Chapter Text
Percy wakes to his lungs burning. Not literally, obviously. But still, it hurts. Every breath is labored. Every inhale makes him feel like his chest is burning from the inside out. Every exhale scrapes the inside of his lungs like a cheese grater. It’s… It’s as if he’s breathing the air inside Tartarus once again. The thought makes his breath quicken, which only increases his pain.
When he finally opens his eyes, though, Percy finds himself… somewhere? Definitely not camp, that’s for sure. He's lying on the hard, marble floor of what seems to be some sort of temple. Sitting up, Percy looks around in confusion, hackles rising as he takes in his unfamiliar surroundings. Slowly, with his eyes scanning the temple for adversaries, he gets to his feet. Except, he does not rise to the height he expects. Percy looks down at himself.
He’s dressed in a dress? No, a chiton, his mind provides. The garment goes down to his knees, met by the tied straps of the sandals he dons. A sea green sash, the same color as his eyes, crosses the chiton and it is all pinned by a bronze broach at his left shoulder, in the shape of a galloping horse. Turning his attention away from his clothing, Percy holds out his hands for inspection.
His scars and calluses are there, but his hands are wrong. Small. Tiny. Miniscule.
Okay, maybe they’re not that small, but they’re still definitely smaller than when he went to sleep. He wiggles his fingers and looks down at his sandals to do the same with his toes. He feels fine, if still a bit sleepy, but he has shrunk. That much is obvious.
He reaches up, touching his face and up to his hair, feeling his smaller, younger features. When he reaches his hairline, he finds his fingers meeting metal. Gripping what seems to be a circlet, he removes it to find a wreath of pine branches composed of the same material as the broach. He stares at the wreath for several moments, not quite sure what to make of it. Honestly, he’s not quite sure what to make of any of this. One moment he’s fitfully sleeping in his cabin with Annabeth and the next he’s stuck in his seven year old body with a crown on his head. Can he ever catch a break?
Percy clutches the circlet as he turns a circle, examining the temple once again. The walls are covered in tapestries depicting scenes of the sea, some of calm waves and others of stormy billows. There are fishing nets hanging as well, shells scattered throughout them. Tall pillars seem to hold up the ceiling, while the ceiling itself is painted with waves. At the head of the room lies a small pool, the water within filling his nose with the smell of sea salt. Standing above the pool, is a statue almost as tall as the pillars. Percy supposes that the statue could be of his father, though not of the dad he is used to. Poseidon stands tall, his stature and limbs, though, are the only semblance of the god Percy knows. The fingers and toes of the god are webbed and there are scales etched along the limbs of the statue. Fins stick out along his forearms and from behind his ears. The lines of gills trail across his neck. A horse's tail protrudes out of the back of the statue’s chiton. His fingers end in claws.
This is not the father Percy knows.
And yet, he feels compelled to move toward the statue. It could be just a part of his seven year old brain calling out for a parent, for safety, but Percy isn’t sure. He just knows that fear of this unknown situation, of his missing girlfriend and cabin, of his short stature and odd clothing, of the crown still clutched in his hands is beginning to creep up on him. Fear trickles down his spine, crawls into his brain, settles in his chest and makes a home there. Percy will willingly admit he is afraid of many things, though he is known to face such fears head on with a ruthless disregard for his own safety. Right now, though, he is seven years old and wants his dad.
He doesn’t know he’s moving until he steps into the pool of salt water, circlet still in hand. Safety envelopes him as he allows himself to sink to the bottom of the shallow pool, surrounding himself in his father’s domain. As soon as he takes in a lungful of water, his lungs quit their burning, the water soothing whatever ailment he has suddenly developed.
It’s like he’s breathing for the first time. The cool water works its way through his system, doing much to calm his rising anxiety. It’s like a balm to a bruise. Not only do Percy’s lungs feel better, but so does his skin that he hadn’t realized had been uncomfortably dry. Percy lays contentedly in the bottom of the pool for several moments, letting his eyes drift shut as his mind calms. The feeling of safety surrounds him as the water does and Percy wonders why he was so worked up in the first place. He had been silly. Annabeth would laugh at him.
Annabeth.
That stirs his thoughts up once again and Percy lets his eyes snap open. He kicks off the bottom of the basin and resurfaces, he drops the wreath to climb out of the pool as his mind refocuses. As he leaves the water, his lungs begin burning once again. Not nearly as bad as when he awoke, but enough to have him rubbing his chest in discomfort. He ignores it for now, focusing on the issue at hand.
Percy is seven years old and alone in a temple for a monstrous-looking version of his father. He is not at camp, where he fell asleep the night before. He is not in his mom and Paul’s apartment, where he is supposed to be heading to for the weekend. He isn’t even in New Rome, where he’s currently studying at New Rome University. Percy’s spring break is ruined, to say the least.
He straightens his chiton and tightens his sandal straps. Then, Percy sniffs out the exit of the empty temple. He finds himself on the beach once he makes it outside. This provides him with an easy fix to one of his issues. Marching down the sand, Percy beelines for the water. He knows that if he can make it to the ocean, he will at least know where he is. It’s not until he’s knee deep that the coordinates compute in his head.
He is just off the coast of Corinth. He is in Greece. He is so not making it back to New York in time to see his parents and little sister for the weekend.
Percy is so fucked.
-
Annabeth’s head pounds as she slowly sits up. She brings a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers into her temple in an attempt to relieve the pain in her head and fog in her mind. Her thoughts move slowly as she attempts to look around herself. She is no longer in Percy’s bed in Cabin Three. She is no longer at camp at all, it seems.
Her blinks come slowly as she takes in her surroundings. There are tapestries, lots and lots of tapestries. They all show different scenes, though the contents are somewhat familiar. Annabeth is sure that she would recognize at least some of them under different circumstances. She glances between the artworks before her eyes land on what must be the largest one. It’s hung at the head of the room and depicts someone very familiar.
Even with the familiarity of the figure, it takes Annabeth’s mind several moments to catch up with itself. Then, it hits her all at once.
Mother.
The tapestries are depicting her mother. Each of them shows her in some capacity, but the largest one is what gives her pause. The Athena in the tapestry is different from the Athena that Annabeth knows. It is still undoubtedly her mother, but much more animalistic in her features. Athena stands tall with her armor and Aegis. A sword in her opposite hand. Large wings, reminiscent of an owl’s, protrude from her back. Her eyes are grey with a yellow sheen, almost glowing with the threads of the tapestry, also similar in shape to that of an owl. Fangs peak out from between her lips, those of a serpent. Her fingers end in talons. Feathers matching her wings don her temples and cover her forearms and shins.
It is still the Goddess of Wisdom, that is clear, but it is not the goddess that Annabeth grew up sacrificing part of her meals to. If her mind would clear, she’s sure her reaction to such a depiction of her mother would be much more visceral. As it is, Annabeth merely blinks at the tapestry and turns her attention back to herself.
She winces as the pounding in her head continues, the headache worsening with every attempt at clear thoughts. She struggles to her feet, but it doesn’t seem she has far to go. Annabeth seems to have shrunk since she went to sleep.
Looking down at herself, she finds the ground much closer than she remembers. Her limbs are much shorter, her hands much smaller. She’s dressed in a chiton, a grey sash crossing her torso and bronze owls pinned to either of her shoulders. Her feet are protected by sandals, their straps wrapped and secured around her lower legs. She feels a braid sway at her back and reaches up to find several smaller, more intricate braids within the larger. When she reaches the top of her head, she finds something else. Annabeth removes the object from her head with slightly clumsy fingers. She finds a circlet of bronze olive branches.
She knows that something is wrong. Knows it on an intrinsic level. Still, the fog over her mind will not let her panic. No, instead she lets the olive wreath drop to the ground with a clang and stumbles toward the only exit the room has. Her vision white out from the pain in her head for a moment, but she trudges on. She’s sure that someone, if there is anyone around, must hear the noise she is making as she tries to find an exit to the building, but no one comes.
Finally, Annabeth makes it outside. She finds herself in the middle of a street made of dirt and gravel, stars shining brightly overhead. She’s almost sure the sun had been shining through the carved windows of the room she had woken up in. How much time has she lost?
The streets are quiet, most likely empty for the night, but are bordered by buildings on either side. Buildings too old to be New York or even New Rome. The abandoned streets serve Annabeth well as she begins her trek on too short legs. She’s not quite sure where she’s going, but she knows who she’s going to find. Annabeth went to sleep beside her boyfriend, and based on their track record, he’s probably wrapped up in whatever is going on, too.
So, in a body that is too small for her age and a head that feels like it’s going to explode, Annabeth sets out to find Percy Jackson. She’s going to chip the demigod when she finds him. Their separation seems to be becoming a pattern.