Chapter Text
Jon took Martin’s hand as the Panopticon crumbled around them. “Maybe we both die. Probably. But maybe not. Maybe, maybe everything works out, and we end up Somewhere Else.”
Martin’s voice was cracked and tearful, and as he met Jon’s eyes for what might have been the last time, they shone with a shattered mix of grief-anger-determination that broke and broke and broke a thousand times. “Together?” he whispered.
He nodded. “One way or another. Together.”
Martin picked up the knife, covered in Jonah Magnus’ still-wet blood, hands trembling so badly he nearly dropped it twice. “I don’t think I can...”
Jon put his hands over Martin’s, and gently guided the point of the knife so it sat against his own chest. “It has to be you. The Eye won’t let me do it.”
Martin sobbed, but did not remove the knife. “Are you sure about this?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and it was perhaps the saddest smile that had ever been. “No,” he answered. He closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against Martin’s. “But I love you.” And of that, if nothing else, he was sure.
“I love you too,” he whispered back. Without thinking, he leaned in, closing the distance between them, and kissed him.
Jon felt wetness on his cheeks and didn’t know if the tears were his, or Martin’s, or both, he Knew exactly how it would feel when Martin drove the knife deep into his chest but Knowing didn’t make it any easier when it came and it came and the metal slid through fabric and flesh and he gasped in pain and, as blood pooled in the Panopticon and the Eye screamed in rage and the Web laughed and laughed and laughed, as consciousness faded and his vision (and his Vision) went black, the only thing he really heard was Martin’s sobs. And they hurt him almost as much as the knife.
Then everything went black, and he didn’t feel anything anymore.
Jon knew he must be dead.
His only question was, why did it hurt so much?
His chest throbbed where... no . He forcefully shoved that memory outoutout of his mind. He Simply Opted Not To Think. It had happened, it was over, and he… he sure was somewhere. Somewhere Else?
Where was Somewhere?
He needed to figure out where he was. And, why he was anywhere at all. He should have died, after all; he couldn’t feel the Eye (and it was as though he was blind and deaf and ansomniac and numb-), but he didn’t need the embodiment of Knowledge to inform him that when someone stabs you in the heart ( don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’tthink- ), You Die. Nine out of ten doctors don’t recommend it. (We don’t know what the one is doing. We won’t be talking to them again.)
Was he really so used to the Eye that without it telling him everything all at once, he was entirely helpless? No, he insisted. He wouldn’t let that be. He still had perfectly good senses, and they’d served him well enough for a whole lifetime, after all. He just had to get used to relying on only them for information, now. He could do this. He would.
Okay. Start from the top. His eyes were closed. His head was resting on… something? He seemed to be lying down. Something tickled the back of his neck; he tried to identify the texture. Grass, maybe? It was- yes. He inhaled. Grass. Okay, that was a start. He was laying down, with his eyes closed, in the grass. Presumably outdoors. There didn’t seem to be an excess of light trying to enter from beyond his eyelids, so perhaps it was dark outside? Night time? The air, too, was cool- yes, it was likely night.
He listened. What was around him?
Soft rustles, leaves, grass; the faint sound of crickets; it was peaceful.
Of course, moments after he had that thought, the stillness of a quiet night was abruptly interrupted by the distant (but rapidly approaching) sound of running footsteps.
Ah.
Now wasn’t that just wonderful .
Hopefully whoever (or whatever) it turned out to be, didn’t want to kill him painfully and violently. If he was going to die, he wanted to see Martin one last time first.
A Few Minutes Earlier
Annabeth lay on the roof of the Cabin Three, staring up at the sky. She’d started coming here on nights she couldn’t- or wouldn’t- sleep, which, ever since Percy had vanished, was… most of them. Sometimes, on other nights, she’d go for long walks on the beach, too. (Though somehow it always felt a little bit wrong to do so alone.) The cleaning harpies didn’t like it, though, and so she’d eventually taken to only laying on the roof. Plus, it was more secluded; she and Percy weren’t the only couples who’d enjoyed walking the edge of the sea together. Yeah okay the roof had several advantages.
Tonight, as usual, the sky was clear. Light pollution had little impact within the borders of the camp, thanks to its magical shielding. She liked being able to see the stars, she liked being able to name every constellation in the sky, she liked being able to look up at Zoë and know that the fallen Hunter was forever dancing with the moon.
There was almost no sound; the camp was asleep. Frogs and crickets trilled in the woods, accompanied by the occasional crash or crunch that meant a monster was awake. Over by the beach, waves hissed softly over the sand- she shouldn’t have been able to hear them, not from this far away, but in this spot she always could.
It was peaceful, here, and there was a stillness to the camp at night that it never seemed to have while the sun shone above. Campers and satyrs and dryads and pegasi and harpies and- Everyone always bustling about, doing Important Things like training to survive and making sure the camp’s magical borders were intact and building the Argo II and tending the strawberry fields and looking for Percy, and it was all so important and she understood that, but Annabeth had learned to treasure silence.
What a pity that her Moment™ was about to be ruined!
The sky, so pristine half a moment before, found itself abruptly shattered, as something that looked like cracks spread near instantly throughout the Everything. The origin point seemed to be somewhere over by… the tree. The tree.
Her brain didn’t have time to catch up before her feet hit the ground and her knife was drawn and she was sprinting towards Thalia’s Pine because if something had hurt the tree- or the Fleece- or Peleus- or the borders- or-
She pushed her legs to carry her a little faster.
And, in a heartbeat, she was there.
She scanned the scene, breathing heavily. Thalia’s tree appeared to be untouched, as did the fleece, hung on a low branch and as glittery gold as ever. Peleus was alert, fangs bared and yellow eyes wide; but he didn’t seem to have been injured. There were no signs of a scuffle, no monster tracks, nothing but… “Oh gods, you’re bleeding,” she sighed, sheathing her knife.
The man(?) opened his eyes, and Annabeth noted with concern that they were extremely bloodshot. Not the most important blood he had, though. No, that was the stuff seeping out of his chest from what looked like a stab wound just below his heart. How was he even alive - no. No time for that. Either he was a monster, or a god, or a half-blood, or a mortal. If he was a monster, she’d deal with it; she’d fought plenty, and had a campfull of warriors at her back if it came to that. If he was a god, helping him would be the right thing to do. If he was a half-blood, helping him would also be the right thing to do (albeit for Different Reasons). If he was a mortal, helping him would also also be the right thing to do.
He groaned softly, lips forming something that sounded like it might have been meant to be “Martin?” A moment later, his eyes flickered shut. Crap. No more time for thinking, she’d made her decision already anyway. And she’d made her plan, too.
It wasn’t a particularly complicated one; in fact it had approximately two steps. Step one, grab the Fleece. Step two, put it on the guy and hope it worked. While completing step two, work out contingencies.
The quickest way to the Fleece was Over Him, so over him she went. A single leap took her halfway there, and a second one the rest. With a tug, she freed the golden sheepskin from its branch, and with another three long strides she’d returned to Mysterious Stabbed Guy’s side. Step one complete! Step two followed quickly. She debated tucking him in, but figured that if he did turn out to be a monster, that doing so might not be in her best interest.
Time for step 2.5: Wait, hope, and plan.
Meanwhile, on the other side of a continent, on a grassy hill overlooking the Caldecott Tunnel.
The first thing he felt was the knife in his hand. The first thing he did was drop it.
It fell from his fingers, landing softly by his knees on the grass. Oh. He was on grass. He was kneeling on grass. That was important, probably. It certainly meant he wasn’t in the Panopticon anymore. And that was… good? Yes, it was good, wasn’t it? Except.
Except.
It also meant that Jon was dead, now. Dead by his love’s hand.
He didn’t know when he’d opened his eyes, just that they were open. He didn’t know when he’d picked up the knife, tenderly wiping clean the still-wet blood that shone in the moonlight, he only knew that the blade was clean, and there was blood on the hem of his sleeve. He didn’t know when he stood, only that his head spun and his knees were no longer touching the ground. He didn’t know when he’d started to walk, only that he was moving. And he didn’t know where the fire had come from, only that he was moving towards it.
The night was cold, a chill breeze carrying distant sounds of late-night highway traffic to his ears as he walked. It was dark, too, as nights often are; though the distant orange glow of light pollution hid all but the brightest things in the sky. And the not-so-distant orange glow of a large bonfire was also there. Of the two orange glows, that was the more relevant one at this particular moment. One, because it was fire; two, because it was much closer; three, because there was someone sitting by it.
The figure seemed to be watching him approach. So he stared at them right back. They made no move towards or away, just… sat there, cross-legged on the ground. When he was no more than a few feet away, he stopped. And, at last, the figure spoke. “Hello,” they said simply, inclining their head ever-so-slightly in greeting.
He just looked at them, holding the knife loosely in his hand.
“There is no need to fear,” they added, rising to their feet. At that point, Martin decided it was a girl. If he was wrong, hopefully she’d correct him.
He swallowed, fingers twitching on the knife.
She tilted her head. “I am Hestia,” she continued, “goddess of the hearth. I will not harm you, Martin Blackwood. It is not my way.”
An almost imperceptible change came over the hill. For a moment, the breeze seemed to carry the scent of woodsmoke- the kind you’ll smell camping with friends, roasting marshmallows and hot dogs and (metaphorically) each other. A feeling, a sensation of contentment , hung in the air. Sleepy cuddles somewhere safe; dancing around a kitchen late at night, either alone or with the one(s) you love the most; contagious laughter, brewing tea, inside jokes, sharing food.
It was so much, and it was so good, and it hurt so much because it reminded him of all the things he hadn’t had, of all the things he might never be able to have ever again because Jon was gone Jon was dead he’d killed him the blood was quite literally on his hands-
Something soft brushed his mind, drying its tears and hugging its shoulders. And he was back on the hill, the knife that had killed the one he loved clutched in his hand, staring at someone who’d claimed to be a goddess, and had just said that harming him was ‘not her way.’ Right. He should get back to that.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, or if any had really passed at all. So, he elected to simply continue on, and try to ignore what had(n’t?) just happened for the moment. He didn’t move. “Not- sorry, ‘not your way?’”
The girl- the goddess, if she was to be believed- nodded. “Come, sit by my fire,” she invited. “You are far from your own hearth, and have not seen it in some time. Much lies between. Maybe even too much. There is a chance you may never return. But perhaps, with time, you shall build a new one. Only time will tell. Only time will heal.”
“Sorry, I’m good, thanks,” he said shortly. He did not particularly feel like doing anything of the sort. Honestly, the only thing he felt like doing was screaming until he passed out, maybe.
Another nod. “I understand,” she said softly. “You are hurting. You have seen much, felt much.” Her eyes flicked to the knife. “Done much.” She looked back up at him, face an odd flavor of melancholy. “You need rest,” she added, firmly. “And a roof over your head. A hearth to call your own, or, at least, a place to warm your hands.”
Silence, broken only by the ever-present background noise of cars on the highway.
“You’re crying,” she noted.
He blinked. He hadn’t realized.
She studied him, expression unreadable. “You know, you are the first new thing I have seen in a millennia. I will watch you with interest, and help you where I can, if you wish.” Her brow furrowed. “I do not know exactly what your arrival means, but I suppose we shall both find out, eventually. Now.” Her posture straightened. “I am going to send you somewhere safe. You need to process, you need to rest. If you need me, call. And while I would appreciate a sacrifice or two-”
His eyes widened- sacrifice? What-
A faint smile appeared. “Nothing like what you are imagining,” she reassured. “If you wish, scrape a portion of your meal into the fire. It will go to me. As I said, I would appreciate it; but it is not necessary.”
He nodded mutely.
“I wish you good luck, Martin Blackwood. Remember, though the journey may be long, and the hearth’s ashes cold, you are never alone if you do not wish to be.” She snapped her fingers, and a glimmer of the earlier gentle warmth caressed him once more. And then, the world folded sideways.
When he Was again, or perhaps when the world Was again, he was standing on… a porch, he realized. He was standing on a porch, a knife in one hand and a strange envelope in the other, the scent of woodsmoke still clinging to his clothes.
Okay. Envelope. That- that was new. Something told him it was important.
Opening it was a bit tricky, as he was already holding the knife in the other hand, but he managed it. Inside were two things: A key, and a note.
Until you can find your own hearth to call home, I have rented you an airbnb. I suppose I wasn’t exactly truthful when I stated you were the first new thing I’d seen in a millenia; the internet is fairly fascinating. Additionally, I had Hermes deliver a package with various provisions generally deemed important for mortal existence. Hopefully he doesn’t muck it up. My apologies if the package explodes, I’ve told him there’s a time and place for pranks. Hopefully he’ll listen this time.
Hestia.
He swallowed, tucked the letter back inside the envelope, and awkwardly placed the key in the door’s lock. It fit, and the lock turned. Well.
The moment he stepped inside, a wave of utter exhaustion hit him like a sledgehammer to the head. He was tired in every way it was possible to be tired. He didn’t even turn any lights on, instead just stumbling through the house until he located the bedroom. He hadn’t slept since… since Salesa’s, had he? Of course, he hadn’t needed to sleep any more than he’d needed to eat or drink, but, still. He missed it.
He almost let himself collapse onto the covers right then and there, but… there was blood on his clothes. He didn’t want to get blood on the sheets.
So he put down the knife and the note, took off his shoes, tossed his clothes in a pile in the corner, and then let himself collapse.
He was asleep less than a minute after he pulled up the covers.