Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Percy wakes up in bed with a scream stuck in his throat. For a moment, he forgets where he is. It's the choking, suffocating, strangling sensation in his chest that throws him off again. He can’t think, yet tries to reach into his pocket for riptide. It’s not there. He’s wearing his pyjamas. Then, he can't breathe. 

He claws at his throat; the yell inside is desperate for release. It bubbles violently in his vocal cords until it rips through his mouth and into the night. The skin where he's scratching is red and raw, still unhealed from the last time he slept (when did he sleep?). Percy digs into his skin. He leaves behind a deep groove in his neck where his nails have gouged into the flesh.

His skin is too tight for his body and Percy needs it off. He needs to be free. Something is pushing against the boundary that is his skin. 

A stream of blood drips from his throat, dark and thick (gold?) and stains... what does it stain? (the rough, cruel skin of Tartarus) His mattress, that’s right

When another wail rips from his throat, it's wild and feral, an animal’s (predator’s). On the outside, he can sense the skin nearly peeling off his neck in big clumps. He can't feel it though. There's no pain, no... nothing. He's numb, and it hurts more than anything. (hurts more than losing them?)

Percy takes deep breaths. What can he do if he's dead, on the verge of death like he is in this moment? (more than he is doing now) Thanatos will collect him, shake his head and mutter about how Percy could not save them. 

His mind is blank, but he can remember it. The endless torture and pain, the sleepless nights. Although, he is used to those now. Tonight, he has only slept because he promised Annabeth he would try. 

(Why should he keep his promises? No one has kept the promises to him. Why should he be confined in his own body, his own dreams? Why should he be tortured with the numbing, excruciating agony he goes through? Why should he have to close his eyes, lest he see that face again? The face of Tartarus. One so welcoming, one that could kill him with a thought

If Tartarus is so evil, why does he long to go back? No, he doesn't long to go back. What is it? The itch in his brain. If Tartarus is so evil, why did he feel so at home?  He longs for it. If his thoughts are wrong, why do they feel so right?)

He barely notices Annabeth run into the room. It's like there's cotton filling his ears, muffling his senses. he doesn't like it. What if a monster attacks? (what if he cannot hold himself back?) He needs all five (six) senses to be ready. This time, he scratches at his ears until the pop. All he can think is get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out and then it's gone. 

It's like a breath of fresh air. 

However, he can hear something. It's not unusual, and it takes Percy a while to figure out what it is. In the meantime, he lays his head back on his headboard. In his own world, he doesn't notice the sound is Annabeth screaming and yelling similar to how he was. He doesn't notice that the ground is shaking slightly; it's not enough to force buildings to the ground, but Annabeth is stumbling around. He doesn't notice how Annabeth is shaking his shoulders maniacally. 

What he does notice, is the buzzing inside his brain. He knows he's missing something; but what? His mind is screaming at him to stop (stop hurting them, but he can’t oh gods they’re going to die.)

And he jolts back to reality with a snap. Percy sits bang upright, head clearing in an instant. Annabeth is sobbing now- brows furrowed and hands gripping Percy's arms like there's no tomorrow. Her muscles are tense as she tries to slap him, pull him, and shake him back to reality. 

"Percy! Percy, please!" She yells. He tenses and his muscles freeze up. ("Percy, please stop! You're killing her!") 

"Annabeth?" He asks, voice raw from screaming. When did he scream? "What's happening?" 

She takes a long breath, tears beginning to form in her eyes. "You were yelling. Really loud, Seaweed Brain. I thought you were being murdered by a monster in your sleep, so I came to check on you." (she came to check on him so he was not murdering an innocent person. But akhlys wasn’t innocent. Was she?)

"Why... why are you crying?" He asks again, "I'm fine."

Shaking her head, Annabeth sighs. "No, Percy, you're not. The whole ground was shaking."

"Shaking..." He thinks out loud. “Oh.”

Annabeth laughs shakily. “An earthquake, Percy.”

(Percy grunts with effort and hisses in pain with every step he takes. His right leg is clearly broken, and his ankle is swollen. Blue, black, purple, yellow, and even green bruises line his whole lower leg. His heel is completely disfigured. 

Running into the arai was not fun for him. Although, fortunately, there were only 2, unfortunately, both of the curses affected his leg. Obviously, his shattered leg is from the telkhines (or maybe it’s from the innocent people he’s crushed under the weight of his legacy, unknowingly.)

The second is his critically injured heel, he is not sure where it's come from. What he is sure of is that it's constantly dripping blood. Checking the wound, he notices his blood is gold it's slashed at an angle someone could only reach if they were behind you, coming from low and slashing upwards. It's damaged his Achilles tendon (quite ironic, the curse of Achilles would have been helpful), meaning he's limping severely, and physically unable to walk.

Not that he's trying to walk on that leg anyway. Even without the injury, there's still the bone literally snapped in half and shattered in his leg to worry about. 

Percy knows that there are monsters following him. He would too if he were a monster. It would be too easy. On the ground, a clear trail of blood, and in the air, the clear smell of a demigod. Except, they aren't attacking him just yet. As stupid as they may be, they know not to mess with Percy. He's Perseus Jackson, for crying out loud. Even if injured, they know he will kill them. If they've been following for as long as Percy thinks they have, they also know that he will not stop until he is with Annabeth again. 

The agony he feels is worse than he would have thought. That's saying something because Percy can name at least seven life-threatening injuries he's had in the last year alone. Four of which, have happened right where he is in the past few... weeks? Days?

Although he tries to count, the days mould together in a blur that messes with his memory. He's not really even sure if it's day or night anymore. There's no darkness, no light that can tell him that. Percy sleeps, (what’s sleep) but only when he gets the chance. Only when he’s sure there are no longer monsters stalking his every move. 

Dark circles hang underneath Percy's eyes. They long to droop and close, fall into a deep sleep and just not wake up. It sounds amazing to Percy, but he knows he can't. There are too many lives on the line.

Percy gets a terrible feeling as soon as he stumbles into an outcrop of rocks. They look as if they have been grown from Tartarus’ skin, terrible and twisting. While Percy stands cornered, the monsters surround him in a large semicircle. In less than 10 seconds, he is completely surrounded.

One in particular catches his eye.

He doesn’t immediately turn to face it, but in his peripheral vision, he can already see it advancing. Faster and faster, until, 

At the last second, Percy's hackles rise and he spins on his good(ish) leg, holding up his sword. Metal clashes with metal with a loud clang. The sound reverberates through his skull, and his gritted teeth ache as it passes through his jaw. Understandably, Percy is no stranger to strength in his opponents, however, in his weakened state, he can already feel himself buckling under the force of the strike. 

In the split second it takes his opponent to ready himself for the next attack, Percy takes the opportunity to glance up at its face. It's a Cyclops, and a big one at that. It's around 15 feet tall, bigger than any Percy's ever seen before, size manipulated by the will of Tartarus itself.

"I'm going to kill you and eat you for dinner, demigod." It says, in a raspy voice that grates along his ear. “Sea spawn are particularly delicious.”

For a moment, Percy considers, and he almost lowers his sword. Annabeth, Annabeth, Annabeth, a small voice says. And his mom. He can't leave them. Percy tightens his grip on the sword, afraid it's going to fall out of his hand. 

"No." He says. 

He almost keels over, but the fight begins.

Percy can't quite decide if time slows or speeds up when he moves. It's all over in a flash, but each painful movement seems to take hours upon hours. It’s like quicksand; struggle, and he sinks even further. 

 And then, he's being pinned down on the ground. His bad leg sends a wave of nauseating agony up his spine and he tenses up his muscles as if he’s having a seizure. Percy’s vision dances with the pain and lack of air as the Cyclops crushes his throat with a huge hand. 

it's times like these when Percy really appreciates the things he takes things for granted. For example; oxygen. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Percy spots Riptide glistening in the dark. His left-hand inches closer to it, begging to grip it and swing it. The Cyclops, however, has other plans.

He slaps Percy across the face, which hurts, a lot because his hands are literally the size of Percy's forearm. "Look at me when I talk to you!" He growls. With a new kind of fresh air, the Cyclops breathes heavily into Percy’s face. Planting his other hand on the ground, the Cyclops lets up on his throat, just enough for more air to pass down Percy’s throat. 

He addresses something, someone Percy can't see. With eardrums that are about to burst from pressure, he can’t make out the words, but faintly he can see a ring of monsters surrounding him. It's sort of nostalgic. It reminds Percy of the Battle of Manhattan, only then, he was fighting the Minotaur. 

"I'm going to kill you, Perseus Jackson." It says. "And then I'm going to go to the doors and find your friends. I'm going to kill them too, and you won't be able to say goodbye." 

Percy's vision turns red. He isn't sure if it's because of anger, or if it's a symptom of blood loss or suffocation. In the back of his mind, Percy makes a mental note to ask Annabeth about it. 

"You're.. not." Percy manages to croak out. In his attempt to sound threatening, his voice cracks, sending a wave of laughter around the ring of monsters. At least, some laugh, while others screech or roar.

The Cyclops also laughs. "I am , sea spawn. I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to kill your friends too. Our mistress has given us direct orders to eliminate them... starting with you. You've just made our job easier!" 

In the back of his mind, Percy has an insane, crazy, totally incomplete plan. He's sure it's going to get him killed, but better to try rather than to give up and die at the hands of a monster.

"Fine." He says. "Kill me. I don't care."

The Cyclops pauses. "What?" 

Percy knows his tactic. The Cyclops is making him feel guilty and ashamed. He's trying to make Percy give up. "I said, you can kill me. There's no point in fighting anyway. Clearly, your side has already won.”

"What? No, you're supposed to be upset!" The cyclops roars in Percy's face. He releases the grip on Percy's throat slightly. The demigod tries not to make it obvious how relieved he is of the (not so) fresh air. Percy conceals a grin; his plan is working.

"I'm not," Percy states carelessly. "I couldn't be less upset. In fact, you could kill them in front of me and I wouldn't move a muscle. I wouldn’t even make a sound.”

The cyclops is getting agitated, "You don't care? Well... you'll hear their screams and cries for mercy! They'll beg you to save them. And you won't?!"

Percy shrugs. 

"NO! Get up!" The Cyclops shouts. "Fight like a man!" 

From underneath the monster, he springs up as best he can. Trying to ignore the blinding pain in his leg is easier said than done, and he stumbles through a jolt of pain. 

The cyclops charges him again, and almost immediately Percy is knocked to the ground. He has no time to raise his sword before he gets a kick to the chest that keeps him down. He hears a short crack, and something sharp sticks out of his chest. The pain is almost worse than that in his leg. Percy wheezes desperately, but every movement sends a stab of pain to his chest. 

"Why are you so easy to beat? I want a fight!" snarls the Cyclops. "Get. UP!" 

This time, Percy doesn't get up. He lies, unmoving on the ground. Slow, sluggish, and barely even there, his pulse sends waves of pounding pain to his entire body.  

Percy can only just tell he's alive because he's become hyperaware of the moisture in the air. It's much, much dryer in Tartarus than on earth, but there's always water in the air. Always. The particles zoom around and Percy can faintly remember a physics class about gas and liquids- Annabeth would be proud. 

But ff he can feel the moisture and control the moisture in the air, why couldn't he feel and control the water in the ground instead?

So he does. He reaches out in his mind and pushes through the mental barrier- a glass wall, crystalline, beautiful, but oh so fragile. This isn't morally right- this is cheating. It's also Tartarus, and there are no right morals in Percy's mind. The only thing he wants to do is get away, have the chance to heal and get out- but he can only do that if he goes through with this. 

So, ignoring his mind screaming at him to stop, he carries on. Reaching deep down into the ground, Percy feels each individual particle of water that holds the rocky surface together. Sparse, barren, but just about there.

And then he pulls. 

The leering look on the Cyclops’s face has been enough to knock down Percy’s courage, but this time, he won’t allow it. The cyclops will be caught by surprise, and the demigod will have the chance to escape. 

Then, the ground shakes. Little by little, gradually getting more violent as he gathers his last bit of energy- his divine, demigod energy. The one that will keep him running even after the brink of death. Even if it means his blood might become speckled with gold. 

Until now, he's been viewing himself as a human with powers. Little more than a mortal. The same in everything apart from physical attributes. Percy’s been holding on to his mortality, because after all-it’s the one thing that keeps him tied down. His mortality is the only thing left. 

Mortality is what separates a god from a demigod. The former don’t understand emotion; they are cruel and violent, even by accident. They view life as something to waste and throw away, when in fact, it is valuable and delicate. Ultimately, humans get one life, and at the end of that life, they fade. Humans can’t afford to lose it earlier than they should. (Percy isn’t human, he never was)

But perhaps it is time that Percy starts anew- accept the existence that the Fates have woven for him. Finally understand that maybe, there is no end for his string. No matter how hard he longs for it, Percy’s thread will not reach the final sister Fate. 

In the present, Percy’s face is scrunched up with effort, and the ground rumbles. By now, Tartarus, if it hadn’t already, will have noticed his presence. It’s hard to miss a vibration that starts at the very bottom layer of its skin. 

As if on queue, all the monsters fall. The jagged rock circles around the Cyclops and Percy is destroyed, leaving barren land and a dusting of (darker than usual) grey rocks spread over the endless ground. 

It’s painful. Still, on the ground, Percy feels his own life essence draining from his body, his blood being flooded by a thicker liquid. 

And then, the final monster falls. In a stroke of gods-given luck, the Cyclops falls straight onto his own weapon. A strangled gasp escapes the cyclops' chest, and slowly, his body disintegrates. Golden sand rains down like glitter, covering Percy in a layer of decorative, but disgusting, colours. 

All in all, Percy can say his half-baked plan went pretty well. If he counts the broken ribs, shattered leg and bruised throat. At least he is alive. At least there is hope. At least he might be able to see Annabeth again. His mother.

Before he can even start walking, fatigue takes over, and Percy falls to the ground, unconscious.)

"Annabeth!" Percy screams, "Annabeth- I'm so sorry..."

Percy's girlfriend hugs him tight into his chest, and he sobs into her pyjama shirt. It's not often he shows this side of himself, and really, it's only to Annabeth. 

In front of her, Percy cries and cries until he's sure there are literally no tears left in himself. 

“Are you alright? Is it anyone hurt?” He asks, in between sobs. “Oh, Gods. ‘Beth, I’m so sorry.”

His precious girlfriend shushes him. “It’s okay, Seaweed brain. Nobody’s hurt. I promise”

Gods, she knows him so well. 

“It was just a nightmare. You’re not there anymore.” She says. Percy breathes into her shirt, a mixed scent of her floral perfume and a new book that has just been opened. 

She’s right, of course. He’s not there anymore. (she’s wrong too, his blood still runs gold. He still yearns for the battlefields) 

“‘Beth… I’m sorry…” Percy mumbles. “This is all my fault. I couldn’t save them and this is the consequence.”

Annabeth’s face melts. Her eyebrows furrow and her nose and eyes crinkle at the edges, water welling in them. “No, no, seaweed brain. It’s not your fault. Everything you’ve done, you’ve done for everyone around you.” 

“But I haven’t done enough! Everyone is dying or dead because I couldn’t save them!” Percy cries. It was his responsibility, the demigod twice prophesied, to save them. Instead, he’s decimated their numbers and destroyed families.

Annabeth shakes her head. “Percy, it wasn’t your job to save them.”

“Yes it was-”

“No.” She cuts him off, piercing grey eyes staring into his own. Her tone is flat, and down to earth, and he knows there’s no more arguing with her. Annabeth’s gaze flicks down to his neck, and widens. “Percy, you’re still bleeding. I’m taking you to Will.”

“‘M fine. I just need rest. Besides, Will needs to sleep. I’m sure he’s tired-”

“Percy, we haven’t had any war games for weeks. No one’s staying in the infirmary at the moment.” She sighs and shakes her head, swallowing heavily. “Stupid Seaweed Brain. You’re going to get yourself killed if you don’t take care of yourself.”

All Percy can do is chuckle weakly. He’s not in any danger of being killed any time soon. (There’s too much ichor in his blood.)

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

She was right. The infirmary is eerily quiet, deserted and empty. It’s a stark contrast from the busy, bustling place it used to be. Even when hurt, demigods in the infirmary were always laughing or smiling. It’s where Percy first woke up in Camp Hald-Blood. (the starting point of his perilous race to godhood.) 

Annabeth turns on the lights, illuminating the bright marble floors and pillars. Although it’s not exactly out in the open, it’s still a cool night. Percy shivers in the gentle breeze. 

“I’m just going to get Will, okay?” She tells her boyfriend, who looks at her like a deer caught in headlights. He nods. 

Deeply unnerved for some reason, she scurries into the darkness once again. The gleaming gold of the Apollo cabin stands out like a torch, even in the night, and she knocks heavily on the door. 

Will, head counsellor after Michael Yew died, opens the door almost immediately. It’s clear he’s been awake for a while, but sleep is still pulling at the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, Annabeth, thank the Gods.” He says, eyes darting back and forth. “What’s happening?”

It’s very out of character, for Will. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, the earthquake? You didn’t feel it?” He asks, tilting his head. Behind him, Annabeth can see the rest of his blonde-haired siblings peeking out.

“Yes, um, I felt it. But Percy is in the infirmary…” She trails off, not knowing how much she can reveal.

Will lifts his head, mouth opening slightly. He seems to get the idea. His light blue eyes are glowing faintly in the dim light, giving him an eerie look.

“Right. OK, I’ll come. I should’ve expected this.” Will mutters, with a disheartened sigh, as if he has lost the chance to do something important. 

Annabeth licks her lips. They taste of salt and fresh, sea air, only reminding her more about the state her poor boyfriend is in. “Well, hurry.”

The healer pauses, just barely, if only for a second. Stepping out of the cabin, he closes the pure gold door with a click. Instantly, it’s as if the door was never there. Annabeth will have to take a look at that later, it could really help her studies in architecture.

Meanwhile, the two demigods walk side by side. Will Solace is older, now, than he was during the battle of Manhattan. Taller, too. Maybe 15, 16, and at least 5’10. It surprises Annabeth. Logically, Will couldn’t stay the same age. But illogically, she never expected to see him grow up. Especially since most demigods don’t make it past 15.

Near the infirmary, Will stops and grabs her arm, so she stops too. 

“What is it, Will?” Annabeth asks, “The infirmary is right there.”

The son of Apollo sighs. “Yeah, I know. I work there.” Then, after a pause. “Sorry. I just want to talk to you.”

“Go on then. Make it quick, though. Percy needs help.” She snaps but feels bad straight after. Annabeth doesn’t say anything more. 

“Listen, Annabeth. This is the third time this has happened. It needs to stop-”

“Uh-huh. You’ve said.”

“I’m serious, this time. It really needs to stop.”

“You say that every time!”

“You need to do something, then!”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it? I can’t control his nightmares, you know that!” Annabeth snaps, raising her hands. Her temper is particularly uncontrollable today. 

Again, Will sighs. “Yes, I know, but let me finish. You need to tell Chiron, or something. I can’t keep doing this, Annabeth. Every time this happens, there’s always damage to the camp. It’s dangerous!”

“We’re all demigods here, Will.”

“But is he?” hisses the healer, a venomous tone wrings his voice in iron. “Is he really? Because I think we both know. You’ve seen it too, Annabeth. His blood is gold. Not red, or even bronze. Gold!” 

Will takes a deep breath. “And, I promise you 50 drachmas, I’ll go in there and his injuries will be healing. In fact, I won’t be surprised if they’re already half gone.”

“Will, I-” the female demigod searches the other’s face. Her grey, stormy eyes are as thunderous as ever, but the spark she once wore has been stripped from her face, leaving her eyes empty and bare. 

For once, Annabeth is nearly at a loss for words. “Will, I’m sorry, okay? I really am. But you know I don’t know what to do either!” Her voice cracks with raw emotion. The foundation piled on top of her core is flimsy and thin- so her feelings leak out through her words, eyes and actions. 

“I know, Annabeth. But you need to do something.” He says, so harshly it’s as if Nico Di Angelo is speaking from his mouth. “It’s not fair. For any of us.”

“Well, what do you think I should do? I can’t just… leave him!” She splutters. Her mind races, and suddenly a pounding headache splits open her thoughts. “I just… don’t know what to do, Will.”

“Shh, don’t worry Annabeth. You’ll figure something out, I’m sure of it.”

With that sentence, a realisation cuts through Annabeth’s mind with a knife. You’ll figure something out, Will said. Annabeth will. Not Chiron, not Mr. D, not even a fellow camper. It’s up to her, and only her, to come up with a solution that will save her precious boyfriend. 

She has an idea. 

It has to work. If it doesn’t, Percy will be lost to the Gods forever.

“There you go, see? You’ve already thought of one. I knew you would, Annabeth.” Will says, in his usual cheerful tone, despite the early hour. 

As he walks off, Annabeth grimaces behind his back. Presuming her plan works, it won’t be pretty at all. 

Will is right, of course. Annabeth knew he was going to be, but at the same time, he was also wrong. 

Percy’s injuries are healing, just not in the way Will said they would. In fact, if anything, they’re healing better than Annabeth’s ever seen before. Deep inside her, she feels pride swell for the beautiful man who sits before her, who has managed to live through so much despite being an active target of the gods. 

It also breaks her heart.

The only proper evidence that any wounds were ever there is the caked blood peeling and drying on his neck, red and dotted with a beautiful gold colour. Now it’s brown and copper, but no less intimidating. The blood is also caked under his nails, and as he runs a hand through his hair, some peels off into the white streaks that grow from his forehead.

Annabeth touches her matching one out of habit, pulling the curls straight and letting them bounce back up again. 

“Hey ‘Beth.” He says, with his usual, lopsided grin and mischievous tone. “How are you? I feel like I’ve been spun through the washing machine. Twice.” 

Will gives her a look. An I-told-you-so look. Immediately, she shoots back a glare. He backs off. 

“I’m okay, seaweed brain. Just scared.”

Percy frowns. “What? Why are you scared? Did something happen?”

“No, no, Percy. You scared me. This is the worst it’s even been.” She sighs. Meanwhile, Will is busy cleaning out the gouges in Percy’s skin- not cut open, but just scars. Five gnarly gashes run diagonally across his neck. It looks like they’ll be there for a while. “What will we do with you, huh?”

“I’m sorry, Annabeth. I really am. You know I try-”

“Of course I do, Percy. But you also remember what the prophecy says, right? 5 times the earth will shake. This is the third time. And then, to mark the end of an era. ”

Annabeth feels a little stab of guilt at the conflicted look on her boyfriend’s face. She’s being too harsh on him. Of course, it isn’t his fault- he can’t control it. But the end of an era? That can only mean one thing; the end of Olympus. Annabeth can just begin to imagine the havoc it would cause. 

All in all, it’s unfair. The Gods have pinned another prophecy on Percy and expected him to sort it out. Annabeth almost doesn’t feel bad that it’s not going the right way for them.

Sometimes, in times like these, Annabeth repeats the prophecy to herself over and over, just so there’s not anything that she missed. 

Five times the earth will shake,

A grave warning made aware.

Five decisions Wisdom’s daughter will make,

12 bodies across the river. 

The body of War makes one fatal mistake,

To mark the end of an era. 

By summer’s peak, a new power emerges,

By summer’s fall, two more fall with it.

Her boyfriend sighs. “Yeah, I know. This prophecy is way too mysterious for my liking. I mean- they usually are. But this one is the worst. I mean- it literally tells us there are going to be deaths. I just… I wish the Gods could help.”

And they carry on like this- they repeat the conversations they’ve had over and over, yet nothing happens. Nothing comes to destroy the tension they’ve built their lives around these past few weeks, especially around other campers.

Because of course, Chiron makes them keep it a secret. 

Yet it’s all Annabeth can do to hope that it stays this way. At least, she knows she should want it to stay this way. This is why Annabeth is confused, and, scared, as to why she needs it to change. 

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Annabeth wakes up with a strangled yelp. She panics for a moment, clawing at her throat to get off the cyclops that was strangling her. 

Then, she tells herself to calm down. Dropping her arms that feel like lead, Annabeth forces herself to take a few deep breaths, analyse her surroundings, and find out how to escape. 

It clicks that she’s back in her cabin, lying on her bed, surrounded by her siblings. She’s not in Arachne’s cave, thinking (literally) for her life. She’s not watching her Percy fall into the huge pit of evil that is Tartarus. She’s not watching him as his heart stops and his blood begins to run gold. 

And, although it’s hard, she breathes out of her nose and compels herself to sit up. All she needs is some fresh air. 

So Annabeth, in more of a hurry than she realises, jumps down from her bed, barely registering the sharp pain that shoots through her ankle and up her leg. She pushes the door with more force than necessary. It flies open with a loud thud. 

By now, at least half her cabin is awake. As she steps out the door, Annabeth hears gentle muttering that gradually fades out as she hurries away, not stopping to wonder how she can hear it from hundreds of metres away. 

Someone shouts her back, but by then she is already racing down the camp. Her wind whips around in the cold wind. Not in the pretty windswept way that leaves her hair frizzy but pretty, no. In the way that it tangles all over her face and gets sucked into her mouth as she gulps in the air.

And she runs. She runs and runs, up and down, until she’s sure that she’s covered the camp twice. Oh, what a sight she must be. 

Then Annabeth stumbles. Only momentarily, but it’s enough that she misses her footing and tumbles to the ground. She lands on something soft- sand. Her hands sink beneath the surface, getting wetter and wetter. 

A tear falls from her face. It lands in the receding tide- the tide, because she’s landed herself on the beach, and creates the roundest ripples she’s ever seen. They spread outwards and outwards. They don’t stop.

Her pride falters for one moment- but it’s long enough for her to question herself. Suddenly, the memories come flooding back like a tsunami. 

First, her awful stepmom, Janet, who constantly neglected her in her years living with her old family. Days without food and water all because the evil woman had somehow managed to brainwash her beloved father into believing her, not his daughter. 

Luke and Thalia, her brother and sister, who, in a stroke of godsdamned evil had both been taken away from her too early. One who was brutally mutilated and murdered from the inside out. Luke’s soul was still young, still fresh. 

Curse the fates- those stupid, stupid ugly old ladies. 

And, most importantly, the biggest part of her life, Percy. He, who has had to endure enough torture and pain for 100 people’s lifetimes, is the only thing keeping her grounded. Percy himself, as a son of the sea god, is a great example of the vast contrast that is the ocean. Once calm, blue-green, and ever so welcoming waters that could caress and fuel her need for warmth can turn into the most perilous tides and currents. 

From gentle, kind and humorous to rage and anger with the flick of a switch. It scares her, sometimes. 

It’s ironic, really. But the same can be said for Percy himself. Without her, he would spiral out of control. His anchor, as he had told her all those months ago, would be gone. It would leave him floating and weightless, but, inevitably- he would crash into the rocks and there would be nothing left to stop him from sinking. Annabeth knows that her precise smarts frighten him. Her ability to switch on in a second, and to outthink even her biggest opponents. 

Yet they stay by each other’s sides. 

Without each other, Annabeth thinks, the two would collapse.

And it makes her scream. This emotion- so raw, so new is confusing. There’s no book she can read that will tell her what to do. There’s no set of instructions, or manual to navigate through this feeling. 

It’s so infuriating. Annabeth is used to being the smartest around. She knows what to do in an instant, and everyone relies on her to come up with a plan that will save their lives. And, she always does.

But not anymore. It’s like exploring uncharted territory. Unknowingly, she takes a wrong turn and watches in confusion as the dark laughs at her, knowing she has walked straight to her death. 

“Annabeth.” It’s like a flick switches on in her mind. The familiar voice and the rough, calloused hand on her shoulder. “Annabeth, you’re okay.”

“Percy?” 

He chuckles. “Yes, ‘Beth. It’s me. Don’t worry, I promise you’re okay. I’ll protect you, ‘Beth.” 

“No, I- I don’t want you to protect me.”

Percy wraps his arms around her, and she sighs into his chest. The intimate smell of salt water and a fresh breeze becomes stronger. “That’s okay, ‘Beth. You can protect yourself, I know it. You’re my Wise girl.” 

He always knew what to say. Annabeth lets her tears fall freely and cries into his fuzzy blue pyjamas. Vaguely, Annabeth remembered that these were a present from Sally the last time he’d seen her- Gods, how long had that been? 5 months? 

“If you tell anyone about this, I swear, I’ll…” Annabeth mutters under her breath. 

“Let me guess; you’ll judo flip me again. Well, no thank you. My mouth is sealed. ” says Percy, who smiles warmly at the surprised laugh he gets in return. “Besides, I would never tell anyone- I’m not selfish like that.”

The venomous tone surprises her. Annabeth pulls back from Percy’s shoulder and looks down at him through thick lashes. 

“Percy, come on. You know he died a hero in the end.” 

He sighs. “Yeah, Wise Girl, I know. I’m just… still mad, I guess. I never got the chance to say or do anything about it either.”

“It’s been a year now, and I think you should move on. I know Luke made you angry-” She says, and watches as Percy flinches at her old best friend’s name. 

“Angry? ‘Beth, he destroyed our lives. Half of our camp died because of him, and I understand, really, but you have to stop defending him, okay?”

Annabeth takes a deep breath. Her lungs rattle as if she is the one who had fallen into the Pit, instead of Percy. “I’m not defending him, Percy. I’m just saying that maybe you should stop worrying about him. And you certainly don’t need to be holding on to this grudge any more- it’s not healthy and it’s not logical. He’s been dead for a year now, and he can’t cause any more harm.”

Deep down, Annabeth knows that’s not true. She’ll always be scarred by Luke’s betrayal. It hit her deep, right where it hurt the most. Sometimes her nightmares switch up and images of Luke, Kronos, flash before her eyes. It will only get worse as she begins to forget the old him. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry Annabeth.” Percy states shortly. His words are sharp and low. “Listen, let’s go to the infirmary and I’ll get Will to fix your hands, alright? Then we’ll go back to bed. I’m too tired to stay up any longer.” to keep talking about Luke.

Annabeth gulps and scrambles at Percy’s shoulder as he begins to stand up. “No!”

He looks at her, bemused at her outburst. 

“I mean, no. Don’t get Will. He’s had enough of us coming to get him every night. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brings down Apollo to curse us personally.”

“Yeah well, if he does that, they’ll have me to face.” 

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Chapter Text

“Annabeth, I didn’t want to bring this up with you, but, have you noticed anything off about Percy recently?” says Grover, who follows her through the arena as Annabeth does her weekly safety inspection. “Juniper bought it up with me recently. I thought I was being crazy or something, but she’s totally right.”

Annabeth freezes. Grover bumps into her back. “No.” She replies, too quickly and too sharply. “No, I haven’t.”

The Satyr picks up an empty coke can from the ground “Are you sure? You spend the most time with him out of everyone.” He says, in between bites. 

“Mhm. He’s fine.”

Grover trails after her through an archway covered in colourful dahlias with gladioli flowers reaching ambitiously for the sunlight growing from the floor. “He’s completely normal? You haven’t noticed anything at all?”

“No, I definitely haven’t, Grover.” Annabeth snaps back. “I think I would have noticed if my boyfriend wasn’t acting right.”

He seems to catch on to her condescending tone quickly. Perks of being an emotion-sensing satyr. “He’s my best friend, Annabeth. I’m just worried about him, that’s all.”

“Yep. I know.”

The satyr hesitates, just a little, but enough for Annabeth to assume that he’s beginning to realise her annoyance. “So you’re… absolutely sure nothing is happening to Percy.”

“There is nothing wrong with Percy at all, Grover. Stop asking.”

“Hold up, I wasn’t saying there’s something wrong- wait, Annabeth.” She is forced to stop as Grover hurries in front of her. His hooves crack loudly atop the concrete path. “What’s got you in such a temper?”

“Nothing.”

“I know there’s something.  Right now I’m getting some very mixed emotions. I can sense them, remember?”

Annabeth steps around him and carries on with her inspection. “It’s hard to forget.” She mumbles, distracted by a particularly large crack in the ground. Not that it’s dangerous. She just needs something to put her busy mind to for a while. 

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I remember. It’s not easy to forget when I’m being constantly badgered about it.” 

Grover bleats, offended. “Woah, woah, woah. How am I ‘badgering’ you about it? I’m just concerned for my best friend! All I want to know is what’s happening to him!”

“Yes, you’ve made it clear. Obviously, my judgment over whether Percy is off or not is wrong. So go ahead, tell me, Grover. What is so visibly wrong with him that means you just have to keep asking and asking?” Annabeth snaps. She knows she’s irrationally angry, but if Grover can’t accept her answer then he’s going to have to do it himself. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say visibly but-”

She scoffs at him. Turning her back to the satyr she says, “You wouldn’t? Then what do you think, in all your infinite wisdom and knowledge, is wrong with Percy?”

“W-” It’s a low blow, especially for Annabeth. Grover knows full well that she is the one with all the insight. “No- I-...” 

“Is he going mad? Maybe all the gods who have decided that he’s good for their use have finally killed him.” And then, to the sky. “Well congratulations, Hera, because if cracking Percy was what you wanted, you’ve done it!”

Annabeth is done. It’s true, what she has been saying. Maybe exaggerated, a bit, and it could have been said more kindly. But still, she knows that a lot of her words have been the truth. 

However, Grover is not done. “Annabeth you can’t just-” 

She whirls around to face him. He bleats again, this time nervously as she jabs a finger into his furry chest. “You’re just always trying to bring me down, aren’t you? Annabeth this, Annabeth that. You’re criticising my ability to do everything. Every day I get reprimanded for something when I’m the one doing it right!”

“I haven’t even spoken to you that much recently!” He begins to take faster bites of his can until there’s none left to crunch on.

“Well then maybe you’re the problem! You’re constantly nagging me about Percy. As if I don’t know how my boyfriend usually acts!” Her temper is quick to flare up. In Annabeth’s defence, Grover is questioning her abilities to care for and nurture somebody else. It’s an insult to her pride and ego. “I’m sick of people taking me for granted every day. I do all the work around here. Without me, this camp would crumble to the ground within five minutes! It’s a wonder it survived when I wasn’t here. Or when I’m out on quests! I just have to do everything because I’m the only person who can do it correctly!”

“Wait, when did I say anything about camp? Annabeth I’m not saying that you don’t know Percy. Of course, you do- you’re the closest to him out of everybody. I just want to know what’s wrong!”

The demigoddess scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Yeah, right. Everybody’s just undermining me.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“What’s ‘going on’, Grover, is that you’re poking your goaty nose into places it doesn’t need to be! Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s got me in a temper. And most of all, nothing’s off about Percy. Even if there was, well…” She trails off. 

Something heavy is lifted off her shoulders. The red haze she hadn’t even realised was there disappears, leaving the world brighter and more colourful. 

“Annabeth! What in Hades’ name-” 

“Wait, Grover, I’m so sorry. I don’t…” Her voice cracks. “I don’t know what that was, I-” 

Annabeth sees Grover’s wide eyes flick around as if it is a trick. As if she is about to snap and attack him, again. 

He smiles uneasily. “Are you… is this a trick? Are you going to tell me to fuck off and stop asking about my best friend again?”

“No, Grover, I’m sorry… I don’t know what happened.”

“Yeah well, just go to Chiron. He’ll know what to do.” 

His sharp tone makes Annabeth flinch. 

“Annabeth, seriously.” He snarks. “Go to Chiron. Or maybe Mr D, for that matter. He’ll know what happened. Being the god of madness and all.” 

She splutters, at a loss for words. It’s very unlike her, but it’s not every day that her best friend insults her when she’s only snapped at him a little. And it was an accident. 

Annabeth says this to him and watches as his anger grows. Finally, before he starts shouting, he turns and walks away. Thank Hestia that she won't have to deal with an angry Grover. Outside of the few times nature has been disrespected, Annabeth's never seen him this annoyed.

She doesn’t carry on her safety inspection. There’s no point. If inside the camp is too dangerous, then the rest of the demigods will have no chance of surviving outside of it.

Instead, Annabeth finds herself in the armoury, strapping on a leather replica of a breastplate. She tucks her bright orange camp t-shirt into her shorts and steps out into the sun once again. 

Just a few steps ahead of her, the arena is filled with dummies unused from the morning lessons that Clarisse and Percy taught. It’s good that the younger demigods are finally getting training.

She knows that. But all Annabeth feels is spite. 

She walks into the arena

When Annabeth first joined the camp, the demigods were sent out on quests with little to no training at all. And they were expected to succeed.

She starts to attack a model.

No wonder Luke failed. He might have been a good swordsman, but that was because he was forced to learn hastily and on his own. No help from the gods. 

One mannequin is down.

Not that it’s their fault. They couldn’t have possibly spared some of their infinite time to train their children. So they wouldn’t die. 

The next dummy falls after Annabeth slashes through its body with her knife.

So, yes, Annabeth was feeling spite. Because only after she and Percy saved them, they decided that demigods needed more training. But only after.

She moves fluidly and quickly to cut down the next enemy.

It’s not fair how she had to grow up on her own, how she had to grow up so quickly. It’s not fair how now everyone else can have support when they need it. Where was that 7 years ago when she needed it? 

Her fourth strike on as many dummies are blocked by a longer bronze sword.

“Leave some for the rest of us to practice on, Wise girl.” A familiar voice booms, tinged with a Boston accent. 

“Clarisse.”

The demigoddess laughs. “That’s me.”

“Leave me alone, Clarisse. I’m not in the mood.”

They begin to circle each other, the daughter of Ares twirling her sword in her hand. “Yes, you are. I can see it. You need this.”

Clarisse is right. She does. She needs to draw blood. It doesn’t matter about hurting anybody now. Clarisse is good, and she can hold her own against Annabeth for a good few minutes. Not many people can do something like that. 

So Annabeth is the first to attack. She dives forward, bringing her dagger down the middle. Immediately, she knows it will get parried, so when Clarisse does, Annabeth twists and tries to pull the sword away from her opponent’s hand. 

Clarisse is not so easily tricked. She retracts her sword from the hold and backs away, but before Annabeth recovers, she jumps forward. Clarisse uses an old move, but an effective one, dodging right before coming up from the left side of Annabeth.

 Annabeth’s left is her weaker side, with a little less guard. Clarisse manages to knick through Annabeth’s clothes and cuts Annabeth’s skin above her stomach. 

She hisses in pain and stumbles back. Clarisse has an unfair advantage, a sword maybe triple the size of Annabeth’s small dagger. 

The two demigoddesses go back to circling each other, like two predators fighting for the prey. Metaphorically, of course. Clarisse holds the handle of her weapon loosely, throwing it from hand to hand, while Annabeth grips her knife’s leather pommel tightly in her right hand, with the blade pointing down as if she is about to stab something. 

Annabeth lunges, slashing upwards and forcing Clarisse back. In a flurry of limbs, she disallows Clarisse’s resting time and pushes her backwards even more. Before her opponent can recover, she stabs at her opponent's left side, forcing her to parry the jab, leaving her entire right side open. 

Annoyance flashes through Clarisse’s face as she realises what has happened, but Annabeth flips her dagger and uses the handle to bash into her side.

She keels over, and Annabeth delivers one last kick to Clarisse’s armoured chest which sends her flying to the ground with a loud thud. Dust and sand kick up in a flurry around them, and when it clears, Annabeth is standing over Clarisse with a dagger to her neck.

It was easy. Too easy. Too little. Clarisse looks up at her with wide eyes as if she just saved the world again. (not unbelievable.) Annabeth feels like punching something. It’s just not enough for her, she needs a challenge, and there’s only one person who could match or even beat her in combat, and Percy would never agree to it. 

Annabeth walks away. On her way out, she stabs at the side of the arena in a rage, relishing the whining screech it lets out as she drags the dagger across the stone. 

Later that night, Annabeth sits alone by the fire. Hestia, who usually appears as a young girl to tend to the flames, is nowhere to be seen. The fire itself is low and a plain orange. Nobody is in very high spirits.

The low chatter that sweeps through the mess hall is like a constant buzzing in the back of her skull, whining and vibrating. It’s driving her mad. Annabeth’s hands itch to grab her dagger and run off, somewhere silent. 

At the opposite end of her table, her siblings talk quietly amongst themselves. She can’t bear the feeling of eyes on her neck, her hair, her body. The eyes that judge her and whisper about her scars. Especially the ones she came back from Tartarus with. 

Between her and Percy is an unspoken rule. They don’t talk to each other about it. When they were separated, it was like Annabeth’s mind snapped. She played dirty in hell, just like everything else. She let herself stoop to the low level of Tartarus. 

And Annabeth hates it. Instead of using her logic and knowledge, she allowed herself to become worse and use the same dirty tactics a stupid monster might have used. 

She doesn’t like to recall her memories of the Pit. Annabeth squashes them down until they force themselves up, breaking apart her barriers in the process. She doesn’t dream about it until she’s forced to, having damaged the walls that keep her safe and sane (delaying reality).

Suddenly, everything becomes quieter. The too many conversations she could hear are reduced to a small buzz, and the vibration in her skull leaves entirely. Her posture slumps in relief, the tension Annabeth didn’t even know she was holding bleeding away.

Her ears pop with pressure as Dionysus blinks into existence. She’s not surprised. The stench of wine and a tangy, coppery taste (the taste of insanity) has been filtering into the mess hall for hours. 

“I can hear your mind snapping and breaking from the other side of camp, Annabelle.”

“It’s Annabeth, and what?” 

“Walk with me, Chase.” Mr D says, and abruptly they are standing on the beach. The travel makes Annabeth a little light-headed. She prefers her way of travel.

(The monster comes up in front of her slashing down with a huge club. Made of some kind of wood, and covered with bronze thorns that churn up the ground where it’s been dragged.

Annabeth hobbles away. Her ankle is still broken and with no nectar or ambrosia, there’s no way for it to properly heal unless she completely stops doing anything and gives it time to heal. Which is not an option. Annabeth doesn’t even know how long it’s been. 

Bringing her back to reality (or as close as she can get), the minotaur swings his club. Annabeth rolls out of the way, a reflex, and yelps in agony when she tries to stand back up. She digs her sword into the ground to give herself a boost, but her arms are trembling weakly.

Annabeth can’t overpower this enemy. The minotaur is (a little bit) smart and very strong, and Annabeth is gravely injured. Maybe, if she wasn’t on the verge of death, she could beat him like Percy had done years ago. However, she is on the brink of unconsciousness.

She needs to get behind the monster. His body is well protected from the front, but there is a chink in his armour in the back that Annabeth could wedge her sword into. The minotaur is slow, so if she can move fast enough, she’ll be able to get around him.

The thing is that Annabeth can’t move fast enough. The minotaur huffs, smoke pouring from his nose, and Annabeth realises how utterly fucked she is.

There’s no way to get behind him. Every time she makes a move, the minotaur bats her away or takes a step in the same direction. 

“Why aren’t you killing me, coward?” She screams at the minotaur, who grunts in rage. His eyes narrow and Annabeth thinks, finally, but he doesn’t attack. Instead, the minotaur screeches in frustration. 

“Why won’t you let me kill you? Are you just as afraid of death as I am of spiders? Pathetic! Monsters can’t even die! You’re immortal!”

Her loud voice sounds small in the open landscape. With nothing to reflect off of, it’s quiet and sounds nonintimidating, yet the Minotaur still backs away. His nostrils flare and he drags a furry finger over his throat. 

Frustration bubbles in her gut. If he's not going to kill her, and Annabeth isn't able to kill him, how long will this go on before Annabeth drops from exhaustion? She can already feel her movements slow down and her leg is throbbing with pain. 

She roars, imagining herself behind the minotaur, stabbing her sword into his back and relishing the hoarse cries of pain he makes before he explodes into golden glitter, (Percy's not the only one with the ability to kill him) if only to soothe her boiling mind. 

Something changes. Her feet don't feel like they are on any ground, like she is floating weightlessly in the sky. She feels nauseous like her insides are made of liquid, for one second, before her feet slam back into the ground. For a moment, Annabeth is disorientated and sucks in mouthfuls of hot burning air.

Her mind churns with possibilities, but then she looks up and her thought process comes to a halt. Silently, to not ruin her chances, she takes in her surroundings. In front of her, the minotaur looks around frantically. Annabeth's eyes widen. Somehow, she has managed to get behind him, and into the perfect position to kill. There is no time for second thoughts.

Raising her sword, Annabeth limps as silently as she can towards the minotaur. She zeroes in on the tiny gap in his armour, shining brightly in her eyes like a prize. Her sword sinks into the flesh like a knife through butter. Just like in her thoughts, the minotaur cries out in pain. His muscles tense, but it's too late for him. With music in her ears, Annabeth twists and then pulls out her swords, smiling in glee as she watches the golden glitter rain down on her.

Later, she'll test her abilities. For now, she needs sleep.)

“You think I’m going mad,” Annabeth says, directly and to the point. The way Mr D is looking at her like he is waiting for something huge to happen, like he is waiting for something to boost his godly power (he’s just as greedy as the other gods), gives it away. 

He chuckles. “To put it bluntly, yes. You are ascending into madness.”

“I thought it was descending.”

“Ah, well, I prefer ascending, Chase. Going mad means that your mind is too complex for your simple human body. It means that you are better than a mortal. Descending makes it sound like a bad thing.” Dionysus says wistfully. He doesn’t smell like his usual self, of alcohol and earth. There’s still a sharp scent wafting off him, which makes Annabeth’s eyes water and her mind whir. 

“I’d quite like to stay perfectly sane, thanks,” Annabeth states, crossing her arms. 

“It’s already happening, Chase. I can feel it.”

She scoffs. There’s a pretty good chance Annabeth would already know if she was going mad. She knows her mind. 

“I am the god of, amongst other things, madness, Annabeth.”

“I know.”

Mr D turns to face her with a sombre expression, but his glint with malicious hunger. Like he can’t wait for her mind to break apart. “So you would do well to keep in mind that I can tell. Your mind is too complicated, especially for a mortal body like yours. I can feel it from the other side of camp, how your mind just goes and goes. Eventually, it’s going to be too much. Sooner or later, you will succumb to my domain.”

Annabeth stops in her tracks. “Hold on, succumb to your domain? What are you talking about?”

“Well, we can’t have powerful demigods such as yourself running around freely. Especially when they are too powerful. You must belong to one god’s domain.”

“I’m not belonging to any god’s domain. Besides, I’m already under Athena’s title. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

With infuriating, slow steps, Dionysus begins to walk again. “Ah no, Chase. It’s not enough. Just because you are the daughter of Athena, it doesn’t mean you belong to her domain.”

“That's exactly what it should mean. And anyway, enough with this belonging. I’m not going to be owned by any god!” snaps Annabeth in outrage. 

“Fine. If you don’t want to belong to an existing domain, you have to make your own.”

“What, you mean, become a goddess?” scoffs Annabeth lightly. She assumes Mr D is joking, but the serious, flat face he’s pulling shuts her up. “You’re serious?”

“You must belong to one god’s domain. It is just the way of the Greek pantheon.” the God shrugs. Annabeth’s temper flares. 

She knows he’s right. It is just the way. There are no other options. But it makes Annabeth so angry to learn that there is nothing she can do to control her own fate. It is always laid out for her, and really, there are no choices she will ever make freely. 

“And what about Percy?”

“He is just as mad as you, Chase. You can feel it, can’t you?” Dionysus says, looking at her face with knowledge that seems unfair to have. Annabeth sometimes forgets that he is hundreds of centuries older than most people on the camp. “His may be more noticeable, but yours runs beneath the surface. Its roots have grown and tangled themselves under this camp. Try and remove them and there will always be more. It will affect people the most.”

“If someone removes the roots, the tree will die.” Annabeth points out. She hates being the lesser in a conversation in terms of brainpower and intelligence. She usually never is, but Annabeth considers the fact that she might have underestimated Dionysus. She realises this with a scowl. 

Again, Dionysus replies with something that throws her off balance. “True, but the roots of trees spread far and wide. It would be impossible to destroy all of them in one go. And many can regrow. The willow tree, for example, can regrow from nought but a root.”

“I never took you for someone who likes nature.”

“Well, I am the god of Wine, after all. And grapes are nature." It's a half-assed excuse, and Annabeth can tell the god knows. "But it is the thousands of years spent that will cause you to gravitate towards things you would never see yourself liking.” 

Annabeth scoffs. Like she’ll ever be doing that. She would never lower herself to study spiders or something like that. “Which is why I will not be a goddess. And I will not belong to any domain at all.”

“You must!” Dionysus stresses. “It is fate, Chase! The sister fates have woven this life for you, and you have a choice.”

“But not one I want!”

“Be glad you have a choice at all! I didn’t! You think I wanted to be taken away from my family, and watch everyone I love die?”

Annabeth turns to face the god at the same time he turns to her. “What if I died now, Mr D? What would happen then? That’s not one of the choices.”

“Annabeth, listen to me. It is not often I come across a demigod such as yourself. One with so much madness and violence but also potential. Do not waste it, godling. Your mind works like no other I have ever come across.”

Annabeth, for once, is at a loss for words. It’s not that it’s a convincing argument, she’d never admit that. There is just nothing to say.

Mr D exhales, and continues, sounding fearful. “You must either belong to my domain or another or become a goddess yourself. I advise the latter. Although it is painful, insanity is more so. If you let it continue then… well, I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, but I do know that this is a decision of which the prophecy speaks. One of them, at least.” 

Fuck, Annabeth thinks. She already knew that Percy’s part of the prophecy was coming true. But hers?

“When will I have to make this decision?” She asks, painfully aware of the two things Dionysus might say.

“You already have.”

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

“Shit, okay. There’s more than I thought there would be.” Annabeth says, wincing. As she turns round, Percy feels a sense of foreboding in his stomach. Whenever Annabeth has that expression, it’s not a good sign. 

Grover sighs. “Great! Just what we need!”

“I know, I know, Grover. We just need a plan,” replies Annabeth.

“I thought this was just supposed to be a recon mission. Why are there hundreds of monsters waiting for us?” Percy asks, peeking around the corner of a register. The mall is crowded with monsters of all sorts, sniffing and growling. It’s a miracle they haven’t found the trio yet. 

“I can’t believe I couldn’t smell them! It reeks of monsters in here.” Grover sniffles, taking a chunk out of his emergency tin can stash. “I should be able to smell through that fake scent by now!” 

Percy nudges his shoulder. “Hey, Grover, it’s not your fault. You’re doing great, buddy.”

“No, I’m not. The council is going to be so angry!” 

“I thought you were part of the council now. You know, since you have some of Pan in you.” Percy paused for a moment, face reddening. “Well not like that, but you know.”

Grover groans, face buried in crossed arms. His horns poked Percy’s arms in the tight space the three of them were packed into. “No, I am…”

“But… what? And why would they be angry at you?” In the years since Grover had become a more respected satyr, Percy had spent time visiting many of his adversaries. Percy would never tell Grover that, though. To see his best friend finally happy made Percy happy, and now he was being mistreated again, anger flares in Percy’s stomach. 

“Well, I don’t know. They’ve just treated me a little bit worse again. I’m sure that it’ll blow over soon. Besides, Juniper had a word with them anyway.”

“Ok, Grover, but if you ever need anything, I’m here, man,” Percy reassures him. “I’ll give them a little nudge in the right direction if you get what I mean.”

“Ew, what? That’s so cringy. You sound like Alecto. But thanks, Percy. That means a lot.”

Annabeth’s harsh whisper silences Percy at once. “Shh! Empousi!”

Percy glances around the corner again, only to recoil back at the sight of the worst monster he’s ever faced. “Kelli.” He breaths. 

She whips around like she hears him, fangs bared and eyes blazing. She looks less like the gorgeous girl she’d presented herself to Percy as in high school and more like the ugly, raging monster she actually is. 

Her nose twitches and Percy presses himself against the register like his life depends on it. It probably does. He tries to quiet his breathing, and he feels Annabeth pressed against his side as she does the same. 

Eventually, it seems like Kelli is gone. Percy can’t hear her, and nothing has happened, so he slowly raises his head to look over the counter. The back of Kelli’s head is a relief to see. 

“So, plan, Wise girl?” Percy asks, turning to face his girlfriend. She looks as beautiful as ever, with unruly, messy, golden curls thrown into a ponytail. The shorter, grey strand hangs by her face, matching her stormy eyes. 

“I think I’ll go for a classic. Distraction, then run.” she cracks her knuckles and reaches for her Yankee cap. “There’s way too many for us to fight, Percy.”

A loud crunch wrenches Percy’s eyes away from Annabeth and onto Grover, who is chewing loudly and quickly. 

“Sorry, man. Stress eating.” 

Annabeth sighs. “Right, you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Percy asks.

“The plan, seaweed brain.” 

He nods, biting his lip. “Oh yeah. So, when will we know when to go?”

“You’ll know…” she hesitates for a moment. “Just… don’t lose yourself again, ok?”

Annabeth places a quick kiss on his lips, leaving him tingling all over. Then, she disappears as she silently puts the Yankee cap over her head and her invisible feet pad along the floor. 

“...How will we know when to go, again?” Grover asks, munching hungrily on a plastic Snickers wrapper. 

Percy throws a look at his best friend. “You’ve met Annabeth, right?” 

“Good point.”

They wait in silence for some time, listening to the weird sounds the monsters make. Percy’s only seen this many gathered in one place during the battle against the giants, and at that time, he was there with many other incredibly powerful demigods. 

If it came down to fighting, Percy, Annabeth and Grover wouldn’t have much luck. 

Speak of the devil, Percy thinks. Something whizzes overhead, hitting a cyclops in its singular eye. 

“OW!” It moans, clutching its eye with one hand. The other points accusingly at a second Cyclops. “You did this!”

They break out into a fight, stumbling over each other and throwing vicious punches. Percy winces as one terribly aimed kick catches an empousa in the behind, sending her screeching in anger. 

Grover perks up. “This is our chance. Let’s go.”

Percy holds out an arm, stopping Grover in his tracks. “Wait.” He says as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The terrible feeling of eyes watching him sets him on edge, and he reaches for riptide, concealed in the pocket of his jeans. 

“Well, well,” Purrs a stupidly familiar voice. Percy immediately jumps to his feet. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Kelli. How nice to see you.” Percy manages to grit out. He longs to drive riptide into her stomach, but Kelli’s fast. She’d probably be out of the way before he even got his sword out. 

 Grover backs away. Percy feels him reaching into his bag for his pan pipes, before sinking into the darkest corner he can find. Better he be out of the way. 

“Perseus Jackson. It’s been a while, huh?” She says, twirling a piece of hair between clawed fingers. Her bronze leg screeches sharply on the stone floor as she approaches him. Her sickly sweet magic washes over him, leaving Percy stiff and disgusted. It’s as if he has eaten something extremely sugary, leaving a sticky residue in his mouth and a pounding pain in his head.

He spits at her feet. “Leave me alone, Kelli.”

“As feisty as ever, I see.” She replies fangs bared. Her body tenses like she wants to rip out his intestines, but instead, she reluctantly steps back and releases Percy from her magic. 

Immediately, Percy reaches for riptide and uncaps it, thrusting it forward as it turns into his sword. Kelli dodges, unsurprisingly, and jumps forward with her claws outstretched. Percy slashes down with his sword cutting off Kelli’s hands and wrists.

“You bastard!” She screams. “I’ll get you for that!” 

Her hands turn to golden dust on the floor, and in their place grow two new ones. The claws seem sharper and more malicious than ever. Well, that’s new. Percy vaguely remembers Annabeth talking to him about axolotls- how they could regrow their limbs. What was it called? 

Regeneration, Seaweed brain.

Great, so Kelli has regeneration. 

Percy jumps to the side as her new-and-improved claws slash at his neck. He uses the opening of her guard to open a cut, which heals almost instantly.

“You’ve had an upgrade, Kelli,” Percy says as he blocks another attack. He kicks out at Kelli’s bronze leg and takes a stab at her as she falls. She yells but rolls out of the way before he can get another effort in.

“Yeah!” She grunts, kicking Percy in the stomach. “And I’m going to kill you with it!”

Percy doubles over, crouching on the ground. He connects his hands with the cold floor, sending a small shockwave through the stone ground. He feels the vibrations of all the monsters kicking and fighting, and the small amount of moisture in the ground. 

Opening the ground beneath Kelli’s feet, Percy knocks her over. She screeches loudly, waving her clawed hands around the air. 

Percy’s mind buzzes with possibilities. He could bury her under the ground, drown her, both, even. He hears Akhlys’ screams and wails filled with horrible emotion as he turns her domain against her. He remembers how it felt to control the thick ichor inside her veins. 

Since Akhlys was a goddess, her ichor was thicker than any mortals would ever be. Percy will have no trouble redirecting the flow of Kelli’s ichor. It would be easy. 

He resists the urge to take Kelli apart with her blood, instead opting for a less extravagant method. Percy adjusts the grip he has on his sword, and swings in a wide arc. He relishes the squelch of the blade hitting flesh and the pop of her body bursting into golden glitter.

Percy stalks out of the abandoned grocery shop and into the crowd of monsters. His skull buzzes with power needing to be released. Striking down monsters left and right, Percy watches bodies fall and explode into gold dust. He slashes one dracaena from shoulder to hip, watches her die, and moves on all within a second. He decapitates a second dracaena whose body evaporates before it can hit the ground. Her head rolls onto the ground by Percy’s feet.

Stab, thrust, slash, parry. Percy is like an automaton, created to do only one thing; kill. The dance is engraved in his brain and he takes down monster after monster. 

Percy growls in frustration. It’s too easy. He needs a challenge. Restrained waves of power lap at his mind, urging him to let go of his hold, to destroy everything.

“Percy, Annabeth, help! Help me! I don’t want to die!” someone screams. Grover. Percy tenses, batting away the monsters trying to attack him. 

He looks around, pinpointing Grover’s voice on the upper level of the mall. 2 Laistrygonian giants hold him up by his arms while his hooved feet kick around in the air. Their bats are discarded against the crumbling stone walls.

Percy trembles. In rage, not fear, and anger swirls heavily in the bottom of his stomach. The monsters around him freeze as Annabeth blinks into existence beside him.

“Percy.” She whispers, wide-eyed. Annabeth’s gaze is focused on the giants’ silver bats. “I’ve got a plan, okay? Don’t do anything rash, please.”

“What do you-” Percy begins to ask, but Annabeth is already gone or rather, invisible. “-mean?”

Percy unclenches his fists and cracks his knuckles. He trusts Annabeth, so before he does anything, he waits for Annabeth to do her thing. The anger coils in his gut like a snake, sinking its fangs into his skin. 

One of the giant’s clubs starts to float. Annabeth picks it up and swings it as hard as she can into the giant on the left’s back, and he yells as he falls. 

Grover jumps out of his arms and scampers down the stairs, but Percy’s attention isn’t on him. He jolts as the other giant bats out an arm. It hits something solid- Annabeth- who lets out a scream. Her Yankee Cap is knocked off her head, goes flying in the opposite direction, and hits the wall with a dull thud. 

“ANNABETH!” Percy screams. 

Time seems to slow down everything except the heavy hammering in Percy’s chest. He barely notices the loud explosion of monsters returning to Tartarus. Percy stumbles forward in shock. More than once, he nearly falls because his knees seem too weak to hold up his weight. 

No longer having the strength to contain them, his powers explode.

The earth shakes, every vibration running through it multiplied tenfold. The surviving monsters fall and stumble before they are brutally torn apart by the hold Percy has on their blood. (it’s not quite the same as a god’s ichor which is thick and powerful. Monster’s ichor is thin and pathetic.)

There’s an ethereal shimmer in the air created by the beautiful, gruesome spray of golden blood, complimented by the shiny flakes of dust that scatter the air around Percy like stars. He barely feels the burn of fire spat by a small hydra, barely the size of a car, whose blood sprays onto Percy’s face as its body collapses.

The surrounding liquid in the area (blood) depletes quickly, so Percy latches on to the surrounding water particles in the air. Clouds gather around him, clinging to his skin like moths to a flame. The surrounding hurricane sends winds that rampage through the wall. The wind pulls loose-hanging signs from their spots at raggedy old shops. 

Suddenly his skin feels too tight, as if it is stretched over something too large for it. He resists the urge to scratch and peel his skin away because he has to get to Annabeth. 

Percy walks towards the daughter of Athena in silence. His vision blurs as he unwillingly allows tears to fill his eyes. They slip down his cheeks in a wet, warm stream, but he tolerates the feeling in his haste to reach the injured demigoddess.

When he reaches her, the small hurricane fizzles out. Instead, as Percy kneels, the quake in the earth becomes less vengeful rage that lashes out at everything, and becomes more focused.

“Annabeth, you need to get up. Please.” Percy pleads, bringing her head into his lap. He caresses the curve of her too pale cheek. “Don’t leave me. Not again.” (not like Tartarus.)

Fissures open up in the ground as Percy subconsciously grips onto the earth. (this is what he learns inside Tartarus. This is what makes him better. His domains aren’t limited to one thing Like Zeus’ or Hades’ children’s might be.) 

Percy’s ears pop. He blinks, and the world transforms from a rundown, destroyed mall to a pristine building that looks suspiciously like his cabin at camp. The fountain in the corner drips water from the spout with a sound that has Percy dizzy on his feet. The air smells like a fresh sea breeze and his mom’s freshly made cookies. 

“Why did you react like that?” Someone says from behind him. 

Instinctively, Percy reaches into his pocket for riptide. His heart does a mini somersault when his hand doesn’t touch it. His panic sends a wave of awareness through him, snapping him out of his woozy state. 

“Relax, Perseus. I’m not here to harm you.” 

He spins around and is met with the familiar deep, purple-red eyes of Dionysus. His pudgy, chubby form he takes on at camp is gone, replaced with the fit, lean body Percy sees him displayed as in statues. 

“Where are we?” Asks Percy, and then, after a moment of thought, “Where’s Annabeth?”

Dionysus simply chuckles. “Calm down. She’s alive; while we’re in here the outside world is practically frozen. It’s basically a thought.”

Some other time, Percy might have been relieved that the world outside had ‘practically’ stopped, but if it hasn’t completely, it’s a problem. Annabeth’s tough, but even just a second in her condition could be the difference between her life and death.

“I am only curious,” he continues, “As to why you reacted so violently. Every god and goddess in the area felt your impact.”

“Because Annabeth got hurt."

"Ah, I see. Tartarus, was it?"

Take me back.” Percy demands, not bothering to muster the effort needed for politeness. He’s past that stage, plus the mention of Tartarus makes him angry. 

Dionysus tilts his head. “I cannot.”

“What do you mean you ‘cannot’?”

“Well,” the god sighs, inspecting a trident. A drop of golden ichor splashes onto the razor ship tip and fizzes away on the metal. “This is your mind. I was only able to enter because of the delicious stench wafting from it.”

For a moment, Percy sees Dionysus for what he really is. Not human, bared fangs, and deep purple eyes. But then the illusion drops. “My mind? Does it smell like wine or something?”

“No, demigod. It smells like insanity. ”

Percy feels the anxiety build in his chest. He needs to get back to Annabeth- she’s unconscious and alone, and even Grover might not be able to save her. Not against two Laistrygonians. 

As stealthily as he can, he looks around the room for any sort of weapon. So far, it’s only the trident he can see. Not a bad weapon, but Percy reminds himself that he isn’t trained with that weapon. The only other thing he has is the small fountain in the back of the room.

Then Percy realises something’s wrong. He tries to reach out with his senses and grab the water, but it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack, blind. He knows there is something there, but he senses… nothing.

He can’t feel the particles in the air or the ground. He feels like an impostor in his skin, too small for the costume. Percy vaguely wonders if it looks like his skin is melting off from the outside. 

“Let me go,” Percy demands, hands involuntarily shaking. Dionysus eyes them with morbid interest. “Let me go or I’ll kill you.”

The god only laughs, again. “Delightful,” says the god, licking his lips. “It’s so… potent.”

Percy begins to get angry. His trembling hands are shaking with rage, not fear. “Will you stop talking about me like you want to eat some part of me and tell me what’s going on?”

Dionysus seems to consider it for a moment, gazing at Percy with a calculating expression. “Yeah. I’ll tell you. You’re going mad, Percy. You’re insane.”

“What?”

“Think about it,” continues the god, a sly smile on his face. “You’re threatening to kill a god because… what? You can’t see your little girlfriend.”

Percy swallows, hard. “She could die!”

“I said the outside world was frozen, demigod. You’re threatening to attack a god to get to your girlfriend even though we’re inside your mind and the outside world has stopped?”

“Well… I-”

“Let’s recap, Perseus. You killed a goddess- yes, everyone knows,” the god says, admonishing Percy for the look in his eyes. “With her blood because she threatened to hurt your little girlfriend. And after that, you used that power just because you can.”

“No, I did it because…” Percy can’t think of an answer. He desperately wishes Annabeth was there, she’d be able to talk her way out of this. And if it came down to a fight, she would always be more prepared than him. Percy doesn’t know how he made it to Nyx’s mansion alone when they were separated. 

Dionysus shakes his head. “You did it because you could. You lied to yourself, told yourself it was to protect Annabeth. But it wasn’t really, was it?”

The god is not completely right, Percy tells himself. There was a part of him, in Tartarus, that did it out of fear that they might be able to hurt Annabeth. (Deep down, Percy knows that it’s his own selfish desire to see his loved ones stay by his side that drives him to use those powers.)

“And remember when you so selfishly decided to jump into Tartarus after Annabeth, because you couldn’t let her go? You couldn’t let her die even when she needed to?” 

“What… no, how did you… No, I was saving her!” Percy cries, bringing a hand to his face. His heart beats erratically, and it’s all he can hear other than Dionysus’ ringing voice in his head. 

The aforementioned god reaches out and runs a wickedly sharp finger over Percy’s jaw. He walks forward, just a step, but manages to get so close to Percy that he can feel his breath in his ear as he whispers. 

“Remember when you let all those people die just to save her? You sacrificed them. Some might say that you killed them.” 

A single tear rolls down Percy’s face. Something boils in his chest, horrible and burning like the Mount St Helens explosion. Dionysus smiles, his teeth sharp and unforgiving. He removes his finger from Percy’s jaw and wipes away his tear with a thumb, forcing Percy to look into his eyes.

Percy sees how selfish he’s been. 

“You will always be selfish, demigod.” 

The son of Poseidon wrenches himself from Dionysus’ grip, watching in subdued horror when the god’s eyes narrow with frustration. He doesn’t let it get further, grabbing the bronze trident from the wall and swinging it with all his might. 

“How did you know that?” He shouts, stumbling when Dionysus moves out of the way of the strike. 

Someone scoffs behind him. “I am simply looking into the reason for your insanity. It is my domain, after all.” 

“I’m not insane!” Percy says, whirling around. “Let me out!” 

The room begins to darken (maybe it’s just Percy’s vision) and Percy holds onto the trident like it’s the one thing keeping him alive. He feels small and vulnerable, cowering in a corner. He can no longer see Dionysus, but at every flash of movement, Percy swings the trident. Every time, he misses.

It’s completely dark. There’s a buzzing in his ears like many faint chattering voices overlapping each other, almost unnoticeable, but it gets louder and louder until Percy is covering his ears to get it to stop. 

Faintly, the demigod hears broken screaming like a traumatised child. Percy reels back in shock when he realises it’s him screaming. 

“Let it in, child.” The melodious voice of Dionysus croons from the shadows. “It will be so much easier. For both of us.”

Percy doesn’t have the energy to question the god’s last sentence before fatigue crashes down on him.

Chapter Text

Akhlys wails as Annabeth jumps on the goddess’s back. The demigod feels an unnatural grin stretching her lips, but she doesn’t stop it. She likes this new feeling.  Ichor runs down her hands as Aklhys’ throat is slit by Annabeth’s sword. The golden liquid burns her skin, but she doesn’t retract her arms. She likes the pain.  Clawing mechanically at Annabeth’s arms, the goddess draws blood from the demigod’s skin. The latter’s hands tighten around Akhlys’ throat. She likes hurting her.

Annabeth is too far in to stop herself now, she thinks. Percy is choking on the floor, surrounded by a cloud of sickly green poison that shrouds him from her. The goddess’ string black hair comes out in chunks as Annabeth unconsciously rips it out, her growing anger only adding fuel to the fire. 

Fury burns deep in Annabeth’s stomach. She barely notices the previous throbbing in her ankle. She doesn’t even notice the red blood (it looks golden) dripping down her wrist and mingling with the pooling ichor on her skin. 

The goddess manages to shake Annabeth off, loosening her grip and sending her sprawling to the floor. She lands with a groan on the rocky ground, flipping a matted curl from her face. 

With adrenaline coursing through her body, Annabeth pays no attention to the pain that courses through her body. She blocks it out, setting her sights on Akhlys, who stalks towards Percy with unhinged rage. 

Annabeth gets irrationally angry- at least in her standards- for two reasons. One; the fact that Akhlys is practically unharmed against Annabeth’s efforts. She’s never fought a god or goddess before, but Annabeth now assumes it is like fighting a particularly hardy monster. And if that’s what Akhlys wants to fight like, that’s what Annabeth will treat her like.

The demigoddess leaps off the ground, muscles straining, and slashes downwards. The tip of her sword catches on Akhlys’ Achilles heel, causing her to shout in pain and stumble forward. Ichor trickles from the wound.

The second reason; Annabeth might not have any specific powers. She might not be able to manipulate the winds like Jason or summon an undead army like Nico, but she’s not weak. She’s deadly, and Akhlys is soon to find that out. 

Anger fuels her next movements. The dry air moves and Annabeth ducks on instinct, narrowly missing the claws that slash the space where her face was just a second ago. Spotting an opening, Annabeth lunges forward and digs her sword into the scarce flesh littered over Akhlys’ body, between her visible ribcage and pelvic bone.

The goddess shrieks. It’s so loud, so earsplitting, that Annabeth’s body involuntarily moves. She drops her sword, covering her ears. Her head pounds, feeling like it’s going to explode.

Something warm trickles from Annabeth’s ears. Pulling a hand away from her head, she stares in horror and the pool of her own blood in the palm of her hand. Great, she thinks, now I’m bleeding from three places. 

Although injured, Akhlys is still a goddess. She moves with surprising speed and Annabeth just can’t force her body to move fast enough, and the goddess tears her claws into her already injured ankle.

Pain shoots up her leg. A scream escapes her throat as Annabeth feels the bones snapping again, the recently healed injury opening up. She falls to one knee, watching her sword clatter uselessly to the ground several metres away. 

Her head swims in pain. It makes the world spin, hazy and blurred, impossible to ignore. She squeezes her eyes shut, gripping her broken ankle like her life depends on it. Akhlys cackles in front of her, gleeful with twisted pride after managing to get a hit on Annabeth. 

As the goddess talks, her words swim in and out of Annabeth’s hearing.

“You cannot beat me, demigod.” She says, “You aren’t good enough.” 

Annabeth grits her teeth. She won’t be beaten by the manipulative words of the goddess of misery. 

“What’s wrong, Annabeth?” croons Akhlys, the sickle sweet tone of her words brushing Annabeth’s ears. “Are you worried? Don’t worry, my dear, there’s no need to be.”

Akhlys advances on her, forcing Annabeth to crawl backwards. All of a sudden, tears threaten to spill over her eyes. She has a strong urge to curl into a ball and sob. 

Annabeth frowns. She doesn’t remember ever feeling sad. Only anger, and pain, yet nonetheless, a deep, burrowing sadness suddenly overwhelms her. Annabeth longs to go home and make amends to her father, to Janet. A sob escapes her, abrupt and unexpected. 

“What are you doing to me?,” shouts Annabeth, “Stop it, stop it!”

Akhlys chuckles. “My child… there is no need to resist. Oh, yes. So much of it.”

Through the haze, Annabeth assumes she must be talking about misery. The goddess isn’t wrong- there is a lot of it packed into Annabeth’s body. She’s spent all her life going on quests and saving everyone that there’s no room left for anything else. It shouldn’t be only her just because she’s the only one who’s half competent at CHB anymore. 

But really, Annabeth thinks, why should she do anything? She’s done so much because she feels like she has to, but would it hurt for her to just sit back and watch? Surely the camp would find ways to adapt without her, or they’d die trying.

There’s some sort of sick glee in the bottom of her stomach thinking about watching her camp fail without her. Annabeth is the sole reason every Greek demigod is alive. She’s the only one who can coordinate the camp, fight and produce battle plans capable of taking down gods. She’s better than everyone else. 

The feeling quickly spreads throughout her body like a wave of fresh air, cool and refreshing. It sends a small smile to her bloodied face, still buried in rough, dirty hands. Then a laugh escapes from her mouth. 

It starts small, a little chuckle, but it grows fast. Eventually, Annabeth’s whole body is rocking with laughter.

Akhlys screams, lashing out with a tentacle of poison. Before it can reach her, the goddess shrieks and the poison, as if it is sentient, flinches back like it was burned.

“What have you done?” wails Akhlys, cradling her ‘burnt’ hand, “what have you done, demigoddess? You are not supposed to feel this... No, this is not what the fates planned!”

“Stay back,” Annabeth shouts. She tries to look threatening and wield her new aura, or whatever it is, and it seems to work. Akhlys hesitates. “Don’t come near.”

Keeping her eyes on the goddess, she shuffles back some more until her hands make contact with Percy’s limp body behind her. Annabeth freezes; her hands have become damp again, Percy’s blood piling on top of her own. (She ignores the golden tint, ignores how the consistency is strikingly similar to Akhlys’. She ignores how hers is so similar to Percy’s.)

With her vision flicking from Percy to the goddess, she whispers, “Percy. Percy, wake up. Please, please wake up.”

Annabeth feels for a pulse in his wrists, but her heart almost stops when she nearly doesn’t feel one. It’s there, only just, but it’s weak and sluggish, which isn’t good at all. Even Percy can’t restart his own heart. Putting her ear near his mouth, she desperately listens for a breath.

Some small part of her tells her she needs to leave him. It tells her that he’s not worth it, that she’s the only one keeping him alive and Percy doesn’t do anything for her. The feeling is so sudden and overpowering that she starts to stand.

Annabeth’s subconscious, because that’s what it is, whispers in agreement. You’re better than him , it tells her. Yes, leave him. The only person important enough to make a difference is you. He only has power, not the knowledge or wisdom of what to do with that power. After all, even strength has to bow down to wisdom sometimes. 

Kill Akhlys and go. You’re better off without him, and Akhlys needs to die anyway. She’s just a stupid, weak goddess who had the misfortune of crossing you, it says. Kill her. Leave him. 

The only thing that makes Annabeth is the blinding pain radiating from her leg and ears. As she tries to stand, the agony pounding through her leg blinds her momentarily, sending a bright white light behind her eyes.

Get up! Don’t be weak, Annabeth. This is the type of thing that mortals get defeated by, and you’re not a mortal. 

So Annabeth gets up. It seems like her cycle is repeating, pain, refusing to give up, fighting, more pain. Would Percy ever wake up and help her, or would he (again, she reminds herself. He’s left her before.) stay lying there and leave her to escape by herself?

It wouldn’t be her fault if she had to leave him. That’s what he would tell her to do anyway, to leave him to die, so save herself. 

So, out of spite, because Annabeth’ll be damned if she ever lets a man tell her what to do, even Percy, the demigoddess decides to stay with her boyfriend. But perhaps a bit of help would be nice. 

Her subconscious screams at her, but Annabeth blocks out the voice and locks it up to deal with later when they’re out of Tartarus. She ignores her gut feeling to run, instead preparing to awaken Percy with perfect, practised moves ingrained into her brain.

Annabeth barely notices, but her hands are shaking terribly as she moves her boyfriend into position. She repeats the instructions in her head, (not to distract her, just so she knows, of course) move the arms, roll the person over, clear their airways. 

Watching his chest intently for any signs of death, she props Percy up and listens to his breathing get stronger, and an instant wave of relief washes over her like a cool wave lapping over her feet at a beach. He groans, opening his eyes slowly.

She’s almost taken by surprise by the colour of her boyfriend’s eyes. Annabeth’s grey ones open momentarily as she sees the bright, iridescent bluey green of Percy’s irises. 

(it scares her a bit, but at least it’s a short break from the mind-numbing fear she’s already feeling.)

For the moment, Annabeth finds sanctuary in the familiar calming lull of his eyes, but it quickly turns sour. The lighthearted, idiotic-but-in-a-good-way look morphs into a dark, looming sense of danger, imminent and inevitable. It reminds Annabeth of Poseidon, and how his sharp, symmetrical features could shift so quickly from joy to unbridled fury. 

“Fuck, Annabeth, are you okay?” curses Percy, placing a calloused hand on Annabeth’s cut cheek. She resists the urge to shout no, of course, I’m not. I’m bleeding from 3 places and my ankle is broken. 

Annabeth breaths heavily, eyes darting back and forth between the son of Poseidon and Akhlys, cowering a dozen feet or so away. 

“I got her so stay back, somehow.” Annabeth gulps, gritting her teeth, “But only for the moment. She’s gonna get over it soon.”

“I- Annabeth-”

She cries out, covering her face. Something like shame buzzes in her stomach. “Don’t say it, I know. I was stupid for thinking I could fight a goddess.”

“No, Annabeth, you aren’t stupid,” Percy reassures with a faint raspy voice from the blistering atmosphere. “You’ve managed to stay away longer than I have. I’ve been knocked out from the start.”

Percy groans weakly as he sits up, face bunched up in pain as one hand is curled around riptide, supporting his body weight, and the other is pressed hard against his abdominals. 

Shifting to place a hand on his back, Annabeth sees Akhlys in the corner of her eye. Her long, thin, greasy hair hangs in front of her sunken, pale face like a curtain, but her eyes are as dark as night when she looks straight into Annabeth’s stormy grey ones. 

“Shit, Percy. She’s coming back.” She says, drawing her dagger from her pocket, but a large hand on her wrist stops her. 

Her boyfriend looks up at her through dark lashes, with a look that she’s never seen before in her life. It sends a shiver down her spine, paralysing her. She can only watch as Percy shakily gets to his feet, gripping Riptide loosely in his hands, stalking Akhlys like a predator with their  eyes latched on their prey.

“It’s okay, Annabeth.” He says, in a terrifyingly calm voice, “I’ll deal with this. You’ve been through enough.” 

There’s a tone of finality in his voice, purposeful or not, that has Annabeth both worried and relieved at the same time, but she can do nothing to stop him if she even wanted to. 

For a few minutes, it’s just the clashing of metal on something else sharp, probably Akhlys’ nails, and the sharp scraping of metal on rock. Their movements are almost too fast for Annabeth to follow; if not for her enhanced demigod senses then she wouldn’t be able to track them at all.

“No, stop!” Wails Akhlys. “I am the oldest of them all, you may not defeat me!” She cries, but it’s not in anger or rage like Annabeth would assume if she read those words on a page. They drip with misery and despair, forcing tears back into Annabeth’s eyes while she feels a share of the emotion from the goddess.

Percy grunts, batting away her sharp nails that come for his head. “Shut it, lady, we all know you’re sad and all, but don’t dump it on us. What if we were on our honeymoon?”

For a moment, Akhlys’ confusion distracts her, and Annabeth sees her illusions flicker. Of course, she thinks, Achlys means mist in ancient Greek. That was our original plan, to get the death mist.

(and look how that turned out for us.)

Annabeth sees the real Akhlys. The real, unveiled Akhlys; the primordial, thousands of years old. The one that existed before any of the Olympians. Before even the Titans. 

There are no words to describe what Annabeth sees. She’s not sure she even does see, the goddess is just there. Annabeth’s best bet would be to say it is death, misery, poison personified, except that’s nothing new, but it’s so different, and so, so much worse. 

But then her illusion flickers back into place, and Annabeth blinks to adjust herself back to the blatant niceness of Akhlys’ current state. She’s horrible to look at, but it’s infinitely better than seeing whatever that was. Annabeth thanks whichever god or goddess mercifully decided to save them from the torture of seeing everything as it was. 

Eventually, Akhlys slows. Her resolve crumbles, visually, and she screams like a grieving mother. Like someone who’s lost the person they love the most.

(Like Annabeth, after she lost Luke, Thalia, and Percy. After she lost her family. After she learnt the end of her life was inevitable.)

“Enough! I have had enough,” she screams, “you will bow to me! I am Akhlys, goddess of misery. Goddess of toxins and poisons, that you have forgotten, and that will be your fatal mistake. Your bodies will rot in hell for eternity. Perhaps I shall even share your girlfriend’s body with the rest of my sisters.”

Annabeth winces at the rage in Percy’s face. It’s predictable, to Annabeth; she’s known him for a long time and so well that she knows exactly what he’ll do and when he will do it. But it doesn’t last long.

One moment Percy is charging at Akhlys, Riptide held high, the next, he freezes, dropping to his knees. His sword clatters uselessly to the ground, hands empty to clutch and scratch at his throat.

Annabeth’s heart jumpstarts, but by now her body has completely given out on her. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot move. 

A cloud of poison, barely visible, shimmers ethereally, too beautiful for its own good. It gathers around Percy, clinging to his skin, bringing droplets of sweat to the surface. Percy chokes, gouging deep lines into his throat.

Annabeth suddenly realises how horrible and terrifying it must be for him; a son of Poseidon, who’s not used to suffocating or drowning, suddenly having the breath taken from his throat like a mortal would with water. In a way, Akhlys is using his domain against him.

Brilliant, a voice says, her own, brilliant. Why didn’t we think of that, Annabeth?

The next thing happens so quickly it’s as if she’s watching an action movie. She never has, of course, but it’s the thought that counts. 

One moment Percy is kneeling at Akhlys’ feet, dying, the next, it’s the other way around and the poison turns a bright, beautiful sea green. The contrast is so sudden it gives Annabeth vertigo. 

Both Annabeth and Akhlys are looking up at the demi god, and the former thinks he may as well be levitating. His eyes are narrowed, but so bright that they almost glow, illuminating the wide eyes of Akhlys and the deep, ugly lines of her face. 

The demigoddess realises with morbid interest and pride that Percy is controlling the poisons. It makes sense, she thinks, for him to be able to do that. Poison has water in it, which is what he could be controlling. Or was he controlling the liquid itself? If so, what else could he control?

“Percy,” calls Annabeth, heart beating erratically, “are you controlling… the poison?”

Her boyfriend looks towards her with unsteady eyes, the question clear. His control of the liquid falters.

She gulps. “No, don’t stop. It’s just… isn’t ichor a liquid too?

Understanding dawns in his mind, and he turns to Akhlys once again with an outstretched hand. The goddess's eyes widen and nearly pop out her head.

Annabeth watches Percy with tilted eyes, curiosity burning at the edges of her mind. How far could he push his power? 

Could he kill a goddess?

The demigoddess sees when the ichor in Akhlys’ body stops moving around. She watches the veins and arteries bulge and swell under her skin as the heart desperately tries and fails to pump the liquid around her body.

She watches the veins and arteries burst under the skin, spreading gold around the goddess’ body, turning the whites of her eyes golden and her lips yellow. She watches as the swollen lines burst through the skin, spraying gold everywhere like a sprinkler. She watches the goddess open her mouth in a silent scream, but before anything comes out, her whole body goes limp.

And then something explodes.

Like a wave of heat and sound, faintly golden; the goddess’ life force.

Percy does it. He kills the goddess.

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Percy pushes his body too far; he crosses a line he can never come back from and breaks a wall that will never be rebuilt. 

He pushes his limits to the very edge, until he falls off the cliff and into nothingness, not knowing what’s coming next, not knowing what could happen. 

He’s off the radar. Not even the fates could have possibly seen this. 

The explosion, if it could be called that, throws Annabeth away from Percy and vice versa, and he lands miles and miles away from their middle point. He knows he’s been unconscious for a while because his open wounds have begun to heal over. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been killed by a monster yet.

The first thing the demigod feels when he opens his eyes is pure, undiluted fear. Not fear for himself, gods, he couldn’t care less if he lived or died, no, fear for Annabeth. What happened to her? Is she alright? How will she be able to defend herself with a broken ankle?

No, he curses himself. Annabeth doesn’t like it when he does that. She can take care of herself; she’s deadly, scary and lethal. (But what if something happens to her? What if he doesn’t get to her in time?)

Now, Percy faces a problem. Does he look for Annabeth, something so predictably him, or does he push his personal problems aside and carry on for the doors, and hope that Annabeth does the same thing that she would if she was alone?

He decides to face that problem when it comes. For now, Percy needs to focus on actually moving. His body aches everywhere, every muscle screaming in protest as he forces himself to sit up. 

Once up, he takes the opportunity to scan his surroundings, noting how everything looks the godsdamned same. Dark, maroon plains stretching out as far as his demigod eyes can see; littered with rocks that jut out of the ground like bones from an open wound. Above him, the ‘sky’ stretches into nothing, blurred by a hazy red mist impossible to see through. 

Percy yells in frustration. His throat is rough and blistered, causing him to choke on the dryness of the skin and the pain it turns into. Reaching for his bottle of fire water, his heart does a mini somersault when he realises it isn’t there. It isn’t on the ground around him, and it isn't strapped onto his belt. 

Shit. He thinks, shit, shit, shit. 

To calm himself down, Percy screws his eyes shut and watches the patterns that bloom behind his eyelids. What would Annabeth do? 

He starts by assessing what he does have, methodically crossing things off the half-assed list he’s put together in his head. No food, no water, but he does still have a weapon. Gods, it’s the only thing he has.

He needs to find food and water. How, Percy hasn’t a clue. But he needs to, and soon; he already knows he will be weaker than usual. 

More than anything, he needs his girlfriend. His best friend, his everything. 

Fuck, Percy wants Annabeth. He wants her to be back by his side and him by hers. He wants them to be together again, never let her go. He misses her, a lot, and there’s nothing (nothing) that he wouldn’t do to get back by her side.

Percy makes a decision. He decides that no matter what, he will find Annabeth. He would find her, and he would make sure they get out of this hell (literally), and he would make anyone who stands in his way pay because how dare they keep him away from Annabeth. 

So he gets up. Slowly, he stretches out his arms, he flexes the muscles in his back and biceps. Slowly, he forces his legs to move, forces himself to stand up. Slowly, ever so slowly, he takes his first steps. Percy almost laughs. His first steps- like a baby. 

One foot in front of the other, he thinks, keep going. 

And eventually, he manages to maintain a steady walking pace. Sure, he’s limping and stumbling and almost falling, but at least he’s moving. Percy hopes Annabeth is able to do the same; he’s not sure how the explosion will have affected her, but hopefully, she’s walking towards the doors. 

As Percy walks, he digs his hand into his pocket and draws out Riptide, uncapping the pen and watching the bronze blade spring out. The faint glow illuminates the ground in front of him further than the red haze, so Percy doesn’t trip over a couple rocks that helpfully pop out beneath his feet. 

They ache, though, his feet. His whole body does, but his feet and ankles are the worst. The soles on Percy’s trainers are worn down and thin, and he winces at every sharp stone he stands on that nearly pierces the skin.

Eventually, Percy begins to… adapt. Evolve?

Within days, (weeks, months, years? When did he last eat?) the soles of his feet thicken and harden; he doesn’t need his worn-down shoes anymore, but they provide him with a comforting reminder of home. 

The air in Tartarus is poisonous, because of course it is, and without the fire water, there’s nothing to heal him. Right now, Annabeth would be telling him something about the oxygen percentage and how utterly fucked they are and how they shouldn’t be alive but nothing in Tartarus follows the rules, and Annabeth isn’t here so- 

His lungs become blistered and red. His body and reaction time slows, as a result of the lack of oxygen. His throat is dry as a desert.

Again, Percy adapts. His heartbeat slows down, to conserve energy. He develops an immunity to Tartarus’ atmosphere. His body allows him to survive without the high amount of oxygen that it needs, somehow. 

(Annabeth adapts like this too. They’re meant for more. )

And Percy walks, and he walks, and he walks. He fights, he kills. 

He turns to spoils of war for food. He eats the flesh of many drycaenae. He forces down a lump of meat from a small, scaly drakon that he almost felt bad for when he killed it. 

And Percy drinks. Well, he’s not sure what it is. He feels the moisture in the bodies of the monsters, and he pulls it out and he drinks it. But only out of the ones he’s not going to eat. Dry monster meat is not good sustenance. He learns that the hard way.

He learns everything about Tartarus through experience. There’s no manual (gods, he sounds like Annabeth) to learn from. There’s no set of rules, but when has Percy ever followed any rules?

Sometimes, Percy talks to himself. He mutters on about Annabeth, and his mom, and Grover and all the rest of his friends. He talks about the gods, he curses their names. He talks during battles if only to entertain himself.

Sometimes, Percy is silent. He stalks down his prey with an expressionless face (sometimes it’s filled with rage ) and kills them with no mercy. (sometimes, he tortures them)

The monsters quickly learn to avoid the son of Poseidon (godkiller) when he is silent. They learn that if they have to fight him, they must do it when he is talking to himself or when he is laughing. That way, he kills them quickly and quietly, because he is distracted by himself or the thought of something more important than them.

Sometimes, the monsters get unlucky. Percy starts to feel rage simmering beneath his skin when he talks about the people who’ve harmed his loved ones, and then the monsters feel the worst pain they ever have and ever will feel. 

Tartarus learns everything about Percy Jackson through experience. There are rumours, rules about him that he (it, they) have heard, but the boy that passes through is nothing like those stories. Percy hates it. 

But at the same time, he loves it. 

Once, a stupid monster dares to interrupt Percy while he’s eating. The hydra, young and inexperienced and arrogant, sneaks up (tries to) on the demi god, not daring to believe the stories about him.

Percy, unbothered, angry at the interruption, doesn’t get up from his seated position. He simply allows the monster to come close, he smells the rancid breath coming from the 3 heads that surround him, and he lets the hydra figure out why the other monsters in Tartarus (and above. The rest of the seven hear fleeting rumours about a certain son of Poseidon, a cannibal because it’s true; Percy’s a monster. ) never bother him.

He flicks his hand, freezing the hydra in place. Percy watches in delight as the Hydra’s eyes widen, as it realises what’s happening. He makes it suffer. 

Percy is stocked up on food for ages after that. But he still kills. 

Another time, the naive minotaur thinks he’s going to beat Percy. Stupidly, it tells the monsters around him to watch. They do. They watch as Percy discovers a new power. They watch as Percy kills the minotaur, for the third time. They watch as he stumbles away. They don’t follow. 

And after… well, after a while, Percy senses a river. The river of fire that he and Annabeth had been previously following to get to the doors. 

A tidal wave of relief floods through Percy, filling him with a special kind of hope he never thought he would feel again. 

The son of Poseidon runs to the edge of the river, dropping to his knees, about to stick his hand in, jump in and bathe himself- but he stops. Percy reminds himself that everything in Tartarus is an illusion. 

It isn’t water, but rather fire disguising itself as something else. 

That’s familiar. 

Percy stands up again, brushing off his ripped jeans and curses himself for dropping to the floor so violently. Now he’ll have bruised knees for a while. 

But still, the harsh relief he feels is still there, because Percy knows Annabeth has the common sense to keep looking for the doors, unlike him, so if he follows the river, he finds Annabeth. 

That’s what Percy chants in his head, day after day. Follow the river, find Annabeth. Follow the river, find Annabeth. 

By the fifth hour, which is a guess, because Percy has no sense of time, his thoughts are a mess. 

By the twenty-fifth  hour, Percy finds Annabeth.

She’s curled up by the side of the river, head down like it would be back in Percy’s cabin, mulling over her new architectural plans. Her blonde braids, matted and covered in dirt, are fanned out over her shoulders. In her hand, she grips her dagger so hard Percy’s sure the handle’s going to break .

“Percy?” She croaks, “Is that you?” 

“It’s me, Wise girl.”

The son of Poseidon vows to never let anything separate them again. Annabeth does the same. The hope he felt long ago fills his body again, renewing his energy. 

Percy tells Annabeth about his adventures. He doesn’t leave anything out. She doesn’t hate him for it. 

He learns that for Annabeth, it’s been years, possibly since they’ve been separated, and suddenly Percy feels like an asshole for feeling bad for himself. It’s only been a couple weeks for him. Maybe a month. For Annabeth? Years.

Annabeth reminds Percy that it’s just a guess. They start a new form of measuring the time, one Annabeth comes up with and Percy keeps count by carving a jagged line into the fragile skin of his forearm every time they need to count another. Annabeth doesn’t object. She doesn’t mention the golden tint to his blood. In return, Percy doesn’t talk about the bronze blood leaking from Annabeth’s wound.

When they begin walking, Percy notices the gruesome breaks in Annabeth’s ankle. He offers to carry her, but Annabeth gets annoyed at him for treating her like a baby. Instead, she insists on limping beside him. They both ignore their injuries.

Watching her severe limp, Percy’s anger rises again. A few hundred metres away, a couple of hellhounds drop dead. 

Days later, Percy watches in awe at the intelligence of his girlfriend. She outsmarts, outfights, out manoeuvres three monsters at once. She manipulates them cruelly, turning them to dust with no mercy. They die screaming. 

When Annabeth turns back to Percy, she looks sheepish and guilty, as if that wasn’t the most amazing thing Percy’s ever seen her do. He tells her that, and she does it again and again until they are no longer in danger. 

Eventually, finally, Percy and Annabeth reach a huge, dark-as-the-night mansion, the garden stretching for miles and miles and miles into the distance. Even if he turns his head, the mansion always seems to be in the corner of his eye, and when he does turn away, the urge to look back gets bigger each time.

Nyx comes storming out of her palace. Percy isn’t usually afraid of the dark, but usually, the dark isn’t 70 feet tall in the shape of a woman with huge wings, regal and unforgiving. Her chariot is like an abyss; the darkness seems like it wants to suck Percy in. He can’t understand her horses, and the lack of power, as small as it is, makes him feel little and fearful.

She shrinks down to a relatively normal size, and Percy finds it a little easier to look at the galaxies embedded in the bodice of her dress, but she still has no definite shape. Her face is connected to her hair, the same as her skin is her dress, and her form seems to flicker.

Scratch that. Sometimes, it looks solid, like Percy could run at it and break every bone in his body colliding with it. Sometimes it looks like a black hole, vacuuming in anything and everything around it. And sometimes she looks like a fleeting shadow. 

It’s very confusing. The only thing keeping Percy grounded is the tight grip Annabeth has on his hand. 

Nyx tells them what they need to do.

“You must pass through my mansion, children. You must make it to the end without looking back; that is very important.”

Annabeth is suspicious. “Why are you letting us do this?”

“Because you cannot do it! It is impossible, so I will gladly let you through if it means I get to collect your poor, tormented souls.” Nyx says, voice low and melodious, a tone unworthy of the garbage she is spitting. “Oh, and one more thing, you go separately!”

Percy immediately feels the rage bubble to the surface, but Annabeth squeezes his hand desperately. “No. We go together, or we don’t go at all.”

“A shame. I suppose I must kill you now, then.” 

From there, it’s a blur. Annabeth pulls Percy towards the gates of the mansion, but Nyx’s shadows engulf them in darkness.

Percy feels Annabeth’s grip on his hand tightens. Her palms become clammy and cold, and her slow pulse speeds up ever so slightly. He looks around him, all the while squeezing his girlfriend’s hand to comfort her. 

The shadows around them are darker than the black behind Percy’s eyelids. He doesn’t see anything ; the darkness isn’t just black, it is nothing. To his right, the son of Poseidon hears the familiar sound of Annabeth drawing her dagger from her belt, and Percy does the same with Riptide. The glow around it does absolutely nothing to help them.

Suddenly, a voice comes from the darkness. All around them, it is as if a hundred different people have been rolled into one person; a loud, brash sound that screeches in Percy’s ears. 

“You demigods are so naive! Choosing instead to both die rather than make it out on your own. I don’t understand.” It says, in an almost immature tone.

Although useless, Percy’s eyes dart around, instinctively looking for a way to escape. 

There, he thinks.

A small, minuscule flicker of light in the corner of his vision. Percy tugs on Annabeth’s arm, desperately begging her to follow him, but she does the same to him. “Percy!” She whisper-yells, “this way!”

Even though she can’t see it, Percy points to the left, “But I saw a light that way!”

“So did I…” Annabeth whispers. Then she gasps as if coming to a realisation. “Percy, she’s playing us.”

“What?”

“She’s trying to separate us. Maybe to... Kill us?”

This doesn’t make sense to Percy. “Why? Couldn’t she just kill us together?”

“I... I don’t know,” admits Annabeth. “Could you… could you use your powers? Find us a way out?”

“I can try.” He says and stretches out his senses. He relives the memory of the harpy attack, where he was forced to listen and feel. It’s the same concept, really, just much, much more dangerous. And Annabeth’s life is on the line.

The thought spurs him on. He strains to feel the moisture in the air, where it changes and where there’s none. Just in front, Percy feels a path stretching far longer than the others.

“Forwards.” He tells Annabeth, leading her blindly into the dark. 

Then, suddenly, Percy has this deep, foreboding sense of doom, as if something’s coming up right behind them. He needs to look he needs to-

“Percy.” Says Annabeth. He feels a hand on his cheek, pulling it forward again. “Don’t look back, Percy. Remember what she said.”

“But I-” 

“I feel it too, Seaweed brain, but you mustn’t look back. Promise me you won’t, okay?”

He promises. Percy thinks Annabeth must be a lot stronger, and have a lot more willpower to be able to fight it. Nyx’s power stretches far beyond creating darkness and shadows, and his girlfriend is showing herculean strength fighting it. 

Pride swells in his chest for his girlfriend. Percy steels himself, clenching his jaw and swearing to himself that he won’t look back.

As they turn a corner, Percy begins to hear voices. They scream at him, beg him to turn back. They yell and wail, like being rejected is the worst pain they’ve ever felt. They shriek like they’re being tortured, but Percy doesn’t turn around. For Annabeth. He doesn’t turn around, so he can get them out. Even if it means abandoning other people. 

He doesn’t care about them. There’s no desire in his body to help them this time, but Annabeth’s body begins to shift and turn away and Percy knows, he knows she’s milliseconds away from being taken so he yanks her back around. 

“Don’t let me turn, Percy.” She wails, struggling against his body. “Don’t let me see. Carve out my eyes, if you must, just don’t let me turn!”

“I won’t Wise girl. We have each other, we can get out of this, okay?”

Percy knows they’re near the centre when the night around them begins to pulsate. 

“You’ve made it further than I thought demigods.” Says Nyx, voices clashing with each other. “You’ve impressed me.”

“Shut it, Nyx.” Percy spits, feeling a flash flood of anger course through his veins. "We aren't here to give you a show. Let us out, now.

“Careful now, demigod. I’m willing to let you go; don’t make me change my mind.” 

The demigod has a sneaking suspicion that there’s something else influencing Nyx to let them go. The goddess wouldn’t just allow them to leave without a catch.  However, Percy doesn’t want to jinx it. If this is a real opportunity, they have to take it. It could be their only chance at getting out. 

So Nyx lifts the darkness, and the first thing Percy does is check Annabeth over for wounds or injuries. Her grey eyes and red and puffy, and there are a couple of tears rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes are pinched, and her breaths are coming short and fast. 

“I-... I heard…”

Annabeth doesn’t get the chance to finish,

Nyx forces them through the rest of her mansion, pushing them through like leaves in the wind. Percy tries to resist, grabbing onto Annabeth and digging his heels into the ground, but his efforts are to no avail. With one final push, Nyx expels them from her mansion. The house seems to breathe in relief, a breeze from seemingly nowhere blowing into their faces. 

Annabeth taps Percy on his shoulder. He turns, and comes face to face with the largest horde of monsters he’s ever seen.

And right in the middle of it all are the doors.

Chapter Text

Annabeth watches in accepting silence as they approach the entrance to the cave. The tall, rouch entrance stretches open for metres and metres, almost inviting her in. Not much of a secret base; disappointing for her, but, whatever. The gaping entrance is dark and gloomy, and she narrows her eyes as she leans around the rock to get a closer look.

No luck. It’s pitch black, making Annabeth sigh. She takes a deep breath, then signals for Clarisse, right behind her, to follow. 

Inching forward, Annabeth strains her ears and eyes for any sign of an ambush. Her eyes roam her other surroundings as well, the jagged rocks protruding from the ground and the ancient trees with limp branches and long leaves could be a perfect hiding spot. The site is dusted with shadows, pitch-black areas shoved into the crevices of large rocks and stones.

Oh, well. This is where the campers are being held. Annabeth is sure of it, and her detective skills are nothing to laugh at. They’ll have to move forward quickly; Annabeth knows they don’t have time to prepare for a surprise attack.

She thins her lips in displeasure. That was not how she wanted the plan to go. 

Annabeth peers around a boulder pleased not to see any sneaking monsters ahead of her. She turns back to her cabin and Ares’ cabin and places a finger to her lips, ordering complete silence. Once the buzz of harsh breathing and footsteps quietens down, she straightens up and begins walking towards the cave.

Had they been a Roman legion, Annabeth would have them line up and wield the thick shields like a wall. Had they been a Roman legion, Annabeth would have them throw burning spears into the cave to flush out any waiting unwanted monsters.

But they are not a Roman legion.

Stealthily, Annabeth signals for the Greeks to follow her, and they begin to trickle into the cave like a small stream. The darkness engulfs her and her legion, and they turn a corner so sharp the light is blocked out completely.

Annabeth feels her breath hitch. Don’t look behind, don’t look behind, her mind screams, and unconsciously, she reaches out for Percy’s hand before stopping herself, realising he wasn’t there. She panics, her heart rate speeding up as the memories of Nyx’s house flood her mind.

The seemingly never-ending darkness. The long, endless corridors of the night that stretched on forever and ever. The irresistible urge to turn around and look behind her, despite knowing what horrific things would happen to her if she did. 

Another hand lands on her shoulder. Annabeth jumps, inching her head to look at the newcomer. She instinctively rips her dagger from its’ sheath, relishing the quiet hum it releases. But it’s only Clarisse. 

In the darkness, Clarisse’s face looks gaunt and hollow, sharp cheekbones illuminated only by the faint, dim light emanating from her bronze sword and Annabeth’s smaller dagger. Her dark eyes look wide on her face, like big pools of a rich, chocolatey-brown colour. When Annabeth meets her eyes, Clarisse doesn’t flinch away like most campers do. 

Swallowing, Clarisse grips Annabeth’s shoulder tighter, like a vice around her joint. Her campmate’s jaw hardens and her eyes narrow as she looks down at Annabeth.

“The campers, Wise Girl.” Clarisse whispers, barely a breeze in the stone-still air. The quietness of her words makes Annabeth flinch back like she’s been hit. Then Clarisse continues, silent enough that Annabeth’s trained ears barely pick up the sentences. “You’re not down there anymore, and you need to save the campers.”

Annabeth startles out of her trance, acknowledging Clarisse with a terse nod. The darkness in her peripheral vision flickers and flits around, but it’s like the pitch-black nothingness of the cave seems just a little less dark. 

Steeling herself, she begins to walk forward once more. Each step feels like she’s holding up the sky again, but she marches forward anyway, keeping her senses on high alert for any sign of monsters. Annabeth’s surprised to find none. 

Aside from her panic, it’s going almost too well, but she isn’t about to jinx it. The rest of the campers Annabeth had rallied are silent- trained well by herself and Chiron. She takes a peak behind her, pleased by how many smaller shadows she can see using their stealth training wisely. 

Annabeth’s glad that they have taken so well to the unusual mission. They’d had no choice obviously, but her leadership and authority over the camp meant that they had willingly joined the ranks to get back the campers. Oh, and the fact that three of their friends were missing.

The three campers are just small, young, new demigods, barely 13 years old, yet for some reason taken and hidden away from right under their noses. Two were from Annabeth’s cabin, and another from the Tyche cabin. Ironic, considering that goddess’ domains.

Originally, Annabeth had been angry that the campers had been taken. She had been angry that some random, bastard monsters had stolen them from Camp Half-blood’s grasp, that they had had the audacity to do so. But soon enough, Annabeth realised that was not the only reason she was angry.

The rage was slow and unnoticeable at first, simmering quietly underneath her skin. It grew, however, until it was a boiling inferno begging to be released. Annabeth was angry- still is- that the monsters had taken three of her campers while the camp was under her control. 

How dare they?

How dare they take from Annabeth’s camp. Did they not think she was capable enough to track them down and kill them? 

Well, she is. 

Her anger twists beneath her skin, thick and ugly, writhing around her organs like oily poison. It reminds Annabeth terribly of the poisonous vapour Akhlys had tried to kill them with; the memory of her death sends shivers up her spine. 

Fueled by her rage, Annabeth continues forward, feeling out for any sharp rocks that might trip her up, when-

A crash.

Annabeth whips her head around so fast her neck begins to ache, but the small pain is nothing compared to the sinking dread she feels in her stomach. Behind her, she can just make out the shape of a single demigod frozen in fear on the ground. 

The rocks tumble from a slope, and Annabeth winces with every sound.

“Fuck,” she hears Clarisse whisper.

She has to agree.

Annabeth runs a hand down her face, completely relaxing from her tense, quiet stance and putting a hand on her hip. By the gods, must she do everything herself?

“Get ready to fight.” She calls into the darkness. The sentence is followed by multiple shinks as other demigods draw their weapons. The girl on the floor picks herself up, shaky and unstable and probably feeling very guilty. 

Immediately, fire blooms in the cavern. Annabeth blinks rapidly to adjust to the light and makes out the outline of multiple torches; old-fashioned, inefficient sticks with burning fabric wrapped around the top.

The walls of the cave are illuminated in the orange firelight to reveal that they have not been walking through a small cave, but a huge, gaping rock clearing as big as the entrance to Tartarus was. 

Annabeth jerks back, eyes darting all around the cave, looking for any sign of where they actually were. Her gaze slides past something on the wall, and then back, but it’s unmistakable; the blue, glowing delta of the labyrinth. 

If possible, more dread fills Annabeth’s stomach. She takes in a shaky breath, licking her lips and determinedly not praying to the gods. How in Hades’ name had they managed to end up in the labyrinth? The only way to enter is through one of the entrances, opened by a demigod-

Oh, shit, is the first thing Annabeth thinks. What the fuck, is the second. Without any more questioning, she darts forward, past the heat of the torches and around the corner, barely waiting for the rest of her army to follow her. As she runs, she grips the sword strapped to her frayed shorts, drawing out the length of bone.

She skids to a stop, taking in the scene in front of her with disdain. 

There have to be at least four dozen monsters, all different kinds, dotted around the chamber. Off to the side in a small, shadowed corner, Annabeth can just about make out the outline of the campers, wrapped in thick rope and sitting or lying down, perhaps unconscious. 

A million different solutions run through her head at once, far too fast for her to make sense of. She could take out these monsters, with a bit of help from Clarisse and maybe a couple of other more experienced campers easily, but she still has to worry about the other campers and the three hostages. 

Suddenly, another thought occurs to her. Although there is a large horde of monsters here, it’s nowhere near the amount Annabeth would have thought it to be.

As well as that, Annabeth never actually established the reason why those campers were targeted. 

She curses herself, once, twice, and a third time in her head. Then, out loud, just for good measure. 

“Oh, my gods. Stupid. You’re so goddamn stupid, Annabeth.”

Of course, this was only a distraction. Nobody is guarding the camp, or, at least, not enough to fight off an army. Percy’s at home with his mother and newborn sister, and the two warrior cabins of the camp are here, with Annabeth, who is stuck on what to do. 

How can she get back the campers without causing mass casualties, both here and back at Camp Half-Blood? It’s not in her best interests to wipe out half her troops, especially if she wants to get back alive. 

But… she still has to try, right? That’s what Percy would do, she tells herself. 

Putting on an air of confidence, Annabeth speaks.

“Give us back our campers, and we’ll let you leave alive.” She says, allowing her voice to become low and authoritative.

A couple of dracaenae at the front step into the dim light. One laughs.

“You think your threats will work, girl?” It guffaws, “We have the advantage here. And I think you know that.”

Annabeth’s hand twitches. She’s itching to attack, but she can’t be so reckless. One wrong move and the hostages may be killed.

She considers using her Yankees cap, but that would be too obvious. Then, she thinks about throwing it to Clarisse, who she can hear standing a couple of feet behind her, but Annabeth knows the daughter of Ares is too reckless. She isn’t built for stealth missions.

Annabeth sucks in a breath between her teeth. She knows what she has to do. She just doesn’t want to do it yet. 

Stepping forward once again, Annabeth sheathes her sword. “Look, I’m willing to let you escape unscathed. I know how painful reforming in Tartarus can be, and I know you don’t want to go through that again.”

The dracaena stills for a moment, but quickly regains her composure. “We aren’t afraid. Don’t forget, we will reform. You will not. Is it wise to cross us? And with so little guarding your precious camp.”

Suddenly deciding this conversation is going nowhere, Annabeth decides to get straight to the point. “Who have you got going to attack, then?”

She hears several campers behind her gasp and begins to move forward, but she holds up a hand, keeping them back.

The two dracaenae begin to converse.

“You might need to speak up. I can’t hear you!” Annabeth calls. 

The one on the right hisses. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. Kampê is on her way right now with enough troops to decimate your weak army in minutes.”

Annabeth doesn’t swear or gasp like a lot of her campers. She knew this had been coming. 

“You know what,” the one on the left contemplates fakely. “I don’t think you can have your brothers and sisters back. They are far more useful to us dead than they would be to you alive.”

With that, three campers from behind her rush forward before Annabeth can stop them. She doesn’t shout or yell at them to come back, but allows them to run into the horde, swords swinging and armour clanking loudly. 

Instead, Annabeth turns around. 

It’s something of a blur after that because she can’t quite believe what she’s doing. Well, she can, because she is doing it. She just can’t believe she’s gotten to the point where this has to happen. 

After all, Annabeth can’t kill dozens of monsters and then make it back in time to protect her camp as well. Actually, she could have, but she can’t transport anybody other than herself through her mind. 

So Annabeth makes her decision. Better to let those six die than to risk the extermination of half her camp. 

It is, right?

She notes with horror (indifference) that her mind needs less convincing than it ever has to believe her lies (truths). 

As she begins to hurry back the way she came, she notices that no one has followed her. They all seem to be torn between looking at the waiting monsters and the battle, and Annabeth’s strides as she walks away.

“Well?” She calls impatiently, as quietly as she can while they can all hear. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.” 

As Annabeth looks into their eyes, she can see their minds whirring. She rolls her eyes internally, forgetting how slow people can be sometimes.

Her step-brother, Malcolm, seems to catch up first. 

“Annabeth,” he whispers, voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

“This is necessary.” She says coldly. 

Malcolm splutters. “Nece- necessary for what?”

“Well, you heard her,” Annabeth says, referring to the dracaena before. “Kampê’s on her way to our home. We don’t have time to stay here.”

“But… we have to do-” 

She shakes her head. “No. We don’t”

“So you’re just going to let them die? ”

She thins her lips. “This is necessary.” She repeats. “To save the majority.”

“No, Annabeth-” Another camper chimes in. She’s small, but strong and muscular. Clarisse’s sister.

The daughter of Athena makes a noise in her throat with frustration. “What don’t you understand? If we stay here and fight, we leave our camp defenceless and weak. We’ve been drawn into their trap, and they expect us to stay. If we leave, we can likely save the most people.”

“ We’ve been drawn into their trap?” Scoffs another son of Ares. “No, you’ve been drawn into their trap. You’re supposed to be our leader. Act like it.”

Annabeth’s eye twitches. She clenches her jaw.

If you’re so goddamn sure of yourself, you stay, moron, is what she wants to say. Instead, she says, “Listen, I’m sorry. I understand you don’t want to leave-”

“Pff, yeah. Is it obvious?”

“I understand that you will lose people, but we need to get out while the monsters are distracted. That’s how we have the best chance.”

She cringes. It sounds fake to her own ears. She’s using their deaths as a distraction all because-

Clarisse steps to her side. “I agree.” 

Everyone falls silent.

Annabeth sobers herself and nods. “Right. It’s decided. Somebody get an Iris Message to Chiron and tell him we’re on our way back.”

Outside the cave, the night is clear. There are no clouds in the sky, and the remoteness of their location makes the stars shine brightly in the sky. Above her, Annabeth spies Zoe’s constellation, and she touches her streak of grey. 

Suddenly, the throat feels dry and swollen and choking. Her breaths become shaky and her skin feels too tight and itchy. 

Under her skin, frustration and guilt well up until it hurts. Annabeth grinds her hands and fingers together hard enough to make them ache and it’s still not enough, so she starts scratching her skin until it bleeds. 

She grips her hair and tugs- 

A hand on her shoulder. 

“Annie,” Clarisse says. Her hair covers her eyes. 

“Stop,” Annabeth whispers clenching her jaw so hard she can hear her teeth grinding. “Stop, stop, let me go-”

“You did the right thing.”   

This makes her pause. 

“What?”

“You did the right thing.” Clarisse continues. “And, you were right. It is necessary. Don’t- don’t let yourself feel guilty.”

“But, I… I did. I let them die. I didn’t figure out it would be a trap and I let them die.” Annabeth doesn’t tell the daughter of Ares that she knew something was going to happen. 

Clarisse shakes her head. “Nobody figured out it was a trap.” She sighs. “Listen, something like that… it takes a lot of courage. I don’t think I would have been able to do it. Percy, certainly, wouldn’t have done that.”

“Percy would find a way to save them and the camp.” Annabeth laughs shallowly. 

“Yeah, but he’s not perfect. A lot more people would be injured and dead in the process.” He wouldn’t even care, Annabeth thinks, as long as he saved her. (Warmth fills her stomach.) “You’re cutting our losses, Annie. You’re doing the right thing, I’m sure of it.”

Despite her words, Clarisse’s face betrays her. As Annabeth meets her eyes, she notices they are covered by a dull sheen. Her face glistens with sweat, and they haven’t done anything to warrant it.

Annabeth turns away. “Yeah.”

On the walk back, Annabeth stays at the back, eyes darting for any straggling monsters that may have followed them. She Iris messages Chiron. She stays silent otherwise. 

It’s a bad night for all of them, and Annabeth can’t help but feel it’s going to get worse. 

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Chiron is in the middle of a game of chess with Dionysus when a rainbow appears and Annabeth’s face appears out of nowhere. Instantly, he throws down his piece, and although Dionysus isn’t as enthusiastic, his eyes tear off the board immediately. 

“Annabeth!” Chiron gasps, adrenaline filling his body. “What is the news?”

“We’re on our way back.” She says.

Chiron frowns. Her tone is cold and unemotional, giving nothing away. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees Dionysus smirk.

Licking his lips, Chiron asks, “And… what of the campers?”

For a moment, Annabeth is silent. The sound of her harsh breaths as she hikes up a hill fills the room. 

She doesn’t answer.

“Annabelle, I believe the horse asked you a question.” Dionysus drawls dryly.

“Chiron,” She snaps suddenly, “Get the camp up and ready for battle. Kampê is on her way. I don’t know how long until she gets there, but if she arrives before us, please, for the love of the gods, hold out until we can help.”

Chiron thinks he might have misheard her, for a moment, but he sees her deadly grey eyes and knows at once she isn’t joking. 

“Of- of course.”

“Get six shrouds ready to burn, as well.”

Chiron gapes, “What?”

“Oh, and tell Dionysus that he was right. I have made a decision.” 

With that, the Iris Message cuts off. All six of his limbs feel numb, slow and unresponsive as the news sinks in. He doesn’t even have the sense to ask Mr. D what she means.

“Well, you heard the girl.” Dionysus sneers when Chiron doesn’t move for a few long minutes. “Chop, chop. Kampê’s coming.”

He walks away. 

Alone in his study, Chiron shakes his head. 

With tears in his eyes, he murmurs, “Oh, Annabeth. What have you done?”

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Annabeth storms into camp borders and the first thing she says to Chiron is, “Are the shrouds ready?” 

When he nods, Annabeth hums in approval. “Burn them quickly. I don’t want to let their sacrifice go to waste.”

As she begins to walk off, a strong hand catches her wrist. 

She turns.

“Six, Annabeth?” Chiron asks, voice barely above a whisper. She can only see the gleam of the white of his eyes in the darkness. 

She nods once. “Yes. Six.” 

The centaur stays silent for a few moments. “Very well,” he says eventually. “I will call everyone down to the pavilion.”

For a moment, Annabeth considers telling him to do it privately, but she isn’t that cruel. In her rush, she realises she’s being cruel, so she clenches her jaw and watches him walk off. 

(The daughter of Athena aches in pain. The liquid rushing through her arteries burns and thickens. With each decision she makes, the pain becomes worse and worse and worse and soon-)

She finds herself standing outside the Athena cabin before long. She contemplates going in, but she can imagine the tense silence inside if she did and suddenly, being around people seems unbearable. 

Stumbling away, she hurries around the corner to the Poseidon cabin and throws herself inside, slamming the door shut and sliding down against the wall.

She doesn’t want to curl up into a ball and cry. She doesn’t want to stand up and take off her armour for a stupid ceremony just to put it back on again either, so she crosses her arms and leans her head back against the wall, unable to care about the sharp edge of her armour digging into her skin. 

Annabeth leaves herself be. She retreats into the corners of her mind, blocking out any external noise.

She stays there for as long as possible until the door to the cabin begins to open. It creaks as if announcing somebody’s presence and Annabeth opens her mouth to scream at the person to go away when-

“Annabeth?” Percy calls. 

She looks up. “Percy?”

“Are you okay, Annie?” He asks. It’s a stupid question and Annabeth knows he realises that, so she doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, she gets up off the ground and throws herself into him, closing her eyes and refusing to let herself cry. 

Percy soothes her, leading her to his bed and sitting them both down on the edge. She leans into him.

“I’m tired.” She admits, face buried in his shirt. “I’m exhausted, actually.”

“I know, Wise Girl, I know. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Annabeth’s sure what he knows already, but she decides to tell him anyway. Just to make him see her side of the story, just for that extra chance he won’t hate her.

At the end of it, Percy sighs. “You were brave, Wise Girl. And, trust me, don’t listen to anything anybody else says. If they want to blame you, they’re wrong and they’re the idiotic ones. You got that?”

She nods, swallowing.

“Okay, good. We need to go to the pavilion now.”

Percy makes to stand up, but Annabeth grips his T-shirt in her hand. For a second, they just stare at each other, but eventually, he sits back down next to her.

He picks up her hand. “Will you help me put on my armour, then?” 

Half an hour later, Annabeth can still smell the smoke in the air as she makes her way to the Big House. She bristles at but ignores the stares of the campers, focusing on not tripping over her own feet in the dark. As she reaches the Big House, Chiron opens the door prematurely.

He greets her with a nod. He doesn’t say anything but stands aside and lets her pass. His eyes are swollen and red-rimmed. 

(Annabeth’s veins are burning.)

When she walks into the room, the rest of the cabin leaders fall silent. Despite Clarisse being the only other person in the room who was present on the mission, word must have gotten around quickly. They all avert their eyes when she looks over them.

She clears her throat. “Does anyone have any idea how long it is until Kampê arrives with her army?”

No response.

“Okay, does anybody have any ideas on how we can find out?”

Again, no response.

Percy chooses that moment to walk in. Fulled decked out in armour, he looks every bit the Greek leader he is. Everyone at the camp knows that he and Annabeth are the unofficial leaders of it. 

He smiles at Annabeth, warm and crinkly, and that seems to do the job. Low murmurs and mutters explode in the room, and suddenly people shoot their hands up with ideas. 

“Let’s send a couple of scouts,” Clarisse says, and everyone looks to Percy and Annabeth, standing at the end of the table. 

“What? No. They’ll be injured or dead by the time they can relay any information back, anyway.” Will complains, leaning over the table. 

The Ares cabin leader slams her hand on the table. “I’m trying to be rational here, Sunshine. If not that, why don’t we all just charge into the forest and ambush them?”

Will leans back, crossing his arms. “Fine. We can send scouts.” To his left, Nico reaches over and pats him on the arm.

“Why don’t we send two or three pairs of scouts?” Piper asks. Annabeth almost jumps at the sound of her regal voice. She doesn’t meet her friend’s kaleidoscopic eyes. 

“What? And risk the monsters knowing that we’re ready for them?” Clarisse asks. 

Katie Gardner raises her hand. “Can I just ask- how do we know for certain that Kampê is coming? I mean, do you have any proof?”

“Wasn’t it proof enough for you when they went to rescue three campers and came back with six losses?” The head counsellor of the Tyche cabin spits, crossing thick, burly arms over his chest. He sits far enough back in his chair that Annabeth barely notices him when she walks in. 

“Henry,” Percy warns, but the son of Tyche pays no attention.

He scoffs. “Well, come on, Gardner. It’s all quite simple, really. They kidnapped our siblings- sorry, my sister, and two of Annabeth’s siblings here, to draw us into a trap. I mean, obviously they thought that Annabeth was kind and heroic enough to save them, but clearly they were wrong.”

Annabeth stands up from her seat, planting her hands on the table firmly. Rage courses through her body. “I did what I had to to save the majority. If I hadn’t left them there, we wouldn’t even be close to camp yet. And, as I said at the start, no one knows when Kampê’s planning to attack. What if we had stayed and left the camp defenceless?”

“Okay, so, you’ve justified those three deaths,” Henry spits, “but what about the other three?”

“A distraction,” Annabeth mutters.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

“They were a distraction.” She says, meeting his eyes head-on. 

To her side, she feels, rather than sees, Percy’s eyes darken when the head counsellor of the Tyche cabin responds.

He laughs. “So you used them.”

“No, I didn’t make them attack-”

“But you didn’t try to stop them, did you?”

“ You weren’t there. ”

“I didn’t need to be! You told us- you said you could bring them back.”

Annabeth swallows hard and fixed him with a stare. “I said I would try. I can’t be successful all the time.”

“You don’t even… you don’t even understand, do you? These are family members we’ve lost Annabeth and you’re acting like…”

“You think I don’t care?”

Henry shrugs. “Well-”

“You think I don’t care? Henry, you said it. I lost my sisters and brothers too. They’re dead and I know it’s because of me but I did it because I care. I can’t have any more people dead, Henry.” Annabeth stresses. She feels her eyes well up with tears, and she curses herself, clenching them shut to stop the water from falling. 

“Gods, did you think I just have no emotions?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think? You walk around camp with this steely, unemotional glare like you’re constantly judging people, you fight like a fucking demon, and now you come back from your mission saying you let three people become distractions. You act like a monster, and you can’t exactly blame us for thinking like that.” 

At this, Percy stands up. Immediately, Henry falls silent. “Shut up.” He hisses. “Shut the hell up, idiot. How dare you? What gives you the right to talk to her like that?”

“Percy-” Leo pipes up, but Annabeth shakes her head at him. He closes his mouth. 

“I’ll tell you.” Percy continues. “Nothing. You have no right to say those things to her. You figured out you were a demigod, what, three years ago? Annabeth’s been going on quests and saving people for double that time. Do not call her a monster. You have no idea how much she’s done for the camp.”

“Alright, man.” Henry puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, okay?” 

The son of Poseidon sends him one last glare before sitting back in his seat, and Annabeth soaks up the stunned silence. 

“So, all in favour of sending scouts?” She asks. Everybody puts their hand up. “Okay. It’s settled. Travis and Connor, I want you two to go around and ask for volunteers. I want no more than six and no less than four, understood? Do not force people. I want them to be willing.”

The brothers nod and immediately vacate the table.

“Will, you need to set up the infirmary. I want every healer available in there ready to go. Nico, get the weapons and armour ready and hand it out to everybody who needs it. Clarisse and Percy, come with me. Everyone else, get ready for a fight.”

A few hours later, Annabeth is in her cabin with Percy and Clarisse discussing tactics when a small, young girl sprints into the cabin.

“Come quickly! The scouts are back!” She pants with wild eyes and untamed, unbrushed hair. 

Annabeth shares a look with Percy and all three of them rush out of the room. They run to the pavilion, where Chiron sits with two very disturbed-looking sons of Hermes. 

The centaur turns to Annabeth.

“Come and look.” He says, gravely, holding out a hand. Annabeth’s stomach drops. Quickly, she rushes forward and takes a paper scroll lying in his palm.

Percy and Clarisse look over her shoulder as she unrolls it. 

In messy, scrawled Greek characters, it writes, nice try, daughter of Athena. We found your spies easily. I’ve let them off alive, just so they can deliver this message back to you. On quite the contrary, I have, however, killed a young girl, a daughter of Hephaestus, I believe, after she killed one of mine. Nessa, her name might have been. Oh, and a son of Hecate. He was particularly annoying and skilled with the mist. Better off dead. 

I look forward to seeing you. 

Kampê

“Oh, my gods. Somebody look for Nyssa and Oliver. Now!” Annabeth yells, crumpling the paper in her hand. 

A crowd has gathered around. Katie Gardner looks particularly green in the face. 

“There’s your proof, Katie,” She says, “Get yourself ready for battle. Get everybody ready.”

Through all the chaos, Leo and Lou Ellen run up to her. Lou Ellen looks pale, with a sheen of sweat decorating her forehead and upper lip. “They aren’t in their cabins.” She says. 

Next to her, Leo shakes his head. His palms are alight, burning with uncontained anger and fear. “No. They’re gone. Zero sign of them at all. Their beds aren’t even slept in.”

Annabeth runs both her hands down her face. 

“How did Kampê even manage to take them?” Percy asks. 

“She must have some nature spirits on her side. Dryads, probably. I don’t know what she possibly could have offered them, but it’s obviously worked.” she replies. 

Annabeth looks around. The camp has been lit up- every lantern is alight and every torch is burning. Even though it’s well past midnight and the sky is still dark, the camp is as busy as it gets. She watches people cart around armfuls of sharp swords and bows with quivers of arrows hung from their shoulders. 

She has no reason to be nervous. She’s fought in a war before, with even less time to prepare and plan. They survived that. They’ll survive this. Well, Annabeth knows she probably will.

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

It ends up being dawn before Kampê attacks. She wakes up to a loud yelling from the boy on watch- and ten minutes later, they’ve jumped into a full-scale battle. 

Annabeth cuts down monster after monster. At some point, she was separated from Percy, but he must be near the river because she could see large waves rise above the trees. At times, she feels the moisture in the air lessen and increase. 

Charging forward, she tucks her hair behind her ears and rights her helmet, looking around at the monsters’ thinning ranks. They haven’t had any fatalities yet, just a few injuries, but Annabeth hasn’t seen Kampê yet, so that could change. 

Just as she thinks this, the monster herself appears on the horizon. Even from the ground, Annabeth sees her fiery whip illuminating the blue sky. Her scorpion tail swings wildly in the wind, twitching to sting somebody. 

She shivers. She does not want to be on the receiving end of that. 

When the monster lands, it takes everything in Annabeth not to scream and run her through with her sword- it takes everything she has not to let her rage consume her. 

She thinks, how dare this bitch come into my camp thinking she can kill my campers. Who the fuck does she think she is?

Annabeth decides, while looking up twenty feet at the monster in front of her, that she is no longer afraid. She meets Kampê’s eyes with disdain, bearing her bone sword in one hand and her danger in the other. To prove her point, Annabeth spits on the ground at the feet of the monster, lips curling with a smirk. She feels powerful. 

In the end, it takes her and Percy together to kill Kampê.

In the end, Annabeth cuts the monster up so badly she can only regenerate, and Percy freezes her ichor in place so she can’t even do that.

In the end, she dies with a screech so raw and painful it makes Annabeth’s ears bleed. She doesn’t feel remorse. 

In the end, one more demigod dies. It happens so quickly she barely has time to think about it before moving on to kill Kampê, but after the battle, she sits by herself and thinks.

She thinks about how she had been too busy hacking a monster to bits for damaging her pride to notice a young boy being crushed by a cyclops. She thinks about how she had decided to save her half-sister instead of the other, younger boy, who is killed cruelly and gruesomely, with a crushed windpipe too damaged to save by the time Will got to him.

She thinks about the look in Will’s eyes when he had stood up from his failure. She thinks about her reflection in his irises, shaking and bloody, terrified but enraged all the same. 

She thinks about the prophecy, about how the recent deaths have added up to ten bodies. Ten bodies out of the twelve, and she feels so fragile and faint that she can barely walk. 

She thinks about who the last two could be, and then has a dreadful, sinking feeling in her stomach when she begins to realise. 

In the end, Annabeth sits by herself and thinks. She thinks to distract herself from the agonising pain electrifying her body. She thinks to distract herself from the fact that her blood has turned to ichor, from a deep, crimson red to a blinding gold. 

She thinks to distract herself from the fact that the red veins in her eyes have turned golden, and under her skin runs a shiny hue.

In the end, Annabeth becomes immortal. She becomes a goddess. 

Chapter Text

Ares has enemies. Eons ago, when he fought in the Trojan war, or the constant battling against Athena over millenia has taught him that- but none have ever been quite so one-sided, quite so vivid or real of a threat than the one-and-only Perseus Achilles Jackson.

A fierce name for a fierce warrior, no?

Ares would respect him. Perseus is the kind of warrior which Ares admires: strong, resilient, powerful. Keeps fighting even when faced with death versus defeat. He’s equally handsome and intelligent, and his other part, that Annabeth girl, is just as pesky and irritating.

Yet there is just something about him.

Ares can’t put his finger on it. Maybe the constant grin he has on his face, or the bright, blue-green eyes that seem to pierce his soul. Perseus Jackson makes Ares feel more uneasy than any enemy he’s ever faced. 

Jackson has a fighting style that leaves his enemies with little time to react and even littler time to form a plan against him, which is something else Ares should respect, and yet all it does is dig Ares’ dislike for him deeper and deeper. It buried into his heart like a thorn long ago and Ares has no plan of trying to remove it. 

His hatred for the boy has grown like a vine and Ares has let it. For too long it has festered and now it shrouds him like dark clouds and invades his mind like Akhlys’ poison. As an immortal, an olympian, no less, Ares finds it… shameful that he cannot bring himself to rip his thoughts away from the son of Poseidon, no matter how hard he may try. 

Images constantly run through his mind. And in the end, there is nothing for Ares to do but accept that he lets them. 

In this modern world of new religions and technology, Perseus Jackson is the closest thing Ares has to a… a god, he supposes. 

Ares used to be the god of war, and he still is, in some ways. He appears in spirit when the mortals pepper each other with small metal balls and explosive devices, and scowls when they honour his presence by telling stories of the greatness of man. He splits himself apart and witnesses each and every violent mortal fight there is, because, contrary to popular belief, war is not just the large-scale, gruesome fight many think it is.

To Ares, war can be little more than a bloody scrap between two young women in less fortunate countries, fighting for the last scrap of food for their families.

Survival of the fittest and natural selection, and all that. 

Nevertheless, it does not matter. Each war brings out a fire in Ares’ soul that ignites him and sets him alight, filling him with an indescribable glee and desire to draw blood. 

This is where his hatred of Perseus Jackson starts. 

Yes, Ares hates and respects him simultaneously, and the boy is indeed the bane of his existence, the only thing that unsettles and intrigues him in equilibrium. However, Ares simply cannot stand a being who does not understand the true value of war. 

Millenia ago, when the land was rife with battles and blood and Ares was worshipped abundantly, he forgave those who begged him to prevent war simply because the number of violent prayers he was getting was so large they drowned out the complaints with adrenaline.

As society progressed, and Ares’ family was cast aside like exiles, his prayers grew fewer and fewer until there were only left the ones that demanded peace as a last ditch attempt, because, like it or not, the human race was a selfish one, and Ares fed off that, fed off the constant violence. Whether he was being prayed to or not. The downside was this: Ares was weighed down. He no longer had the support of the soldiers to keep him alive , so he took to punishing those who tried to prevent war in order to sustain himself. 

Years ago, under the sun controlled by Kronos, Ares had fought Jackson, and Ares had lost. His heel still flares in pain every so often, and every time it does, rage floods through Ares’ veins. 

Ares remembers glaring at the boy, young and weak, and being taken aback by the sheer willingness to become something more. The blatant ferocity displayed in his eyes left Ares mouth salivating. He wanted something else, he was ambitious and violent just like Ares. For the first time in his long, long life, Ares felt seen. Jackson’s eyes saw into him, into his very being. 

The feeling of reverence had never lasted long. 

Jackson had turned to his friends and hadn’t grinned or boasted but with wide, terrified eyes and stammering breaths. He hadn’t acknowledged he had just beaten the god of war in a duel, hadn’t acknowledged the flow of fire through his veins. Instead, the boy had been scared and upset.

This was the spark of his hatred, but it didn’t end there. 

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

“Ares,” Poseidon rumbles, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m watching. What does it look like I’m doing?” He replies, not bothering to look up from his vision.

Poseidon scoffs, “Leave my boy alone. Your interest in him concerns me.”

The god of War rolls his eyes harshly, glad his back is turned to his uncle. “Please, it should be the least of your concerns; my interest is stationed at a distance, as you can tell. If I wanted anything closer I would have made it happen.”

“This is what concerns me. I already know your interest will grow into an obsession.”

Little did Poseidon know, his obsession had long since progressed. Ares keeps his eyes on the vision, watching Perseus fight with a fluidity he has not seen in many moons. 

“Calm yourself, Uncle,” Ares murmurs. “The boy is smart. He knows I’m watching him, and now so do you. If he thought I was going to harm him he would say something and you would most certainly act upon it.”

“ My boy is smart, yes, but he values the happiness of his companions first. He wouldn’t call for my aid unless it was necessary.” Poseidon snaps. At this, Ares turns, and scans his uncle’s face.

His skin is pulled taut with weariness, yet it seems to be riddled with wrinkles and folds of age more than ever. There is a particular gleam to Poseidon’s eye that screams exhaustion, and exhaustion, to Ares, means a lack of control.

There is not a more generous source of violence than a man without boundaries. 

“Your boy?”

“Yes,” Poseidon says, tilting his head. He crosses muscular arms across his chest. “My boy.”

Ares raises his eyebrows. “Funny.”

“What is?”

“Oh, nothing,” Ares says, pretending to pick at his nails, “Just that he seems only to be ‘yours’ when it benefits you.”

“He has always been mine.” Poseidon scowls.

The god of War tilts his head. He feels power thrumming in the room, “Too much so. He takes after you, uncle,” He scoffs, “Which is a shame. He could have been such a fine warrior.”

The god of the seas scowls in anger. The sky darkens, so Ares puts his hands up in mock surrender. 

“ Could have been?” Poseidon asks.

“Well, yes. At the rate he’s going, he will be dead in the next year, or, you know, become something else. A monster, perhaps, like his family.” Ares sighs, turning back to his vision, “Fear not, uncle. For when we battle, it will be talked about for millennia.”

“What?”

“His potential is wasted. He spends it on morality and concerns himself with the safety of others and that will be his downfall. I need to fight him- teach him a lesson. I want to see if he can survive.”

For a moment, all is silent. Then the dark clouds overhead peel back revealing endless blue skies, and when Ares meets Poseidon’s eyes there is something inside them. 

Amusement, Ares realises. Has he misjudged something?

Poseidon bows his head. “As you wish, nephew,” he acquiesces, “But do be careful. I believe you’re wrong- he isn’t so concerned with morality. He’s far too preoccupied with other things to worry about something so irrelevant.”

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Time and time again, Ares watches Jackson claw at survival. Morbid fascination blooms in his stomach when he sees the boy live time and time again with no appreciation or arrogance but just relief and sometimes… unhappiness.

Each monster he fights ends up as a pile of golden glitter quicker than the last and each time Jackson’s face is indifferent and unaffected. Ares almost admires him.

But still: the hatred. It scratches at him, burns him from the inside out turning ichor into a fiery, heated mess. It goes hand-in-hand with his fascination; simple, but unmistakably there.

Ares is not so weak as to lose all of his self-control. He desires to loose his spear from its position on his back and plunge it deep into Jackson’s chest where his life resides in his organs, but he doesn’t. He watches, and watches in vain as the thorns of hatred inside him dig deeper. 

From the sky, Ares observes him, day and night, whether he is awake and fighting, or sleeping and defending himself from Hypnos’ nightmares. Sometimes Ares wonders if his obsession has gone too far, if Poseidon had been right, but the feeling of euphoria he gets from watching the boy is worth it. 

He becomes addicted. 

When Ares hears the news, he doesn’t know what to feel. A strange mix of disappointment, elation, and strangely, guilt, flood his system; how had Jackson fallen into Tartarus?

Needless to say, the god of war chases any news or messages about the boy. The little things, such as whether he was still alive or not, and then the larger things, like how he encountered Nyx.

And then Ares hears his new title- godkiller. 

Desire burns through his veins like a wildfire. His itch to fight Perseus becomes so strong he scratches at his skin until it can’t heal anymore. The idea that this boy- who Ares has been keeping an eye on for years- has finally reached his potential is just… unbelievable.

The godkiller, monsters call him. 

There is nothing the world could offer him he would choose over the opportunity to cross swords with Perseus Jackson. 

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Dionysus lounges on his throne in Olympus. “You know, brother, I had quite an interesting conversation with Annabeth a while ago.”

Ares spares him a glance. Then turns back to his vision. “Good for you.”

“Quite. It was interesting. I’ve never seen anything like her.”

The god of war rolls his eyes. “What do you want, Dionysus? Just to bother me? You can do that to someone else.”

Dionysus pouts. “But then it would be no fun. Alas, it isn’t to bother you I’m bringing this up.”

“Then why?” Ares demands.

“Well, I’ve noticed your obsession with Perseus, and I’d just like to say, if it’s potential you’re looking for, you’re looking at the wrong one.”

This is the final straw. Ares closes his vision and appears in front of Dionysus, glaring, but the god barely moves. Just gazes into Ares’ eyes with smugness.

“I get to decide who I want to fight.”

“Well, that’s a different story. I’m sure Percy would put up a much better fight than Annabeth against you, given your history. But potential for war?” 

Ares’ half-brother sits up and pats the space next to him. The god of war does not sit down. “ What do you want?”

“Can’t a brother just talk to someone about his projects? The madness from the girl’s mind is just… well, insane! She’ll become a goddess first, I reckon.” Dionysus says, uninterested and casual. He pretends to pick at his nails in disdain while Ares’ heart pounds in his ears. 

His head snaps to the side. Dionysus pats the space beside him again. This time, Ares sits. 

“What?”

The god of wine looks at him with an eyebrow raised. “Well, obviously they’re both going to become gods. Have you ever even looked at the prophecy?”

“Of course I have-” Ares stutters.

“ By summer’s peak, a new power emerges, ” Dionysus recites, “Doesn’t that ring any bells?”

Ares sneers, “Are you stupid? How do you know it’s about them? ”

Dionysus rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly, brother. Why wouldn’t it be about them? You’ve heard of their titles.”

Just then, the god of war decides this conversation is no longer useful to him. He stands up to leave, but Dionysus grabs his arm.

“What now?”

His brother looks up at him with knowing eyes. “ Godkiller, huh?”

…. Damnit. Ares sits back down.

“What about him?”

“Why are you so obsessed with him?”

Ares stares for a few moments. A feeling of frustration and anger too full for his body swells in his chest. His eyes twitches, and his power around him twitches. 

Dionysus continues, “There’s nothing special about him, if you compare him to other mortals-turned-god. I really do think the prophecy relies on Annabeth. They’re both mad, but she… well, she made her decision early.” 

There’s quiet for a few moments as Ares attempts to gather himself. A thousand thoughts rush through his mind all at once but only one thing comes out. 

“ You don’t understand,” Ares hisses with vigour. “You don’t get it. You never will. He’s different.”

His brother is quiet for a moment, stunned by his outburst. “... How so?” He asks eventually. 

“He just is! I hate him! That stupid boy… I hate him. He is ruining everything!”

Sounding like a mortal trying to figure out a god’s intentions, Dionysus responds. “And yet… you feel you owe him something.” 

“ No!” Ares roars, and for once, his brother looks apprehensive. “I owe him nothing! He owes me everything. He is ungrateful for the power he has been given, unworthy of the titles he has been named, and most of all, he is a powerful, noble wretch that deserves to be punished.

He knows nothing of the effort of war, doesn’t appreciate the thrill of winning and he never allows a fight to happen for something he doesn’t seem necessary.”

The wine god’s face is still. His purple eyes are wide, and he leans away from Ares subtly. But Ares catches it and curls his lip up. 

Dionysus opens his mouth slowly. “You… you, what?”

“Yes, brother, they are preordained bring about a new era. But Perseus in the catalyst, and I will do everything I can to slow him down. I am the war god. I am War. He will not take that away from me.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Ares looks back into Dionysus’ eyes. Suddenly, rage flows through him; in the purple eyes in front of him, Ares sees pity. 

“... oh. I understand. You don’t want change. You don’t want to be forgotten.”

Silence. 

Dionysus’ words cut harshly. They slam into him so hard he almost staggers. He is on his feet at once, backing away from his brother with something akin to fear digging into his bones. All the while, Dionysus’ eyes never leave his own. 

Under the weight of his brother’s stare, Ares storms away, and the ground trembles with the force of his anger-filled footsteps. 

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Ares realises Kampê’s plan before any of the demigods do- even the trainer of heroes, Chiron. He sneers at her measly attempt to split up the demigods. 

It doesn’t work, and all that she succeeds in doing is angering the demigods even further. They come storming back into camp, lead by Annabeth, whose grey eyes are fiery with rage. Ares is impressed by her aura; it is powerful and undeniable but dangerous too. 

They burn the shrouds of the fallen quickly. People cry, as is inevitable, but Ares smirks, watching tears drip down their faces, knowing they are useless. 

Those crying demigods, Ares knows, will be the first ones into battle when the time comes. The first to let loose their rage. 

The battle against Kampê ends up being long and grueling, and Ares soaks up every last moment. There are casualties on each side, although the demigods have it far worse, in his opinion. It is both their first and last time when a demigod falls, but a monster can die a thousand times and still live to see another sunrise. 

Yet Ares sees relief. He sees young boys and girls stumble and trip and die with smiles on their faces: relief, he understands. They fight to their limit and when it’s over they fall with grace. 

He supposes, in his mind, that for a demigod, death just might be their saviour. There is nothing for them. Perhaps endlessly floating around in the underworld, but who wouldn’t prefer an eternity of boredom? 

Especially with no bloodshed or hardship. 

Well, Ares wouldn’t. And neither, it seems, would Jackson. 

Kampê is a formidable opponent. Her and Percy seem to be familiar with eachother- the way they glide around each other makes it obvious to Ares that they’ve fought before. There is an ongoing war between them, and Ares feeds off it greedily. 

But there is an underlying fear, somewhere deep inside Ares, that sends ichor pumping around his body twice as fast as usual. All the gods have heard the propechy, and all the gods know it is well on its way to being completed.

This is what makes Ares nervous the most. Despite his preaching about war, Ares shares the same concerns as the rest of the gods. The same vain, ignorant fears that is a common factor in the violence of many gods: death, powerlessness, and being forgotten.

All of these things are (indirectly) spoken of the prophecy, and all of these things are linked directly to Jackson. Because when Perseus was born, everything had changed, and the gods’ stable society they were running began to crumble. 

Ares turns his attention back to the battle. The thrill of the fight sends goosebumps up his arms, and he shivers, a grin beginning to form on his face.

Perseus doesn’t just fight to his limit. He fights beyond that, and refuses to die. 

Him and Annabeth fight without mercy. Although Ares is sure Jackson could kill Kampê on his own, if only he just unleashed his power, it brings him pleasure to see the demigod’s face contort in rage when Annabeth gets knocked back. He doesn’t care about his own injuries, and his anger smells extraordinary mixed with the tangy scent of blood in the air. 

(But there seems to be a different sort of smell in Jackson’s blood. Something similar to Ares’ own.)

Kampê dies quickly, after they get their bearings, and still, Ares watches.

Jackson’s face falls flat after a while, and he extends his hand towards the monster. All of a sudden, he clenches his fist, and Kampê stops in her tracks. Literally. Her entire being freezes; Ares feels it. 

Her face bursts into a hundred different emotions that the god of War can sense even at his distance, but all she can do is stand there helplessly, limbs frozen mid-attack mid air, as Jackson and his girlfriend finish her off.

She explodes into a pile of gold glitter for the second time in less than two years, and for the third time since the King of gods himself killed her many millennias ago. 

The girl whisks herself away. She disappears in the flurry of gold, but Ares can hardly bring himself to care. His body is strangely numb as he fixes his gaze of the Jackson boy without blinking, unnervingly still and as focused as he has ever been.

His hands are shaking. His eyes are unblinking. His ichor is thrumming in his veins, and so is Percy Jackson’s.

Ever so slowly, Jackson turns and looks up, and Ares knows that he can see. Suddenly, Ares is looking into the deep abyss of Jackson’s sea-green eyes, and his rage explodes.

Years of held-back hatred erupts from him all at once. (Around the world, people and their enemies drop dead.) It’s like the thorns around his heart have constricted so tightly his life force has nowhere to go but outwards. 

The vessels in his eyes burst and fill the whites of his eyes with gold, and the sound that comes out of his mouth will go down in stone. All around the world, mortals gaze up in terror as clouds darken and a sound so horrible pierces the sky that their ears bleed. Streets run red with blood as mortals curl into themselves clutching their ears on the ground.

Ares’ power whisks him away subconsciously- through desire and hatred- and lands him in the centre of an arena, alone except for one other being.

Perseus Jackson stands opposite him, Riptide clutched tightly in hand, glaring so heavily Ares feels it. Ares grabs his spear from thin air, spinning it between his hands in a display of skill.

Jackson’s power clashes with his own. It creates a bubble around them, isolating them from the rest of the universe. 

And then there is quiet. Broken only by each side’s heavy breathing, it screams in Ares ears. After a while, he can no longer wait.

“Let’s fight, Jackson.”

Both sides lunge forward. Jackson meets Ares strike with the base of his sword, and their clash shakes the world. Jackson stomps down, and the shaking increases tenfold. Ares narrows his eyes. 

Godly power explodes outwards, and Ares’ feet skid backwards with the force. By the time he has gained his balance, Jackson is striking again.

Their battle is both fulfils Ares’ expectations and blows them out of the water; Jackson doesn’t just survive, he thrives. A grin grows on his face, and Ares hates himself for returning it. Everything inside him begs him to hate the boy, and by all standards, he should. 

Yet.

They fight faster and faster, exchanging blows that would kill any mortal, but that’s the real kicker. Ares’ known it for ages, damns Dionysus for being right; Jackson isn’t mortal anymore. The way he turns with godly precision and strikes with frightening strength makes it clear.

Every inch of Ares’ body is alight with pleasure. He is high on the thrill of the fight- this is is true purpose, surely. This is what he was made for. 

Ares was never meant to rule over the pathetic, courageous warfare of the modern world. He realises now, as Jackson slices through his armour, that he stopped being War as he has known it millenia ago. 

The thought causes him to stumble. Jackson siezes the chance, swinging his sword with such force that Ares’ only choice is to offer his spear up instead of his head. His spear snaps in half, and Ares is forced to his knees.

He looks up.

Terror strikes through him. Bone-deep fear that freezes him in place. His own red, burning eyes meet Jackson’s blue-green ones and the fire inside him seems to extinguish.

All of a sudden, there is no pleasure in this fight. 

“Get up, Ares,” Jackson snarls, “You said you wanted to fight.”

“I- I do,”

“Then get up. Don’t be so pathetic. I thought you were the god of War.”

The boy’s words hurt more than any wound he’s ever suffered. Ares gasps as he realises that Jackson is-

He stumbles to his feet, staggering like he’s drunk. What is he? If he is no longer War, if his domain has lost its meaning then what is he meant for? What is his purpose- if not to rule over bloodshed and those with the courage to fight for themselves, then what?

The tide of the battle quickly changes. Abruptly it is no longer blow for blow, but rather Ares struggling against the tidal wave of strikes Percy throws at him. The boy’s eyes remain narrowed and focused, and Ares does all he can to defend himself.

He has a feeling that suffering a blow from Jackson’s sword now would be lethal. 

“I don’t understand you,” Ares gasps out, parrying another strike. “You don’t fight for- for glory.”

“That’s the difference between me and you, Ares. You fight for the sake of it. I fight because I have to.” Percy spits. 

Ares finds an opportunity. He lunges forward, slicing across Jackson’s arm. 

Golden blood drips from the wound. It heals immediately. Jackson retaliates, leaping forward and driving his sword into Ares’ chest.

…

Pain, real, burning pain spreads through his body like a wildfire. Not the kind that can be healed by his godly powers, or the kind that Apollo can fix with a wave of his hand. Pain that kills mortals.

Ares falls to the ground as Jackson rips his sword out. He clutches at the wound on his chest helplessly, watching as ichor drips out of it endlessly.

He looks down at his hands. A shaky gasp escapes him, for they are covered in blood.

“I am sick of being constantly watched, Ares. You think I didn’t realise? You think I didn’t notice?”

Jackson takes a step forwards. Despite himself, Ares flinches.

“You watched me fight and survive again and again and again and you still have the audacity to wonder why I don’t fight for glory?” Jackson shouts, kicking sand into Ares’ face. He chokes, and pain races through his body. 

Jackson inhales sharply. “I never wanted to fight, Ares, and that’s what you failed to recognise. All you see is the violence. All you saw in me was violence. Did you ever stop to wonder why I fight? Why we all fight? I’ll tell you, Ares, it’s because we have to. And the fact you find domain in that is disgusting.”

Ares breathes out shakily. His hands and arms are trembling. He clenches his jaw, glaring down at the sand stained yellow beneath him. Anger rips through him and he wonders why his hatred was ever mixed with admiration. 

“You deserve no respect,” Ares sneers with effort, “You’re a disgrace. Yes, countless times I have seen you fight and not once have you taken pleasure in it for the right reasons. No one appreciates the beauty of war aside from me and you- you are no fucking different.”

Jackson laughs. Humourlessly, but he laughs in Ares’ face.

“I see! Because no one worships you anymore you needed someone to keep you going, right? You watched me to see if I could become the next you.”

“No-”

“Guess what, asshole, you’re stuck in the past. War isn’t the same as it used to be. It isn’t beautiful or poetically tragic, it’s disgusting and horrible and awful- no one deserves that. No one should worship that. I’m glad you’re being forgotten.”

Ares looks up, vision blurred by ichor. He takes in the boy in front of him, leaning tiredly on his sword and wonders- how have I become this? 

Dangerously close to tears, he realises something. Through his obsession with Perseus Jackson and his effort to be remembered, Ares had overlooked one thing; that change is the most powerful catalyst of them all. 

It was never Jackson. Never.

The boy leans down, close enough that Ares feels his breath on his ear.

“You aren’t war anymore. You’re just a violent man who likes to watch helpless people get slaughtered.”

Everything in Ares’ body screams at him to move and reclaim his dignity. He desperately wants to drive his spear through Jackson’s body- but he knows, deep down, that it would be useless.

He is empty. Everything he thought he was is gone. 

Ares was wrong. A man without boundaries is threatening, but a desperate man is dangerous. 

“You’re pathetic,” Jackson says, “I almost feel bad for you. You’ve fallen so far.”

Ares swallows ichor. He remembers, thousands of years ago, when mortals would cower in fear at the very mention of his name. He would wade among humans with a smirk on his face, his spear in his hand and throw his head back in satisfaction feeding off the bloodshed of ancient battlefields. 

Yes, how far he has fallen indeed.

His knees begin to ache, but it is nothing compared to the deep pain in his chest- his wound is forgotten. This pain stems from his heart. 

Ares laughs bitterly. For the first time in his life, he knows this injury will never heal. 

“There’s nothing left for you, Ares,” Percy says, lifting his sword from the sand. He raises is slowly, with shaking arms, and points it at Ares’ throat. “I’m going to kill you. You won’t get to Elysium. I don’t know where you’ll end up. I don’t care, honestly. As long as you’re forgotten.”

Perseus Jackson slides his sword across Ares’ neck.

(Somewhere, a clock strikes twelve PM. Somewhere, it becomes June 21st.)

“I’m going to make sure you have no legacy. I’ll make sure that no one remembers you.”

(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)(-0-)

Percy doesn’t flinch as Ares’ body crumples. He doesn’t bat an eye as his body disintergrates- not into gold glitter, but into a grey dust that gets swept away by the cool breeze.

The arena begins to crumble. The spectator seats- empty- fall away silently, thrusting Percy into a world of darkness.

While his surroundings disappear, Percy wonders what it’s like to be truly forgotten- to be erased so completely that the only reminder Ares’ ever existed is the broken spear lying on the ground next to him. 

Somewhere deep inside him, there is still anger boiling like molten magma. He clenches his jaw and swallows a lump of guilt stuck in his throat, reminding himself that Ares deserved this and he had to die. There was no other way.

But- 

Why doesn’t he feel better? What does it mean that he has finally released himself from the shackles of Ares’ obsession yet still hasn’t found peace?

Percy’s eyes shutter closed. He passes out understanding that there is no coming back from this. 

Godkiller, Percy thinks, I am a Godkiller. I am a god.

Awareness escapes him. Percy slumps to the floor, surrounded by the ashes of the forgotten.