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What do you do when living starts to be too much?
The question haunted him. Maybe even more than memories and scars. It laid at the tip of his tongue, wanting to be asked and answered, but he always held himself just in time to stop the words from spilling out. A part of him feared the reactions, feared the looks and questions that would inevitably come after words like these.
It haunted him because he knew the answer already.
Maybe that was why he stayed silent. Maybe that was why he said nothing and continued with his days as if the thought wasn’t on his mind at all. Maybe that was why he didn’t argue when he was being sent on a quest after quest, and maybe that was why he was aways so quiet when he came back to the camp alive.
Percy went on with life. When he returned from a quest where he was actively fighting, he trained. He mastered his skills and powers because those were the only things keeping monsters from killing the people he loved. When he wasn’t training, he dealt with problems of other campers. They sought his help for some reason, but Percy guessed that him saving the gods twice was the cause. He didn’t mind but soon, their tasks and asks became just another repetitive cycle.
It never stopped. It was all the same. Go fight monsters. Come to one of the camps. Help campers. Solve problems. Meet the gods because they had another quest for him and they couldn’t trust anyone else to fulfil it but him. Repeat.
What do you do when the days start blending into one another?
Percy didn’t know what to do. He was stuck in the circle, never catching a break, never resting. It seemed that there was always some problem that needed to be taken care of, some fight that needed to be fought, some god that needed a favor.
He didn’t know when exactly had he stopped looking forward to another day. Didn’t know when he started to fight the battles not because he wanted to win, but because it was the only thing he had ever known.
Cut, stab, kill. It was simple to remember and repeat automatically.
Hadn’t I done enough? he wanted to ask every time someone told him there was another quest awaiting him. Hadn’t I sacrificed enough for you? he wanted to yell at the gods when he returned, bloodied and covered in golden dust, eyes dim and hollow.
He never asked, but the answer to his unsaid questions were always written on their faces. Be glad we’re letting you live.
They were watching him, waiting for the moment he’d inevitably snap and turn against them, giving them an excuse to finally kill him.
He was unstable, they would say then. Someone with such power shouldn’t be alive. Not when he’s not on our side.
But Percy couldn’t care less about sides or power. He just wanted to have his own life, but he knew the wish was foolish.
What do you do when you don’t even know who you are anymore?
He was a weapon of the gods. Always had been. He fought their battles and saved their lives and in return they let survive Tartarus.
Percy didn’t know when had his life turned into a never-ending war. But the more he thought about it, the less he cared. He had learnt a long time ago that he wasn’t in charge of his life; the Fates were.
What do you do when living starts to be too tiring?
He turned to the sea.
No one could reach him deep down in the water. There wasn’t a god that would dare to enter his father’s domain without permission, and Poseidon was one of the very few gods who asked nothing from him.
So more often than not, Percy run to the sea. He spent time at the bottom of the ocean and let the currents rock him back and forth. He laid there and did nothing except stare at the world around him, enjoying the darkness of the depth.
Percy turned to the sea because when he screamed, no one could hear him. The water muffled his yells and roars, hid the tears that slowly merged with the ocean. He turned to the sea because when he unleashed his pain and anger, the waves responded to his emotions.
The ocean cradled him, shielded him from the outside world. It welcomed his pain and suffering. The ocean didn’t ask questions. It didn’t send him on quests. The ocean didn’t want anything from him. It throve from his mere presence. The ocean didn’t care about fate or responsibilities. No one could command the ocean, and Percy was the ocean.
He had had enough orders. He didn’t want to be commanded. He had done enough. After all, heroes never lived long.
The ocean always takes back what belong to it. Always.
What do you do when living starts killing you?
You let go.