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Percy Jackson was dead.
The son of the sea god, Hero of Olympus twice over, one of the strongest demigods at Camp, was gone.
It wasn’t old age that took him, not like his loved ones had hoped. It wasn’t sickness that took him.
No.
It was his old enemy, the first one he ever faced. The minotaur.
It had happened like this; Percy was walking to his car parked outside of camp. Annabeth had to stay behind to run her newest temple designs by Chiron and Mr D.
He’d kissed her goodbye, stroked Peleus on the head, and crossed the Camp border.
It had been spaghetti and meatballs night at Estelle's house. After Sally’s passing a few years ago, the siblings decided to split her recipe box.
Percy, obviously, got the blue cookie recipe. The Chase-Jackson family made it every Sunday.
Percy admired the sunset in one of his last moments. It was oddly peaceful.
He kept thinking about how lucky he was, as he opened his car door—Paul Blofis’ old Prius, still running after all this time.
Most demigods didn’t make it past 20. Here he was, more than double that age.
It should’ve been comforting, that fact.
But it didn’t make it better.
Percy Jackson was still the greatest swordsman at Camp Half Blood. But he was getting older, and his reflexes weren’t as sharp as they were when he was seventeen.
He was alone, on low alert.
Percy had scrambled for Riptide when the monster pounced out of nowhere.
The sunset was still beautiful.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
After it happened, the only solace Thanatos could offer was that it had been quick. He had described it—not in much detail.
Percy had been lying on the ground when Thanatos arrived. The worn Camp Half Blood shirt drizzled in warm, fresh blood. He had played dead, which led the minotaur away. But he was still badly wounded.
The god surveyed him with mournful eyes.
“Would you like a moment?”
It was the only thanks he could offer the hero for his services.
Percy nodded. He looked out at the sun again. It was almost nighttime, the sun painting the sky in deep shades of purple and orange. In the corner of his eye, he spotted speckles of stars.
A familiar constellation.
His favorite, the Huntress.
In the distance, he could smell strawberries. The gentle aroma that filled every memory he had of Camp. His second home. He could smell the smoke running from the dragon's nose.
He heard campers, faintly. Talking, playing, laughing. He remembered when his life was like that, and murmured a silent prayer for some of his friends, gone too soon. Like him, now.
He felt the soft breeze shaking the trees, grass tickling his skin as it swayed along. Percy lay still, admiring the careful dance of nature. The one Grover had always admired.
He thought about his wife, Annabeth. In his imagination, made up of all the similar moments he’d seen her in before, she was sitting on the Big House’s porch. A warm light illuminating her notebooks and blueprints. Glasses perched on her nose, fiddling with her necklace and tapping her pen while deep in thought.
He thought about his children, Zoë and Cori. They had grown up so fast, already 16 and 14, respectively.
Zoë had been in the weapons shed the last time he saw her. She was telling him about the designs on the swords and knives, a bright smile on her face.
Cori was at the beach with her friends, playing marco polo. She was laughing at their ‘it’ as he attempted to traverse the water with his eyes closed, yelling whenever something touched his foot.
Percy Jackson thought about his life. His vision was blurry, breathing ragged, mouth hinting with the iron taste of blood. In the sky, he could’ve sworn he saw his mother’s face. He saw Jason. He saw Bianca. He saw Tyson. He saw Charles and Silena and everyone he loved that was taken before him.
Finally, he choked out his last two words.
“I’m ready.”