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He’s been seeing them since the river.
Not always, but often enough for Percy to know he’d lost his mind. There and not flashes of regal, blood-stained clothes around corners of buildings. The floating sound of his mother’s chiding voice as he stole from someone’s purse. The faint tug on his hand as he was working, phantom fingers sticky with toffee and a reprimand quickly on his tongue only to fade as he realized once again that they were all gone.
It didn’t take him long to realize he had lost his mind. This thought only solidified itself as fact after his first haircut in two years. Short cropped, white as snow, hair still strange to him, stranger still was his father’s face behind his shoulder.
He could almost hear him. “A man of your station should take care to appear as he ought.”
“Not a man of any station anymore,” he’d replied, before ducking away from a boy’s strange look.
He wasn’t sure what they wanted, the eight spirits haunting his steps, but he was almost glad to have them.
By the time he was in jail for failing to kill Anna Ripley, he was almost glad to be joining them soon.
Then he was thrust from his loneliness, and he was surrounded by strangers who had no reason to trust him and every reason to toss him aside at the first sign of madness.
And he was mad sure, but he was still aware of it, that had to mean something right? He wasn’t a danger to himself, outside of his vocation, nor did he have any plans at endangering his new travelling companions.
Percy knew they thought him strange, overly formal sure, buttoned up and closed off most definitely. He just had to keep them from realizing he wasn’t quite all there.
It was harder than it should have been, after three years on his own he was accustomed to his family’s antics and presence, the children’s chatter, Cassandra’s betrayed stares, his mother’s disapproval as he fired his weapon, Julius’s hand on his shoulder as he stayed up from nightmares. It was perhaps the living that startled him more.
Percy wondered if Pike could perhaps see them, if her divine prowess could send them away.
He wondered if he wanted her too.
Vax’ildan had caught him speaking to Vesper once or twice, in forges as he worked, her quiet, steady presence the only thing that grounded him at times when his mind was churning with ideas and anger.
He knew she was dead, the slit in her throat attested to that, but sometimes it was nice to pretend.
Grog thought nothing of it, it seemed, having little to say on the matter when Scanlan brought up his odd ways around a campfire one spring night.
Keyleth was more concerned but had brought up her own habits of talking to plants and foliage, a habit that seemed weird to others but was second nature to her.
Vex’ahlia had given him an odd look, one Percy desperately wanted to decipher, before seamlessly changing the subject off Percy before he’d stood to leave.
He’d been scrutinized and studied too much in his life; he didn’t need more of it.
Perhaps it was their life on the road that let him keep his habits to himself, forced proximity was enough to make them avoid pushing too hard.
Only as they continued on their misadventures, as they travelled further away from Whitestone, the ghosts got louder.
At first it was small things, Cassandra’s whispered, angry words reaching him more than usual, tugging at his heart as he remembered her falling dead in the snow, his own footsteps hardly faltering more than a moment as he ran like the coward he was. Then it was his mother’s hand on his shoulder, blood crusted on her perfectly manicured nails, holding him back from joining the others in taverns, urging him to work.
Avenge us. He could almost hear her say. Please son.
He was a miserable, horrible coward however, unable to bring himself to break off from Vox Machina to chase after what he knew he needed to do.
It only became worse as they earned their keep in Emon. His nightmares grew more violent, and as the days progressed, he found himself losing his already tenuous grip on his sanity.
It almost boiled over a week into owning the keep, he had finished putting together his workshop, and he had begun building his newest weapon, Bad News as he called it, when he felt his family around him.
Percival. His father’s voice echoed in his head. You’re wasting time.
“I know,” he muttered in reply, unable to bring himself to look at Ludwig, sitting on the corner of the table he was hunched over, his throat torn open by the jaws of patchwork wolves.
Have you forgotten us? Vesper asked, voice weak and weary.
“No.” Percy’s hand shook as he tried to piece together the delicate mechanisms of his new weapon. “I can’t.”
Your allies are holding you back. Julius said firmly. They won’t understand.
What could he say to that? Vox Machina were loud, disruptive and uncoordinated, how could he even begin to tell them the truth of his life? Of what he’d run from? What he was always running from . . . He couldn’t, they wouldn’t understand.
He was alone with his ghosts.
You left me there. Cassandra’s accusing words nearly slapped him in the face. You left me to die, and you never looked back.
Percy stopped in his work, his hands trembling harder as his fingers trailed over the barrel of Bad News.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Why didn’t you look back?
Why don’t you come home?
“I can’t go back.”
Percy, we need you.
There’s no one else.
Please, Percival, look at us.
“I’m sorry.”
Come home.
Percy, look at me?
Percy!
A hand on his back sent Percy shooting upwards, a bout of rage controlling him as he flung his screwdriver towards the wall. “Stop talking!” He snarled, chest heaving and eyes burning.
“Percy?”
That– that wasn’t his family.
He turned, looking down at the wide eyes of Pike, her hands raised placatingly as she stared up at him.
“Pike- I,” Percy stammered, searching for the right words. “I didn’t–.”
Pike’s eyes softened, an understanding blooming in them as she watched him, it made him want to shrink away, to reject the kindness there, he didn’t deserve such things.
“It’s alright,” Pike said, lowering her hands. “I just wanted to check on you; you’ve been down here for a while.”
“Ah,” Percy felt his face flush. The ghosts were still there, and it was hard to keep from looking at them. How long had he been alone with the remnants of his past?
“Are you okay, Percy?” Pike asked, moving closer. Percy stepped back and she changed tactics, sitting on the bench across from him. “You . . . You seem upset.”
“I’m fine,” Percy replied automatically.
“You sure?” Pike tilted her head, eyes flicking to the discarded screwdriver now still against the far wall.
Percy bit back a sigh, carefully tucking away his fraying psyche. He was fine. He had to be. “I’m alright, Pike, truly, just . . . must be working too much.”
“Must be,” Pike fiddled with her amulet, and Percy felt an instinctual discomfort deep in his chest, something about the cleric’s holy powers always made his skin itch uncomfortably. “When’s the last time you were outside?”
Percy frowned.
Pike scanned the room, and Percy knew what she was seeing, scattered papers, a whirlwind of frantic thoughts and half-finished projects. He wasn’t even sure what he’d been doing himself, it felt like waking up from a dream.
She’s going to find out. Julius’s voice again. She doesn’t understand.
His mother’s hand on his shoulder, Vesper’s whispered conversation with Whitney, Ludwig about to stick his hands in the slack tub, only stopped by his father’s sharp reprimand. Oliver and Cassandra were watching him, both painfully young and mutilated.
It was too much all of a sudden.
“Is there a reason you’re here, Pike?” His voice was sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t stop the frustration from bubbling up in his throat.
Pike squinted at him. “Besides the fact that you’ve been down here for days without talking to anyone?”
I’ve talked plenty. He held back the words on his tongue. “And?”
“And we’re concerned, Percy.” Pike stood up and crossed over to him; this time he didn’t step away. “You shouldn’t isolate yourself like this.”
He couldn’t help but look towards his father, the sword-wound in his chest ever-bloody, his teeth stained red. “I’m not isolating myself.”
Pike followed his gaze. “Percy . . .?”
Percy cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, scrubbing at his face with a gloved hand. He was tired, so tired. When was the last time he’d slept without a nightmare? Four years? Five?
Pike was looking at him again, with those big heather-blue eyes wide and concerned. He didn’t deserve that, they were his ghosts, they shouldn’t haunt anyone else.
“Percy if you need anything.” Pike reached out to grab his trembling hand as he lowered it. “Anything at all, you know you can come to me, right?”
Percy grit his teeth, attempting to tug away, but Pike held firm. “I know, Pike.”
“Promise?”
He finally met her gaze, his glasses were smudged and he felt unsteady on his feet. She looked solid, whole, alive.
What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“I promise.”