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Percy just needs to breathe. That’s it. That’s all he needs to do right now and everything will be fine. When he’s thrown into the water, he has a moment where he would forget who he is, who his father is and he’d hold his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the water consumes him whole. But then it’d brush against his nose, wrapping its arms around him and encouraging him to let go . The first inhale is always a gamble, closing his eyes and feeling the way it inflates his lungs and exhales in bubbles. Then it starts to feel nice–right–and it lets him know death won’t come easy to him.
But this mud, this mud is not made of sea.
This mud is cold, so cold. It’s sticking their fingers up his nose and seeing how far they can go until they reach his brain. It pokes and prods at the organ till a pressure starts to build behind his eyes. It sinks into his ears like bricks on a boat and he feels himself getting dragged down deeper and deeper. It’s a foreign feeling, an unknown that has him shivering even without the chills to cause it.
Has this happened to him before? He tries hard to think, he really, really, tries but the effort is futile. His memory is an absence of light within his head; a negative space that warps his mind into a shell of a person. He’s been nothing but a bumbling idiot this entire quest. Stumbling after two younger demigods like a kid at a summer camp being nothing but a burden and another body to carry.
Can he even hold his breath for long? He’s never had a need to, always safe in the depths of the sea. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been down here for; thirty seconds? Five minutes? An hour? He can’t afford to think about the logistics of it. He wonders if he was a part of a swimming team back ‘home’, if he even has one. Did he train to hold in his breath? How long can he go for?
Maybe he should start counting, if by some luck of the Fates he survives this, then he definitely needs to start practicing. Hazel and Frank probably didn’t even notice at first; he didn’t even scream. Just went with the mud like he does with the waves except he confused the familiarity with a friend and his naiveness almost cost him his life.
Well, it is costing him his life.
He can’t even move. He’s trapped, paralyzed with all his senses stolen from him and he just wants to breathe but the demigod in him knows better. The little-more-than-human part of him knows there’s nothing more glorious in life than a heroic death and breathing in the mud would be a shame that'd follow him all the way to the Underworld.
‘But would death be the worst thing right now’?
He doesn’t know who he is. The only memory he has is a name that could be a figment of his imagination; something his brain came up with to combat the loneliness he felt when waking up with no recollection of anything of who he was or is. Maybe this is the Fates plan. it would make for great headlines ‘The Son of the Sea, Dead by Drowning’. At least it would make for a great campfire song. He doesn’t remember anything but he sure as hell knows the Fates don’t like him.
He can tell he’s running out of time when white stars grow behind his eyelids. His heart is knocking at his chest and the temptation of panic is so alluring he feels his nostril twitch at the desire to do what it was made for. His DNA is itching for stimulation and he can’t do that without oxygen. He’s been down here for too long and he’s starting to realize. Why hasn’t he found a way out yet? He should’ve tried to climb out or manipulate the water within the mud. He’s a demigod, for crying out loud. He’s supposed to be trained in finding a way out of dumb shit like this. Maybe he was just a subpar demigod before all of this and that’s the reason why New Rome doesn’t respect Neptune spawns.
Ah, he realizes, maybe this is where it ends. It makes sense, in a sick sort of way; make a demigod lose all his memories, train with a wolf goddess for a few months, be on the run for longer, enter a camp where he goes from zero to hero, be forced to go on a quest where he, son of Neptune, drowns. Aren’t the Romans known for tragedies, or was that the Greeks? Either way, the demigod in him begins to settle and releases a metaphorical breath. For some reason, he doesn’t fear death as much as a normal person should. It feels familiar, like a companion who’s always by your side but never gets too close. The blackhole in his mind shines at a recollection of being face to face where death was inevitable but he found a way out of it. Something with the name he can’t get out of his head and it being the tether. Either way, he can’t remember the meaning for the name now, not like he did then. He’s not invincible anymore.
‘It wouldn’t be too bad to die here’.
The voice doesn’t sound like his, but it isn’t wrong either.
‘You’ve lived a long life for a demigod’.
He doesn’t remember said life, but this exhaustion inside of him makes him believe it.
‘The others would be fine without you. Don’t you want to rest?’
He does want to rest, but the mention of others makes him pause. Hazel and Frank expect a lot out of him. They were the first ones to offer him comfort and guidance in the face of the unknown. The three of them are on a quest. Three. Something inside of him screams wrong wrong wrong if the number was anything less. He left them without warning, left them to fend for themselves on a quest that seems bigger than all of them. At his core, it feels wrong to just abandon them when they’re expecting him to return to them.
Just give up, Perseus Jackson. You are not going to win this war.
Suddenly, the mud gets tighter, rushing into his body like it’s squeezing him in its fist. A shock runs through him. ‘ Oh’ , he thinks, ‘this is Gaea’ . Her presence is all consuming despite her full form not being conscious. It’s terrifying in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time and his mind pricks at the sense of a memory of another primordial he doesn’t remember the name of but the aura has a similar alert of danger danger danger.
He wants to say something, he wants to do something. He’s a balloon in the hands of a tailor; the needle hovering until it strikes for a pop. The minute he opens his mouth he knows she would take the chance to kill him and the helpless is killing him.
All at once, the pressure melts away and a hand grips his hair. Terrified, he tries to strike out but his movements are too slow to make contact. The hand finds him anyway and he knows at once those small hands are not a threat. Once they lace their fingers through his, they clutch in strength and begin to pull. It takes everything inside of him not to cry out. The sensation of being moved is uncomfortable, but he’ll take discomfort over the numbness of death or the suffocating essence of a primordial.
I can’t kill you now, little demigod, but do not think that is a treat. Death would’ve been a mercy for the Chaos that is about to follow you. I shall be watching, stormbringer. I shall be watching.
The words echo around his mind even after he’s pulled to the surface. The omen feels like a curse and he almost wishes he’d taken the mercy. But he shouldn’t be a coward about this. The power she held in his name; that is someone who wouldn’t back down from a fight. That is someone who would laugh in the face of war and smile when it’s won.
More hands are on him this time and he startles into a cough when they roughly begin to hit his back. He starts to choke on the mud that’s stuck in his throat and he’s quickly turned on his side. Another pair of hands wipes away the mud on his eyes and it takes a while for him to open them. When he does, his vision comes to him blurry and unfocused, but the message is still clear as day.
Hazel lies on her back, soaked in the mud with her chest heaving for a breath. Frank kneels over him with concern in his eyes. The Son of Mars continues to soothe him as he retches with tears leaking out of his eyes. His body is cold and weak, but he’s never felt more alive. He knows Death is watching him, Gaea at his side, he knows now. There’s an understanding that wasn’t there before. Percy is needed, whether he knows who he is or not. Everyone, even his enemy, sees his importance and value. Perseus Jackson is a hero out there, somewhere. He refuses to die before he could find him. He’s going to find him.
But for now, he can finally
breathe
.