upon him.
But Poseidon.
'Demi' was 'half'. That's all a god needed, to feel he owned someone. That he was entitled to use Percy for any purpose he wished, and the child couldn't protest because Poseidon had created him.
Percy hadn't had any say in that. He hadn't chosen to be born. If he could go back, maybe he'd prevent it from ever happening. That might create a time paradox though. Guess that plan's scrapped.
But seriously, the philosophy that having one foot in the Greek pantheon— a foot Percy hadn't even had an option in placing there in the first place— meant that a half-blood had to give their everything to said world? And were expected to do it perfectly, asking nothing in return, despite the obvious dangers and pain they had to undergo?
That was almost laughable, except for the fact that so many had been scarred, killed, trying to do exactly that, so their parents would acknowledge that they existed. Would admit that the kid was theirs, as though it were a point of shame for them, or if the kid already knew their parent, then they'd have to earn themselves the title of son, or daughter, or whatever. Prove themselves worth the half-second it took to say, 'Yes, it's my fault this abomination exists. I'm sorry.'
And when addressing the kids themselves, after the half-blood finally earned the recognition that should have been their birthright, the gods were debatably worse.
'Oh, are your feelings hurt? If it makes you feel any better, even though your birth was my decision to begin with, I only wish you'd never been born– something I use both against you and in my defence as a contradicting statement– because being my child is like assigning you a death sentence. Plus your life is a burden to me, you're utterly worthless in the grand scheme of things, and— are you good now? Fantastic, go kill [insert monster here] and retrieve [insert magical item here] before [insert god/goddess] blames me for something.'
The world was a cruel place, but their world? Their world was crueller. They were half-bloods, yes, and they were equipped to deal with these things, but they were also people. Children. But no longer did they hold onto that sincere innocence. No longer did they have wonder dancing in their eyes.
Some had died, horrible, painful deaths they'd always known they were destined for yet were helpless to prevent. Others were condemned to years full of blood and tears and the pain of living. Or maybe 'living' wasn't the right word— 'surviving' fit better. Demigods just couldn't seem to die until they began piecing together the pieces of their life, pulling themselves out of the shadows, only for the light to reveal another insurmountable challenge that this time, was truly the end for them.
Anyone who had survived up until this point was broken. War had destroyed them, crushed their spirits and stolen the lives of their friends and comrades. Percy was the person most devastated by the constant conflicts.
He had been shattered, each death serving as a blow to his soul that would never heal over. Percy had tried to put himself back together, but the true risk wasn't that the glass shards would scratch at each other; rather, those harsh edges cut the hands trying to glue them back together.
And while it hurt him, others would always take priority. Therefore, Percy continued to pick up the pieces so that no one else would attempt to do the same.
Once new campers heard of his exploits, they would look at him as if he were a god. They wanted him to remain infallible while also caring for them in the way they still believed their parents could. Percy hated those looks. Worse, by now, even some of his friends from before the wars were drifting away from him, too blinded by his feats, by the image of a wrathful hero that had been seared into their minds.
A handful looked at him instead with ruth. Percy had thought this the better alternative, until he realised that they were merely tiptoeing around him. It made him feel like a beast waiting to break free the moment someone prodded him, even though they likely saw him more as a statue on the verge of turning to dust.
Despite all of this, everyone called Percy a hero. After everything he'd lost, every soul he'd sacrificed...
A true hero, they said.
Ha. What a joke.
They called him merciful.
Akhyls had begged him to stop tormenting her only moments after sneering down at him for being a 'pathetic half-blood'. He had laughed in her face and only hesitated long enough to force himself to retreat because of Annabeth.
He'd been forced to execute hundreds of fellow demigods who were upset and misguided, because 'there wasn't enough time'. If he'd seen the war coming beforehand, perhaps he could've talked things out, perhaps he'd have been able to save some of them; instead, they'd died by his blade, insignificant deaths who were mere cannon fodder as Percy made his way to the big boss.
He'd left behind thousands of people in his wake of chaos, alive, but suffering so much they wished they weren't.
They called him truthful.
Iapetus had looked up at him asking who he was, and Percy had lied to his face knowing that the titan had no choice but to believe him. And after he had put his full faith in Percy, the demigod had abandoned him in the palace of Hades to be a menial worker.
What had become of him after that?
He had jumped down into the belly of the beast to protect the boy he believed was his friend and fought against his own family– no matter how cruel and uncaring they may be– for Percy. He had taken up his spear, knowing that he would die a most miserable death, for Percy. Iapetus– Bob– was now trapped in an endless cycle of torment alongside his brothers. Percy wondered if Iapetus was aware enough that he now recognised that it had been Percy who had convinced Iapetus he had to kill his own healing, unconscious kin.
And when Percy told the truth, it was usually twisted. Manipulative. Chrysáor and his pirates, terrified for their lives. And Nico- Nico. An innocent ten year old who treasured the promise he'd extracted from his only hero, whose face had collapsed in on itself in grief when he discovered that Percy had lied, and Bianca was dead.
Nico's sister was dead, and while it wasn't entirely Percy's fault that he failed at protecting her, he had allowed her to run straight towards her demise. It wasn't enough that he bore the weight of Bianca's death on his shoulders; Percy knew he had to carry with him the burden of the betrayals he'd committed against Nico time and time again.
They called him brave.
Percy was constantly running. It was something he had done his whole life, and something he would continue to do until the end of it. He was a coward, always interfering in business that wasn't his and being scared out of his mind while doing it.
Some people said that true courage was moving forward even when scared, but Percy didn't believe that. He did what he did so that he could survive. Every measure enacted was done out of necessity, not will. If his options were possible death or certain, why wouldn't he take a risk and jump for the former?
At 14, Percy had stayed back to hold up the sky. In doing so, he'd given himself an excuse for being useless, for watching distantly as everyone else fought around him. Too weak to stand up, he'd watched Zoë die. Now all that remained of her was a blade, a constellation, and a name carved into a bead.
Maybe, in another life, another time, another path, Percy could've been a hero. Not the hero, but one. Preferably a minor one– in the background, but able to defend his friends. Small-time heroes didn't have to worry about saving the world. All they had to be concerned with was being brave enough to defend their loved ones.
This wasn't that life.
And now Percy had the worship, and the power, and the training, but he lacked the simple ability to protect.
So. Many. Friends. All gone in the blink of an eye. And he had just sunk to his knees and sat there as he watched the life draining out of their eyes, as loved ones and strangers alike said their final goodbyes.
He had to watch as she fell to the ground. As she, the strongest person he'd ever known, was suddenly helpless. He had to watch her broken body go completely limp in his arms. He had to watch her beautiful, clear grey eyes roll back into her skull and grow foggy, while she choked on words of forgiveness and confessions of affection that never made it out. Those last precious breaths...wasted on him.
Percy knew he wasn't the only one who lost people.
Among the net positive losses was Octavian. Sometime during the middle of the battle, he had heard from Nico and Will that the augur had gotten his robes caught on an onager and he had accidentally ordered himself fired into the sky. Good riddance. Under normal circumstances, Percy never truly wished for anyone to be hurt, but these were not 'normal circumstances'.
Many hunters died, leaving Thalia to search for new members, along with mourning her newly chosen sisters.
At camp, most of the campers who had been around long enough to truly bond with any of the deceased were mourning. Others were still shocked to the very core only seeing the remains of the carnage. A select few had progressed quickly into denial, or something else entirely that Percy wouldn't be able to describe in so few words.
Still others were sick with worry. Travis Stoll was still fretting over his younger brother, Conner, who was on strict bedrest in the infirmary because of his broken ribs and leg wound. A curved scar was etched under his left eye. Travis himself had suffered bad burns on his right forearm, to the degree where some of the skin and muscles had been replaced with Celestial Bronze reinforced fibres being sewn into his skin. Percy didn't think the reality of the wound had truly sunk in yet. It must've been a hazy, irrelevant fact through the concern.
Clarisse La Rue was fussing over her new godson, Chuck, to keep from thinking about her boyfriend, Chris Rodriguez, and his many deep injuries. She distracted herself with the next generation, to keep her mind relatively calm regarding the sad truths of her own. Even being at camp was a sore reminder of the war, and not just because it took place there, though that was certainly a factor. No, Clarisse and Chris had applied to some university in Arizona. They had to wait another semester now, because no one could know about the wars, or demigods, or Olympus, so they just had to suck it up and resist the urge to ask for an actual hospital with better equipment.
Drew Tanaka had her role back as head counsellor of the Aphrodite cabin, but she was different. More in touch with others emotions, and trying to keep everyone sane...or, as sane as demigods can be, at least. Her cabin would've fallen apart without her guidance. And still, Percy had caught Valentina Diez after she'd collapsed suddenly from the influx of grief on her senses. Being near him made it worse, but his genuine concern seemed to bury his emotions enough for him to transfer her to someone else quickly.
Holly and Laurel Victor– who Percy didn't really know all that well, but enough to recognize that their fights were half-hearted and listless compared to before– were discovered crying behind the Nike cabin just yesterday. They'd even opted to sit out Capture-the-Flag that week because they were 'too tired'. There wasn't even a challenging insult or viable excuse slapped on the end.
The newer campers, who hadn't really known anyone all too well, were terrified of knowing the full extent of what had happened, but as for their dead siblings...they'd already progressed to remembering them with bittersweet smiles and sad glances. That just made it all the more agonising for the older campers.
They kept busy, and managed, though.
To be fair, there was a lot of work to be done, what with repairs and constructing new cabins. Even if Jason was dead, Percy wanted to help him to keep his promise. The paperwork had already been started and waiting in his room on the Argo II in any case. That brought him back to his original train of thought.
His dead friends. He was more than heartbroken, but at least there was a chance of seeing them again once he died. And he'd have eternity to spend with them. He should be slightly appeased, knowing that he'd see them again one day, but...
Percy rolled over on his bed and picked up the face-down picture frame of the seven in New Rome, before Leo had been possessed by the eidolon and blown the city up. In the photo, Percy had one arm wrapped around Annabeth's waist and the other thrown over Jason's shoulder. In return, Jason had his left arm around Percy, and his right was holding hands with Piper. Kneeling down in front, Frank and Hazel were leaning against each other amicably, with Leo doing a silly pose next to them. Everyone was beaming and seemed to be having fun, even after having only known each other for such a short period.
It had been like magic. In a way, maybe it was just that, but Percy couldn't imagine magic being used for something that felt so good to him. Fate, or trickery, or mind magic, who cared at this point? They'd hit it off, and it had felt like they'd known each other for centuries instead of a few minutes.
'Life was so simple back then,' Percy mused, 'Or maybe 'simple' isn't the best word. After all, I'd just been put to sleep for six months and then woke up with amnesia, travelled to Alaska to beat up an army of ghosts, became praetor, and discovered that Jason had been switched with me and we were going to war. But hey, at least we were semi-happy,' he thought.
Percy let his mind wander again, this time to the funerals.
Everyone at camp had agreed that the people who died in the Giant War shouldn't just be burned with shrouds. Those who had died during the Second Titan War had their names inscribed on a large monument, and just like back then, many of the veterans still had burned shrouds. Rather than wrapping the dead bodies in them, however, they just burnt the cloths and decided to build a cemetery. The person's cabin would be the one to design the headstones, but Percy had asked Cabins 6, 9, and 10 to let him help with Annabeth, Leo and Piper's.
Frank was technically a Roman, so he didn't have a cabin, but he was buried with the rest of the Seven, and Percy volunteered to make his stone. He also did Jason's and Hazel's, with the assistance of Thalia and Nico. Even if Percy knew that they were at peace and safe (albeit dead), that didn't change the fact that he was alone.
He hadn't expected the waves of throes to wash over him when he saw the hole and the earth and the unconscious– dead, dead, dead– friend being buried alive– dead, dead, dead– in the dirt, which moved and shifted in order to swallow them more effectively.
The faces were familiar-but-not and the entire experience invoked a strong sense of travail inside him. Percy was frozen, stuck on the battlefield again, but this time he was paralyzed. Brief flashes of visions and memories before he was in his bed, having freaked out and vanished into his cabin during the attack.
Percy is expected to be a hero; a leader. And heroes aren't supposed to break.
Whatever. Percy can keep up his mask for a little while longer. He was going to leave camp soon anyways. Stay with his mom and Paul, with the understanding that he'd frequent both camps in order to oversee the building of more temples and cabins. Camp Jupiter's visits, as its physical state wasn't in as much ruin as its sister location, would be spent in meetings, being debriefed, and picking up stacks of paperwork so that Reyna wasn't spending as much on mail for a few weeks. The children and legacies of Trivia had seen to it that the papers had been charmed so that anyone who looked at them would see it in English, and that any sensitive information was coded.
Returning to the position of praetor was difficult, but Percy was unwilling to let Reyna handle everything alone, again. If he were unable to make it, Nico was nice enough to volunteer to take over for the time being, as he'd already be present with his ranking as Ambassador. Paperwork from afar would have to be done while he was at his mom's, and the work at Camp Half-Blood could be passed off as official delegations.
Even so, all of this travelling served another purpose as well. Percy wouldn't attract an unmanageable population of monsters to Paul and Sally's new place in Brooklyn. Paul's salary was about $2,500 a month, and they'd need enough for food, utilities, taxes, and saving up for little Estelle's future, so the place was cheap, considering, as well as having 4 bedrooms for when Percy was home and didn't want to have Estelle watch as he gagged himself in order to sleep. The name was ironic as well- Sea Park North,- which may or may not have been a deciding factor.
In any case, a nomad-esque lifestyle was exactly what Percy needed to keep the monsters at bay. His reputation was terrifying, but the glory gained from being the beast to finally kill him competed with what little sense most monsters possessed. Another plus, he wouldn't even have to pack anything, seeing as he basically had a home at each place.
Percy had a ton of people supporting him, and the pain from everyone's deaths and injuries was being pushed into a dark corner of his mind by the strong ties he'd established with everyone left, so his life was going pretty well. He wasn't going to heal anytime soon; he'd have to learn to live with the weight, like he had after the Titan War, but he was already starting to clear his head, spending more time socialising and opening up more to other two-time veterans. He was healthier, and he was made more certain by the fact that Will, Nico and Reyna had cleared him to be in a solid-enough mental place that he could take over some duties as praetor.
He would be okay.
Percy knew that. He really did. But 'knowing' wasn't enough.
No matter how much better he got, the most he'd ever be was 'okay'. Capable of tolerating his own existence, and making the ones around him better, hopefully, yet still unable to relish life like he used to. His scars were not just physical, and the mental gashes were debatably worse. Will was already scheduling an appointment with himself and some legacy from Camp Jupiter. A descendant of Mr. D– sorry, Mr. B– and Apollo– or, yeah, still Apollo– who specialised in mental health and illnesses.
Now, Percy may be able to remember all the good times, but they wouldn't be there to reminisce with him. He may be able to go a full (not really, but almost) three days without any breakdowns now, but his mood swings were violent and stirred up guilty memories inside of him. He may be able to move past the traumatic events somewhat and forgive himself as they forgave him so long ago, but that wouldn't stop him from reliving their shattered bodies on the battlefield, their corpses being lowered into the ground.
Watching that felt like surrendering them to Gaea, but most of the other campers either didn't realise it, or ignored it.
'I'll keep all my emotions locked up tight and then one day, I'll die,' Percy thought, half jokingly. 'That's just the fact of the matter. I was born to die for those who curse my name.'
Every time he closed his eyes, Percy was met with memories of dead eyes and blank stares; every time he went to sleep he relived those moments in his nightmares, or, sometimes, the Pit would invade his dreams just to torture him further. He wouldn't mind as much if it weren't for the endlessly drawn out, soul draining feel of the nightmares. It could be weeks, it could be days, or hours there, and Percy wouldn't know the difference.
Deep down, he knew the Pit shouldn't have been able to escape his domain, even to enter Percy's dreams. Maybe there was some sort of exception, given the demigod's visit, but Percy just thought it was all in his head.
Percy grabbed a backpack full of medical supplies and weapons, along with baggies of ambrosia and nectar for emergencies. He walked over to the lake and waited for his ride. He was kind of nervous. He hadn't seen his mom in over 8 months. Besides the phone call during his quest with Frank and Hazel, he hadn't had any contact at all.
'Hey, boss.'
Percy jumped a foot in the air at the sudden intrusion to his thoughts. Then he relaxed and sent a playful glare at Blackjack, who swooped down next to him with the dramatic strut he always did when landing.
'Got any donuts?' the pegasus asked, ignoring the annoyed demigod's look.
Rolling his eyes, Percy surrendered the sweet treat he'd snatched from breakfast, which he'd stored in his bag until his gluttonous horse arrived. It was a rare find, at camp, given the focus on healthy food and sustainability. When Blackjack finished, Percy fixed his backpack straps and walked towards him.
"Alright, you're done. Can we go now?" he asked, more than a little impatient.
'Yeah, yeah. You wanted to go to your apartment, right, boss?' Blackjack whinnied. 'Hop on.'
Percy had given up trying to stop his horse from calling him 'boss' a long time ago, so he just sighed and obliged. He barely had the time to grab onto Blackjack's mane before they were airborne.
When they got to the apartment, Percy thanked Blackjack and went down the flight of stairs from the roof to his mom's apartment. When he knocked on the door, it flung open to reveal a grey-streaked brunette woman with familiar, pained, resignedly sad blue eyes.
Percy nearly cried. Oh wait, he was crying.
"Mom," he choked out, suddenly shaking as all the terror, the despair, the desperation he'd felt these past few months melted into the background. His limbs felt weak, but also like dense lead as they hung down by his sides.
Sally's eyes welled up, too, and she tackled Percy into a warm, thank-the-gods-you're-alive, it's-finally-over kind of hug.
His voice was steadier, in her embrace. "H-hey, mom. I-I'm sorry. Sorry for disappearing...I didn't mean to. Sorry that I couldn't call you more. Sorry that it took me so long to get back."
Percy's nose perked up as he noticed the mouth-watering scent wafting through the doorway and he cracked a small smile, regaining a bit of his humour. "Sorry that I have to ruin this by asking if you've made blue cookies."
His mom laughed, a noise full of relief and happiness and catharsis.
"They're all for you. I've been making a batch every day since I got the notice you were coming home, in the hopes that you'd show up right then and there," she told him. "Paul's gotten sick of them, and, and Estelle's stomach– oh! Estelle,"
She pulled away from Percy, cupping her son's face in her hands, cradling it as though he were something precious. Her smile was warm and welcoming, shining with such pure joy and overwhelming relief that Percy wanted to cry again.
"You have to meet her. Paul says she looks just like me, but her hair is too dark for that. You can be the tiebreaker. Bring the cookies with you," she commanded. Percy followed her inside, happy to be back and sad that he'd left in the first place. His emotions were exhausting him already.
His mom's gaze zeroed in on his left arm when he took his SPQR jacket off. Percy realised he shouldn't have let his guard down and braced himself. His mom would always be a constant in his life, and that constant included the grating lectures whenever he did something especially stupid.
"A tattoo?!"
"Technically, it's supposed to be a representation of my status burnt into my arm, but I guess you could call it-"
"They branded you?! I haven't seen you in nearly a year, and you come back branded and- Perseus Jackson what happened to your arm?!"
This was going to be an interesting few hours.
Edited as of April 3rd, 2023