Work Text:
THE WAR WAS STILL GOING ON.
Even after an hour, it hadn’t let up.
Percy's hands were raw. His legs ached with every step. Riptide, covered in golden dust, vibrated in his grip like it too was tired. But he kept going.
Because they had to win.
Because they couldn’t lose.
A giant stood before him—one of the older ones, with a crown of twisted bark and antlers, wielding a spear too big for a mortal battlefield. Percy couldn’t remember its name. They were all blurring together now. He moved purely on instinct, blocking a strike, ducking, retaliating.
To his left, Nico fell to his knees.
To his right, Hazel screamed a warning before disappearing beneath the rumble of collapsing stone.
And then— a scream split the air.
It wasn’t battle-born. It was human. Familiar.
“Percy!”
His heart stopped. He knew that voice.
Annabeth.
He turned sharply, eyes scanning the chaos until he found her— half-crumpled behind a boulder, blood slicking down her leg. A deep gash opened across her thigh, red against the gray dust of war.
She desperately cradled her leg in her arms, trying to prevent the blood from touching the ground.
But it was of no use.
Drip.
Drip.
Percy’s stomach twisted as it hit the earth.
Gaea stirred.
The ground shuddered violently beneath his feet. A tremor rolled across the field like a groan of awakening. All around, the giants grinned. The blood of a demigod had been offered. The power of the earth mother surged.
The monsters rallied.
Stronger. Faster. Meaner.
He should’ve been there.
Should’ve been watching.
Now she was alone.
It was his fault.
“You shall not win, little demigod. Gaea will reward me for killing the saviour of Olympus!” The giant crooned.
He brought his club down, and Percy dodged it by mere inches— the club barely grazing his face.
But that battle wasn't what he was focused on.
Percy ran.
His feet barely touched the ground. He surged through waves of monsters, his sword a blur of celestial bronze. No one could stop him—not when Annabeth was in danger. Not when he’d already lost her once.
Two giants had her surrounded now. One grinned down at her like a butcher about to strike.
She had her hands up, not in defense, but as a last effort.
Percy’s scream was raw.
“NO!”
He hurled Riptide with all the strength he had left. It spun through the air, cleanly slicing a giant's throat. Its body exploded into dust.
The other turned toward him, raising a jagged blade the size of a surfboard.
Riptide reappeared in Percy’s pocket.
He didn’t hesitate.
He yanked it free and raised it high, stepping in front of Annabeth, eyes wild, mouth set in a snarl.
And then—
The sword didn’t move.
No, it moved. But sluggishly. Too slow. As if the air had turned to tar. His muscles seized. The blade wavered in his grip.
Ares’s words echoed in his mind..
"You insult me in battle, Jackson. One day, your weapon will fail you when you need it most."
The giant’s blade struck true.
There was no time to scream. No time to think.
The pain exploded across Percy’s face, shearing through his left eye, cheekbone, down toward his jaw. He collapsed with a grunt, stars flaring behind his vision, blood pouring hot and fast into the dust.
***
Percy touched the scar on his face.
It still stung sometimes—when the wind hit just right, or when he forgot and rubbed his eyes too hard. But that wasn’t what made him pause. It was the shape of it. The way it dragged from just above his left eyebrow down to the bottom of his jaw, carving through his face like a memory.
He tried not to think about how familiar it felt.
How someone else had worn the exact same scar.
Not long ago, Percy would’ve scoffed at the comparison. He wasn’t him. He hadn’t turned on his friends. Hadn’t carried a dagger into battle with betrayal curled under his tongue.
But still.
Luke Castellan had a scar just like it— etched down the right side of his face, a permanent reminder of the war he’d helped start... and the side he’d left in the end.
The hero of Olympus.
The enemy-turned-savior.
Percy was no traitor. But now he carried a piece of Luke’s story on his skin.
And it didn’t go unnoticed.
Annabeth had seen it the moment they returned to camp. Her eyes widened— not horror, just something colder. Something older. Recognition. And then she'd turned away, excusing herself before he could say a word.
He didn’t blame her.
When he caught his own reflection now, sometimes he flinched.
The campers did too. They didn’t mean to— but they stared. They whispered. Some avoided sparring with him at all. Not because they thought he’d lost his edge, but because they weren’t sure what the scar meant. Not really.
It took time.
Weeks.
Before the stares faded.
Before people stopped looking for Luke in Percy’s face.
Before they started seeing him again.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments—alone with his thoughts, or when he caught Annabeth watching him across the firelight—he’d wonder:
If part of Luke had ever felt the same.
Like the scar wasn't just a mark, but a prophecy.
A reminder that no hero walks away without something broken.
Not even him.