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aj-artjunkyard · 5 years

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Trials Of Apollo Oneshot Series CHAPTER FIVE

This is a post-ToA chapter! Takes place after Apollo regains his immortality.

I sighed. Strolling aimlessly through the halls of my palace on Olympus, I wondered if it had always been this unappealing. The gold trimmings seemed fake. The extravagant furniture felt uncomfortable. Even my bed was too big. Every shiny object played murder on my eyes, and every smooth surface was too warm to be refreshing. It just wasn’t homey. Not like the Waystation or Aeithales or either demigod camps. It felt more like a sized-up garage to keep a fancy car in.

I found myself yearning to be outdoors - no uncommon craving. Like my twin, most of my domains are set in the great outside world. I threw open the golden double doors of the balcony, closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh Olympian air. There was still something missing. Furrowing my eyebrows in frustration, I opened my eyes and glanced around for anything that might sate my dissatisfaction, when my sight landed on a certain figure making her way through the buzzing streets of Olympus and towards the entrance of my palace. I felt a natural smile creep onto my face. I would have to look for the missing thing later. Right now, I needed to be with my mother.

…

We had been in this comforting embrace for almost ten minutes now. I combed my fingers through Leto’s caramel hair while she sobbed into my shoulder, her frame shaking considerably. I felt the wet tears soaking through my jacket and dampening the shirt beneath. I pressed my lips against her forehead, hoping to make her content enough to talk to me. Eventually, she pulled away and reached up, running her fingers through my hair, almost to reassure herself that I was actually there. She looked deep into my eyes, while tears danced in her own. I took her hands in my own, and gently led her to a white sofa, which was far to big for the space of the room. It looked like whoever had put it there was just trying to cram as much unneeded furniture into one place as they could. Oh wait…that may have been me.

Leto sat down beside me. She sniffled a little, avoiding my eyes. She fiddled with the brooch on my toga. I held her hand. She squeezed it.

“Apollo…” she trailed off, seeming lost in her mind.

“I’m alright now Mother,” I said in an effort to soothe her. “I’m immortal again. I cannot die. I learnt a lot too. And I want to apologise for not being the most attentive of sons. I should visit you more, and I will! Really, father was right to-”

“-NO!”

I fell silent, shocked that my mother would ever scream in such a tone. She looked at me, and I noticed how tired she was. No doubt staying up to watch every second of my quests, worried sick that something might happen if she took her eyes off me. It would not be out of character for her to do such things.

“Your father was not right to punish you in such a cruel manner. To have you forced into servitude, with next to no natural means to protect yourself or others!”

“Honestly, Mother I-”

She held up a hand for quiet. I obeyed.

“I know you should not have done the things you did. I know you’ve learned. That does not warrant your father’s merciless behaviour. You kept getting hurt and I could do nothing, he said if he caught me in the act of helping, he would make it worse for you. He said there would be more deaths, more guilt. So I obliged. I made sure he didn’t catch me. I convinced Artemis to send her hunters. I persuaded Hermes to crash the sun, and Athena to lure you to the child-” she paused. “-Whom I have been caring for. He is named Cindeo - the one who escapes danger.”

I nodded. “I see you have been taking care of everyone.”

“That is indeed my sole purpose, yes. It distracted me, which Artemis says is a good thing. But still…I was watching. That day on the boat.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. I knew exactly what she would be referring to before she even said it. “You stabbed yourself.”

I drew in a sharp intake of breath, remembering the pain.

“I knew Medea would heal me.”

“You did it willingly.”

“It was only a distraction.”

“What was? Your life?”

“Caligula needed me alive more than my friends did.”

“They all needed you in the end, Apollo! I needed…I needed you.”

We sat, not talking. Just staring at each other, mentally comparing our broken pieces. I was willing to gather my pieces - make something new. I knew my mother wanted that as much as I did. We hugged again, this one lasting even longer. Neither party minded. Her caramel hair still smelt of honeysuckle, a trait inherited by my sister. She was still soft and warm and safe. After all these centuries, she had not changed. I was glad.

After an eternity, we separated. I examined my mother, my medical urges setting in.

“You look like you haven’t slept since I woke up in that dumpster. You need rest.”

She shook her head. “Apollo, you just got back. If you think I’m going to-”

“And I’ll be here when you wake up. Why don’t you use my bedroom? That way you won’t really be leaving. I’ll still be around, I promise. Even if you sleep as long as Gaea did.” She tried to protest, but I easily guided her to my sleeping quarters. By the time we arrived, Leto was practically using me as her only way of staying upright. I gently laid her down on my king-sized mattress, and she immediately melted into the warmth of the duvet.

I made my way to the kitchen, intent to taste ambrosia for the first time in months. A shape shimmered into existence on the blinding white counter. A freshly baked pie. Curious, I picked up the little note beside it, which read in perfect ancient greek calligraphy;

You deserve it! I love you!

-Leto

I chuckled and called down the hall, “Go to sleep!”

To which I received a muffled “I am, I am!”

I grabbed the pie and sniffed, enjoying my newly heightened senses. I could tell exactly what was in it. Ambrosia, sugar and chunky slices of…baked apple. The smell smacked me as violently as my realisation. My palace was golden, hard and shiny. It was devoid of life. Life like that of a particularly bossy half-blood. I decided to call in a discreet demigod quest.

…

“Soooo…about this quest.”

“Yes?”

“It was to help you plant stuff?”

I patted down the soil around a sweet-smelling Hyacinth. We sat in a huge garden positioned behind my palace. I had never fully understood why it was here. What was its purpose? Why would you look at some boring old trees when my palace was right at the end of the long, wide strip of grass, glowing golden and easily mistaken for a beautiful sunset in the evening? Once, I had even petitioned for the land to be flattened and used for a theatre (Dionysus and the muses backed me up, but Demeter, Poseidon and Artemis were strongly against it). But now, I smiled to myself as I began to see its importance.

“I don’t know what you find so complicated about this, Meg. I thought you liked gardening.”

My former master scrunched up her nose, pushing her cat-eye glasses further up her face. Her hands were caked with mud and the knees of her new leggings were already ruined. She had not wanted to change her dress, but when Percy mentioned to Mrs Jackson that she was still wearing the same borrowed garment from several months before, Sally had sent a package and insisted she change clothes every once in a while. Meg had donned the teal tunic and green leggings ever since. Such was the fashion sense of The Meg.

“Well, yeah. But I don’t think you’re allowed to call it a quest.”

“You were summoned to assist a god, were you not?”

“Duh.”

“So you are on a quest.”

“To plant flowers.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Meg shrugged. “Okay. But how do you plan to explain it to Zeu-” I cleared my throat loudly, glaring obviously at my reckless young friend. How many times did I have to tell her that names hold power? I definitely did not have a bullet-proof backup plan incase my father did find out, so I did not want to draw his attention and let him in on my little secret. That would not go well for anyone, trust me.

“How do you plan to explain it to your father?” Meg corrected. Satisfied with that adjustment, I turned my attention back to my Hyacinth.

“I’m not going to.”

“That’s a stupid plan.”

“I would have thought you’d know me better than to assume I have a real one.”

“That’s fair, you’re pretty dumb.”

“Hey!” I threw a clod of dirt at her, which hit her right in the centre of her forehead. We shared a look of mild amazement. I actually hit my target. It had been a while. I grinned with triumph, but it was soon smacked off my face as I got hit full whack with a dirt ball to the cheek. Then our eyes met in silent challenge. We both accepted.

It only took fifteen minutes for the massive garden to become an all-out war zone. There was no safe place. Dirt flew every direction, and we both took advantage of our own abilities - Meg using plants to trip me up or willing the dirt to fly with excruciating accuracy, and me, using beams of sunlight to reflect off Meg’s glasses and blind her, and when I found her charging at me, I flew over her head, just to be annoying.

When Meg shoved half a dozen handfuls of mud down my shirt, I decided to play dirty (well...dirtier). I conjured a hose, and watched with enormous enjoyment as Meg’s cocky grin melted into morphed into one of realisation and fear. I blasted her.

We chased each other around the grass, continuously soaking each other (Meg had used a plant pot as a bucket and filled it in a nearby pond) until the sky started to dim. It was early January, so it wasn’t too late, maybe six o’clock. Cold and exhausted, we made our way back towards my palace. My mother was waiting in the kitchen when we arrived, a new apple pie steaming on the dining table. She tutted at our wet cloths and sopping hair. With a wave of her dainty hand, Meg and I immediately dried.

“You let the other one go cold, dear,” Leto smiled, gesturing at the pie. Two golden-rimmed plates, complete with solid gold knives and forks which shimmered into existence beside it.

“Thank you Mother!” I said excitedly, kissing her on the cheek and sitting down at the table. Meg looked more wary. She eyed my mother suspiciously, while Leto smiled softly at her. Stepping closer to the table, perhaps under pressure, Meg inquired, “Is there ambrosia in it? I can’t eat much of that stuff.”

Leto laughed. “Yes, dear. But only traces. Only eat a slice or two, and you’ll be absolutely okay.”

I turned around in my chair and grinned over the backrest at them.

“Meg, it’s fine. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Mother?”

Leto looked horrified. “Of course not! Why would I damage such a harmless creature that’s so vital to the nutrition of other creatures?”

I gave Meg a look. “See?”

Meg seemed satisfied with that answer, but was still cautious in her approach to the table. But after no more than fifteen seconds, she was shovelling in mouthful after mouthful with incredible velocity, rapidly cleansing her plate of any crumbs. My Mother watched her with intrigue, and I could almost see the cogs turning in her head. While Meg helped herself to seconds, Leto quietly pulled me aside.

“When was the last time the child ate?” She whispered urgently, casting solicitous glances over at my young companion.

“It can’t have been long ago. Meg eats a lot,” I reassured. Her shoulders relaxed, her gaze softened. Leto looked thoughtfully back over at Meg.

“Does she have somewhere to stay?”

“I believe she intends to become a year-rounder at Camp Half-Blood. She’ll be with her siblings and cousins there. Her family.”

“Mmm…”

“Mother?” Leto peered deep into my metallic gold irises. Then back looked at Meg. Then back at me. “What are you thinking?”

“If she is to remain at Camp Half-Blood, you will not be able to meet with her. I implore you, son. Look into the future. What possibilities do you see for her there?”

I concentrated, absorbing in every part of Meg’s being and taking into account every decision I’d ever seen her make. (Being a god, this was easy. Oh, how I enjoyed the wonders of a working memory!) I started off simple to ease myself back into prophecy, by predicting where her fork would land next. [She will miss the pie and stab the plate] Clank! My power proved to be working. I stretched myself a bit further, into next week. I saw her hold up a red flag in triumph. [She will win Capture The Flag for the Demeter, Hades, Dionysus and Apollo cabins] Yes, that seemed plausible.

Then I looked years ahead, in fast-forward. I laid every likely option and decision for Meg out on a metaphorical table in front of me and examined them all. Useless nonsense rushed past me as I sifted through the possibilities. [On May 23rd, she will eat meatloaf for dinner] [Exactly two weeks from now, she will push a son of Dionysus into the lake] [In three years, she will set Peaches loose on a rabid Manticore] None of these helped me. I searched for the correct timeline, the one where she stayed at Camp. I found it.

[She will miss Apollo] Fair, I would miss her too. [She will feel lonely] I will too, friend. [She will distance herself from anything to do with Apollo, including his children] Wait, no- [She no longer considers Apollo to be a friend] STOP!

My eyes flew open. My mother held onto my arm, steadying me. Meg had turned around in her chair, seeming concerned.

“You okay?”

I stumbled for an answer. Would she really dismiss me? Would I dismiss her? “Uh, yes. Yes, everything is fine.” Meg’s eyebrows scrunched behind her cat-eye glasses. The rhinestones caught the light, and shone brightly.

“You look sick,” she announced, with her usual Meggy bluntness.

“Thanks,” I grumbled. “Meg, it’s getting late. Perhaps I should send you back to Camp.”

Meg pouted. “Why can’t I stay?”

“You know why. Father can’t find out you’re here.”

Meg groaned. “Ugh. Okay. Just don’t forget about me or I’ll march right back to kick you in the kneecaps.”

I smiled. “I would not dream of it. See you soon.” I waved my hand and Meg evaporated in a shower of gold, and I felt her reappear safely at Half-Blood Hill.

My mother turned to me.

“Well?”

…

We sat on the cold stone steps of the amphitheatre, where I’d dazzled the demigods into minor depression with my Lydian and one-four-five Progressions so many moons ago.

It was late afternoon and the sun shone softly through the trees, scattering beams of light around the secluded area. I appeared similar to what I had a few days ago, only this time I had donned a more ‘modern’ look from my usual toga. I wore an ACDC t-shirt under an unzipped orange and white jacket. My jeans were worn pale at the knees and hems, which contrasted the bright red of my nike trainers. Only my hair was much the same - long, blond and flowing down to my shoulders.

Little sparks of light bounced cheerfully off of Meg’s rhinestones. She kicked a pebble down the steps, and watched in fascination as it skipped, making tic tic tic sounds all the way to the bottom. She was still wearing the same teal tunic and green leggings, her gardener’s belt hanging loosely around her waist. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, she spoke.

“You said you wanted to ask me something?”

I nodded. “Yes, but I want to inform you that how you answer will not affect my view of you in the slightest. I will always admire you, whether you turn down my offer or not.”

“Offer?”

I laced my fingers, trying to think of the best way to word it.

“Following your recent quest,” (Meg snorted. I continued.) “I realised that I will not be able to see you as often as I would like. I will not be able to intervene on future quests, or protect you much beyond what my father allows. It will most likely be a long time before all the gods begin to treat the mortals as beings. I will also have to endure the endless mocking from my fellow gods, simply for changing my morals, and someone with mortal experience would be good to keep me straight. So, my offer to you, should you choose to accept it, is the offer of immortality. I would like you to live on Olympus, with me.” Meg’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. Seeing this, I rushed to hastily add to my unexpected statement. “Now, please know that this is not a one-time offer. You can say ‘No’ now, and come back later! Or not. Whatever you choose, I’ll always be looking out for you, okay?” Meg furrowed her eyebrows and blew out her cheeks in concentration. I watched her, not quite knowing if I should say more.

“Will I have to leave Camp forever? Will I be able to visit?”

“That’s the thing. You would only be allowed to visit if you have a specific purpose for coming, and you would have to make sure it’s iron-clad just in case Zeus confronts you about it. But I am working on finally getting those laws abolished. Hopefully, one day, you will be able to come simply because you want to. The catch is; I am not sure how long it will be until that happens.”

“So all my siblings might be dead.” I smiled sympathetically, feeling the chance of her accepting my offer sinking dramatically.

“Most likely.”

Meg gained her closed-off expression, her guards shooting up to prevent any and all emotional damage. I held my breath, waiting patiently for her to respond. It took a few minutes. Finally, Meg uttered at an almost indecipherable volume, “Can I think about it?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was not a no. There was still time to convince her.

“Of course, dear Meg.”

Abruptly, Meg stood and sprinted back towards Cabin Four without another word. I had expected this, but it still threw me through a loop. I ran my fingers through my luscious blond hair, and inhaled deeply through my nose. While I was lost in my thoughts, a voice suddenly piped up and made me jump a foot in the air in surprise.

“Hey Dad!”

Gasping sharply and clutching my hand to my thumping heart, I turned to meet the speaker. My son, Austin Lake, stood before me holding a battered, grey-silver saxophone and smiling nervously. I gestured for him to come and sit with me. He complied.

“You here to see Meg?”

I wrapped my strong arm around him, and pulled him close to my side. “I was going to visit you kids too, but you ruined the surprise.” I punctuated my statement with noogie on Austin’s cornrows. He giggled and shuffled closer to me, absolutely failing at being inconspicuous. I didn’t mind. My kids and I are born to be obvious. Why hide something good?

I gestured to his beaten saxophone. “What happened there? The Ares kids?”

“Nah. I never found the one I lost in the labyrinth, so I had to take this old one from the back of Cabin Seven. I don’t think it’s been used since before that orientation film was made.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It sounds fine, but I wish it had I bit more…I don’t know…pizzazz? Flash?”

“A bit of shine is never amiss,” I agreed.

“It doesn’t matter anyways. I tested it out on Miranda Gardener and Sherman Yang, and they did kiss when I played ‘Careless Whisper’, but it just doesn’t help the whole YouTube thing, y’know?”

“Of course. Sometimes people simply refuse to take you seriously unless you look the part. A frustrating yet universal part of showmanship - one that none of my children should have to deal with.” I waved my hand, and the old saxophone glowed, and began to fix it’s dents. The tired looking grey colour ebbed away and darkened, a black sheen taking it’s place. The keys and rods however, brightened until they shone gold. Soon Austin was holding a very classy jazz saxophone that matched his black woollen peacoat. I am extremely conscious of the instrument matching the style of the musician, hence why all my instruments include some form of precious metal or stone.

Austin’s brown eyes glittered with pure excitement.

“Thanks Dad! You’re the best!” He launched himself into me hugged me like he would never let go. I drew him closer to me, savouring every moment. I heard him mumble something unintelligible into my chest.

“What was that you said?” I asked. My boy tilted his head up slightly, so I could only see his eyes and above past the folds of my ACDC tee. He repeated himself a bit louder.

“Do you read all our messages? Like, the ones Chiron gets us to write to our godly parents?”

I chuckled, raised one hand for dramatic effect and recited:

“Hey dad! I’m Austin

Chiron said you like haikus

Poetry is cool”

“Nooooo….” Austin groaned. “I can’t write poetry for my life…”

“I think it’s great! You were only, what,” I counted on my fingers. “Seven at the time?”

“And already better than your dad!” An unknown voice rang out loudly from behind us, making us snap back from each other and whip around to face the impish figure. Hermes held up his hands in mock surrender, his signature stupid grin plastered on his face as he sauntered towards us. His dirty blond hair bobbed in its curls with every step he took. He nodded to Austin.

“‘Sup kid? Did anyone ever tell you about the time Apollo was obsessed with Limericks? Maybe you could compose one of those about your old man’s ‘awesomeness’,” (emphasising the ‘awesomeness’ with air quotes. Humph!) “and send it to me later, yeah? For mocking purposes only, of course.” Austin shifted uncomfortably, clearly not thrilled to have been interrupted from rare cool father/cool son bonding time. I knew how tricky Hermes could be, and I definitely did not want to put my son through the embarrassment of somehow signing off his mother’s inheritance to cattle farmers in Indonesia, so I took initiative.

“Austin, why don’t you go show off your new saxophone to your siblings? I promise I will come back to visit again soon.”

Hermes snorted. “Yeah, maybe don’t swear on the Styx though, bro. Dad wants to see you about some flower planting quest.” His grin spread like he had just cracked an atrocious pun, and was awaiting the groans of his audience. “He’s soooo mad.” I gave a reassuring smile down to my apprehensive son.

“Do not worry about me, child. Hermes is a known fibber. I’m sure he’s not that furious. It will be fine.”

...

It was not fine.

As soon as I entered my father’s personal throne room, I could tell. The enchanted ceiling was dark with storm clouds. The atmosphere was thick and heavy with static and tension. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back.

My father sat on a proud marble throne, its veins of grey curling like smoke throughout the white stone. The king himself wore a smart navy suit, complete with a matching tie and a mid-length salt and pepper beard that overshadowed his mouth. His long hair was styled not unlike my own, except a lot darker and less flamboyant. He took the form of a man in his late 40’s, but could only be shown by the unfashionable wrinkles around his eyes. He was well built, and, despite my love for my eight-pack, far more muscular than I thought was attractive or necessary. He glared down his nose at me as I walked down the aisle of blue carpet towards his feet.

He must have been forty foot tall, which was big even for a god. I stood at a more natural twenty. I did not dare make myself bigger. I did not want my father to be under the impression that I wanted to intimidate him. I did not.

I bowed at my father’s feet and lowered my head, waiting for the word to stand up. It did not come. Instead my father spoke in his low growl:

“Apollo.”

I swallowed my anxieties and forced myself to look up into his eyes. They were not their usual electric blue, as so many of his offspring had inherited, but they had been clouded over with a thick, angry grey mist. His dark brows were furrowed in concentration. A permanent scowl was fixed on his features. I willed my voice not to squeak or crack.

“Yes, father?” Zeus’s scowl deepened.

“Do you think I am witless, boy?” He rumbled.

“I - no, father,” I stammered. Zeus leaned forward in his throne, glaring holes through my head.

“Do you think I am beneath you?”

“Wha - no!” My hands subconsciously gripped my jacket and fiddled furiously with the zip. I could feel my godly sweat making the cool metal slippery. The air around Zeus condensed into a dark haze. Lighting cackled like an entourage of jeering bullies, laughing at my panicked face and hopeless predicament.

“YET YOU STILL DISOBEY ME?” I took several deep breaths. I was a god. I had faced python, while mortal, and defeated him. I was still undoubtedly terrified, but I thought of Meg, of my children, of Perseus Jackson. They needed me to take this first step into defending the demigods. My face hardened. My voice was calm, quiet and deliberate, but hid a tsunami of fear.

“Name the law.” My father’s raised bolt faltered, reflecting his confusion.

“What?”

“Name the law,” I repeated. “Name the law I have broken by ordering a demigod, whom I know well and am sure is capable of being assigned a task, to go on a quest.”

Zeus gritted his teeth, and growled in his gritty voice; “I watched you play, boy. Do you think you are humorous? Do you think you can scorn my gift in such ways? I gave you immortality. I made you a god! Yet you run around like a hooligan, associating with these lesser beings, for what? Your twisted idea of justice? I am the god of justice, you insolent child. I have decided our laws, and I can make more laws if I so wish. Do not test me.”

“As I remember brother,” a feminine voice cut the thick tension of the room, “You need council approval to decree a new law. Am I correct?” Zeus scowled, but his anger visibly dissipated. He sat back in his chair as the dark clouds surrounding the throne lightened into grey wisps, like one might see on a dull autumn’s day. I did not dare turn my back to my father to see the speaker, though I knew the voice well - a voice older than Zeus’. I kept my kneeling position, hearing the footsteps of the graceful Olympian stride down the single strip of carpet, stopping just behind me. I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. It pulled me up until I stood beside the tall, warm figure of Demeter, the goddess of agriculture.

She wore a simple, emerald-coloured dress that flowed down to her ankles, revealing a pair of bronze-coloured sandals. A thin, gossamer shawl of sage-like hue was wrapped around her shoulders and hung around her tanned arms. Her wavy blonde hair shared an alikeness to that of Sleeping Beauty’s. A ring of glittering corn stalks circled her brow. Her form was a few inches taller than my own. She kept her hand firm on my shoulder and glared defiantly up at Zeus with those striking green eyes.

“Margaret is my daughter. I invited her to Olympus to congratulate her on finishing her quest, as is customary. She and Apollo simply conversed over some flowers.” She looked down at me. “And I for one, am pleased that Apollo is finally making good use of that great space.” I smiled up at her, then glanced nervously at Zeus. His mighty hand stroked his beard in thought. At last, grumbled and said;

“Very well,” his deep voice echoed throughout the hall. “But be warned. Next time that mortal comes to this land with no believable reasoning, I will not be so merciful.”

“Of course, my lord.” Demeter and I both bowed in respect (well, more so ‘custom’ or ‘fear’ than respect, but whatever) and made our way out into the cheery sunlight, leaving the clammy throne room behind us.

We wandered down the streets in silence, watching all the minor deities, cloud nymphs and satyrs frolic and chat excitedly. I got a few gazes from a group of dryads, but thought nothing of it. Perhaps they had heard of what I did for the Palm Springs residents. Did dryads have some sort of mental link or Whatsapp text group? I imagined it would go like: “Hey gurrrll!!! ;D You see all this heatwave shiz??? Gone!!!! Apollo is #greatest” or something similar. After a few minutes, Demeter pulled me to a park bench that overlooked a large, shimmering lake. Ripples glided across the water. Every now and then, a tentacle rose above the surface and plunged back under, sending a spray of droplets to dampen anything in a metre radius. Some hippocampi splashed playfully around the shallows, some allowing a pod of Naiads to stroke their noses and fuss over how cute they were. We watched.

“You did well by my daughter, Apollo,” Demeter mused. She kept her eyes on the lake. No doubt, she was not comfortable congratulating her least favourite nephew, but I admired her determination to go through with it anyways. I may not have done the same. “I am surprised.”

I gave a short laugh. I was used to being mildly insulted. It did not phase nor offend me.

“Meg is truly an extraordinary demigod. You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A small smirk appeared on her otherwise neutral expression. “She is one of my best.”

“She could live here. You’d get to see her. I would too. I think a wild demigod energy such as hers is well needed around here.” The goddess of grain raised an eyebrow, and peered down at me from the corner of her eye. “I have offered her immortality,” I clarified. “She has not yet answered. I think if she accepts, you should be the one to grant her the immortality. Of course, I can do it myself, but I thought it may be more impactful for a mother.” She furrowed her brows, and her corn crown seemed to catch the light of the late afternoon sun, making her eyes hard to focus on.

“Zeus would not approve.”

“Zeus wouldn’t have a say,” I countered. Demeter only nodded her head ever so slightly, her face scrunched in concentration.

“Very well. I will accept if she accepts.”

…

Apollo was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Meg simply could not understand him. She lay belly down on one of the thick branches of the tree that supported the newly built Cabin Four like a panther reclining in the jungle, contemplating her idiot friend and his dumb offer. She sniffed, shifting her head on the uncomfortable bark. She liked Camp Half-Blood. The food was good, there was some people her age that she could beat in a fight - and older campers she could beat too - sword practice was fun. So was capture the flag. But Meg was alone, and maybe that was good. People crowded her on the first few days after the end of the quest, wanting details about the most dangerous parts. She had even been given a necklace with a single green bead on it that held a picture of a writhing serpent - Python, the monster she and Apollo had slain. Every now and again, an Apollo camper would ask questions about their dad, and she always made sure to give them less than flattering (but truthful) answers.

But that had worn off after a while. People left her alone, apart from Billie Ng and Miranda Gardener, who she was trying to teach how to summon a karpos (they were pretty bad at it). She hated that she missed her partner in crime. But if she left, she would miss her home, where she belonged.

‘Ughghhh” Meg groaned, sliding ungracefully off her branch and landing on the floor with a whump. She rolled onto her back and scowled at the unfairness of having to deal with feelings. Time passed. Eventually, she decided to make a call.

…

I didn’t scream. Nope, definitely not me, the cool and chill god of a-heck-load-of-things. No, I’m quite sure I stayed calm and collected at the sight of Meg McCaffrey appearing in a shimmering vapour form - in my shower.

Fine. I may have screamed. But you cannot blame me! It is one thing to take a shower with a ‘date’, and quite another to be peeked on by a twelve-year-old. I frantically made my best efforts to cover my perfect physique for the sake of the child, who immediately threw her hands over her eyes and made a ‘gross’ face. She wore a baggy Camp Half-Blood T-shirt over her usual dress, and a single bead hung by a thread on her neck.

“Meg, what the actual-” I hissed, cutting myself off. I took a deep breath and held my tongue to refrain myself from swearing in front of a kid (my mother would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t). “Why are you Iris Messaging me? Now, of all times?”

“I didn’t know you were in the shower, dummy.” Meg blew a raspberry, her vapour form producing a few bubbles in the process. “I didn’t think you had to wash since y’know,” she gestured at my tanned body. I covered myself a little more, even if she did still have her eyes shielded.

“I don’t. It’s just relaxing,” I grumbled, grabbing a towel, wrapping it around my waist and stepping out into the steamy bathroom. I kept the shower running so the Iris Message could continue, which involved getting the towel wet. I prayed the extra weight would not lead to any unexpected revealings.

“I’m not supposed to be taking to you, Meg.”

Meg uncovered her eyes and snorted. “Says who?”

“Says my father.” I felt my face darken. “He heard about your little quest. He told me you could not come here again with out ‘believable reason’.” I punctuated the last part with air quotes.

“I told you that you should’ve had a plan.”

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “I did have a plan! My plan was for him not to find out.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Shut up.” I could not resist the smirk that played on my lips. I wanted to be around my friend more often. She was one of the few who still talked to me as an equal (kind of). The other Olympians…let’s just say they didn’t exactly show me the same level of respect has they had once done, with the limited exceptions of Poseidon (who had been mortal once before) and Artemis (who had never respected me - its a sibling thing). “Listen, I cannot guarantee that my father isn’t keeping a close eye, so let’s make this quick. What did you want to tell me?”

Meg’s face lost its humour. I was afraid she’d back out and end the message. Instead, she spoke. “I thought about your offer.”

I felt my chest swell with hope. Maybe she’d say yes. Maybe she’d come up and be my friend for eternity. Maybe I would have one more person to talk to. “And?”

“No.”

My smile faltered. I felt all sense of excitement in me shatter in that moment as I struggled to put together a sentence. “Wh…what?”

She looked down at her rough, calloused hands. “I don’t want to be a god. I don’t want to live directly under Zeus’s thumb. I killed Nero. I killed him because he was awful and forced me to do stuff I didn’t want to do. He made me feel stupid and useless. I got rid of that.” She stared me directly in the eye. “I never want to feel like that again.”

The argument I’d prepared died in my throat. Could I really blame her? After all, she was right. My father didn’t even allow me to talk to my friend. Meg didn’t want to be oppressed like I was. She was free. That was a feeling I could never truly have. I’d given up on it long ago.

“Yeah,” I croaked. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she mumbled back. “Bye.” Her figure disappeared, and I was left alone, standing in the all-too-quiet bathroom.

“Farewell.”

***

It had been several months since Meg had declined my offer. I still thought about her and my children every day. I searched for and aided a few of my less remembered offspring, guiding them to their respective camps. Thirteen-year-old Seamus, ten-year-old Anthony and two-year-old James made their way to Camp Jupiter. Nine-year-old Aiden, twelve-year-old Dwayne and six-year-old Marigold travelled to Camp Half-Blood. I had just ensured the safe arrival of Marigold, the curly blonde-haired excitable young demigod who seemed to have inherited my ability of Photokinesis, a rare and promising talent for my children to have. In other words, I was exhausted. So I teleported to the most calming place I could think of.

I collapsed down underneath the aged mountain laurel tree. It was located high up in a rocky, unforgiving mountain range, but overlooked the beautiful view of the other mountains, the lower halves shrouded in white mist. We often met here.

Beside me sat a young girl in a grey puffer coat and black leggings, her long dark hair tied back in a high ponytail. She was busy whittling on a long piece of wood, and so, did not look up at my arrival.

“Brother,” she greeted plainly.

“‘Sup?” I replied weakly, exhaustion filling my voice. I watched Artemis whittle for a while, my eyes half closed, the bow slowly taking its shape and the sound of the knife scraping evenly across the smooth surface calming me. “You making this for one of your hunters?”

“Yes. Being their leader has responsibilities, you know.”

I blew out my cheeks in exasperation. “At least you never have to go chasing down kids all over the world to drag to two camps in North America.” Artemis paused her whittling, and looked at me quizzically. “My son, Diego,” I clarified. “His mother is Spanish. He did not want to leave Madrid. But I finally convinced him after, what,” I tried to recall. “Three days? Ugh. Sometimes I just wish there were a few more camps around, ya know?”

The huntress had gone back to her work, her face contorted in concentration. “Mmm.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Uh huh.” I elbowed my beloved sister in the ribs, an effective attention-attracting tip I had learned over the course of my punishment; courtesy of Meg McCaffrey. Artemis glared daggers at me. “What?”

I beamed my most innocent smile. “You weren’t giving me enough attention, Artie.”

“Sod off.” She grunted. She will always deny it, but I saw a slight hint of a smirk seep through her annoyed facade. I grinned to myself as I decided to be as provocative as possible. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and snickered at her crabby expression and ancient greek curses as she tried to push me off.

There are many perks to being a sibling, dear reader, and annoying the younger sibling (or the one that appeared to be younger anyways) is most definitely in the top three. Along with the whole ‘If You Anger One Of Us You Deal With Both Of Us’ Ride-Or-Die attitude we can have (of course, this does not apply to every situation. See: the time Hermes pushed me into a very deep swamp, and all my dear sister did was laugh until she could no longer breathe).

Eventually, Artemis melted into the hug, leaning her young head against my chest. She took a deep breath and quietly said; “I am going to tell you something.”

I drew her a little closer, my embrace no longer meaning to provoke, but to comfort. I leant my cheek on her head.

“What’s up?”

“I am only telling if you do not get big-headed about it.”

“When have I ever done that?” I teased. “Honestly, I’m rather offended that you would even insinuate-” A small hand flew up past my face and grasped a lock of my beautiful, long hair - and yanked it downwards. “OW!” I rubbed my scalp and huffed down at my smug sister.

“You deserved that.”

“Uh huh,” I grumbled, unimpressed.

“What I was going to say was that I really did miss you, Ollie.”

“I missed you too. And I never got to say thanks. Y’know… for that time in Indianapolis. I couldn’t because the others were always around so… thanks.”

Artemis fiddled with a loose string on my sleeve. “Yeah, well. I had to pay you back for that time with Atlas and Luke…” she waved her hand, gesturing vaguely to the air. “So yeah. I guess I owed you one.”

Several years ago, my dear sister had taken the weight of the sky off a young maiden in an attempt to save her from being crushed. She succeeded, but at the cost of holding up the burdensome pillar of clouds for days without rest. By the time she made it back to Olympus, she was faint and required several days of rest (as ordered by her doctor; me). The topic was not often talked about. I wished everyone would have the same attitude over my embarrassing adventures. Still, I remembered mother and I being worried sick, and Zeus coming thundering through the door when he heard about her. We thought he was there to console or mourn, or maybe hatch plans on how to save her from the titan’s clutches. If you thought ‘What? That doesn’t sound like Zeus!’ then congratulations! You are learning. He told us that a demigod quest had been despatched, and if he were to find either of us interfering, he would rip out the ‘Number Ten’ lighting bolt. But not to worry, oh readers! He didn’t catch me.

Artemis shifted under my hold. We fell into a comfortable silence, and I found myself thinking about Meg again. Her tyrannical attitude, her odd fashion sense, her scent of baked apple. I could see every rhinestone in her cat-eye glasses. Every stitch in her well-worn dress. I got to thinking about how we would meet up again. A brilliant thought crossed my mind.

…

“Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“Relax, you big baby. It’ll be fine.”

*CRASH*

Meg blew a raspberry at the window she’d just obliterated.

“Well done,” I congratulated dryly. Meg kicked me in the shin, then readied another nerf bullet.

“I’m gonna miss if you keep distracting me!”

“Oh, was my mere presence distracting? I didn’t say anything!”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she aimed for the makeshift target we’d made and blu-tacked on the wooden wall. “I’ve got the gun and you’re being annoying.” I kept my mouth shut. The bullet was let loose with a twang. It went right through the hole where the window had once been. There were shouts from outside varying from “Get down, get down!” “Do not worry! I predict it to be no- six letters. Starts with ’T’” “Trench?” “Top-hat?” “That’s two words, Aloe.” “My bad.”

Of course, we were back at Aeithales. Palm Springs had welcomed us back with open arms. And I had my cover story set. I was here to personally check up on my Sibyl, as to not neglect my duties over prophecy, which was one of the reasons I’d been sent to Earth in the first place. I’d even gone to the extra trouble of making sure my dad was okay with it the day before. (“Because, you know, there may be some of my friends down there, cacti spirits and such, and I know you told me not to communicate with-” “APOLLO! IT’S TWO IN THE MORNING! GET OUT OF MY BEDROOM!”) So I figured I would be fine.

It was currently quite late, maybe eleven o’clock, and I had hung around all day. Just as Meg finally hit the target, I said;

“Perhaps I should get going. Do you want to spend the night here or go back to camp?” Meg sniffed.

“You don’t seem too bothered.”

“By what?” I asked. “Did I do something? Forgotten something? Today isn’t your birthday, is it?”

“No,” she stated bluntly, going back to aiming at the target.

“Care to elaborate?” I enquired cautiously. I did not want that nerf gun aimed the wrong way.

“You offered me immortality. I turned it down. You don’t seem upset.”

“My dear Meg. I simply respect your wishes, like I said I would.” I laced my hands together, trying to convey my feelings in an accurate way without bursting into a song that has all the feeling pre-written. “Your reasoning was sound, and while I do not fully understand your final decision, I trust your judgement. Besides, Percy Jackson turned it down too. So maybe it is not as valuable as I first thought.”

To my delight, Meg smiled. Albeit a small one. “Thanks. Do you think we’ll ever get to meet up? Without all the secrets and planning and stuff?”

I sighed. I really hoped so. “I do not know. One day, perhaps, my father will change his mind. I do not know when, or how. But I have hope that he will. As long as we keep working on him, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right!” I clapped my hands together like I had seen dads do in movies to symbolise the end of a touchy conversation. “Now off to bed or I’ll turn you into a traffic light.”

I closed the door as quietly as I could, careful not to waken the sleeping demigod. Her snores were muffled as I strolled through night, evaporating and reappearing in my palace. I wandered the golden hallways for a while, taking in every piece of decoration and furniture in a different light. The palace wasn’t cold and useless as I had first thought. It was dazzling and elegant and me. I had been under the impression that because I wanted to heighten my morals and personally intervene more often, it would require changing everything. But it didn’t. So what if I liked shiny stuff? I can have good taste and still be an awesome god! It simply wasn’t the problem. It was only what I had lacked that had bothered me. And, looking down to Palm Springs one last time, I knew I had found it.

This was kind of a one off! The next chapter will be back with mortal Apollo during the trials. i just wanted to try something different.

#writing #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #toa oneshot #lester papadopoulos #apollo #meg mccaffrey #trials of apollo #toa #zeus #hermes #Austin lake #demeter #leto #artemis #olympus #olympians

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blackjacktheboss · 7 years

Text

Maskless

So here is a fic that nobody asked for but I’ve been wanting to write for months on end. Huge thanks to my wife, my love, my whole world aka @ananbeth for being such an awesome beta. Could not have finished this without you, my guy.

All of the section headers are quotes from this poem by Miles Hodges

i. The coolest kid in the room actually doesn’t have any friends

The campfire isn’t as comforting as it once was. Percy watches the flames, focuses on their flicker and the crackle of the wood as the voices of young campers swirl around him. It doesn’t feel like it used to, he thinks. The hum of Camp doesn’t settle over him like a warm blanket anymore, and the sight of familiar faces doesn’t make him feel connected to the life he’s living. Now when he looks around, instead of people he sees shrouds; he thinks of the eulogies that will be given over their funeral pyres. It’s a feeling that has sunk into him over the years, the way a skipped rock finally sinks to the bottom of a lake. That feeling now rests in the pit of his stomach, a hollowness at the very center of him. Some days it feels small, more like a pebble stuck in his shoe than anything. He can carry on normally for the most part but at some point, it makes its presence known. Other days, it is a boulder resting on top of him like the sky rests on Atlas’ shoulders. It consumes his very existence, his muscles burn with the weight and it occupies his every thought. It is a part of him that he wishes he could drown.

Staying disconnected isn’t as hard as he once found it to be. He breaks bread with these kids, shares laughs and a tale or two about his glory days, but nothing ever seems to reach his heart. He feels like a child restricted to the shallow end of the pool as he watches everyone else plunge into deeper waters. Inevitably, his fatal flaw enters his head and Athena’s words echo in his thoughts: “To save a friend, you would sacrifice the world”. But what happens to all that loyalty, he wonders, when there’s no one to give it to.

ii. Cheek safety pinned to the edge by a pile of regrets

Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Connor. Travis. Frank. Grover. Clarisse. When Percy awakes in Cabin 3, he recites the names of friends he has lost. At first a prayer, it has now become his penance. Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Connor. Travis. Frank. Grover. Clarisse.

Charles, gone too soon.

Silena, a traitor who fought for redemption.

Michael, a war hero.

Leo, a martyr.

Connor, whose feet were not fast enough.

Travis, who sought revenge.

Frank, a fire that burned out too quickly.

Grover, lost to the wild.

And now Clarisse. A warrior until the very end.

As Percy goes down the list in his head, he is acutely aware of the regrets each friend took with them. Regrets of not being fast enough, strong enough, present enough. Enough. Percy laughs darkly. He can’t remember the last time that word meant anything to him. Perhaps it was the last time he let his mother hold him, really hold him, and it had been years since then. It had been a night when his loneliness became too much to bare on his own, so he’d retreated to the only place he could. Sally had held him as sobs wracked his body, running her fingers through his hair. He can still feel her heartbeat against his cheek if he’s still enough. She had never wanted anything from him, never demanded his heroism or expected him to be better than he was. When he was around her, she accepted him for who and what he was. That night when she held him, she let him be a puddle of a boy, who wanted nothing more than to evaporate and disappear. He was always enough for her. No matter what. Enough as a son, as a hero, as a man. She held him solid that night, and he fell asleep feeling whole. He longed for that night.

Or maybe the last time he had felt like enough had been the last time he sat on the porch of the Big House with Grover and Annabeth, reminiscing about their first quest together.

Feeling whole now felt like a false memory to Percy, the type where you’re not sure if you actually remember or you’ve just seen so many pictures and heard so many stories that your brain fills in the gaps for itself.

The list runs through his head again: Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Connor. Travis. Frank. Grover. Clarisse. We were just kids, he reflects. But the Gods and the Fates have no time for children, only heroes. Heroes who claw and fight their way to victory, all for the glory of Olympus. But once we stop doing that, we’re all disposable, he contemplates. Hell, we’re disposable either way.

Percy sits at the table for Cabin 3, eating silently as he continues to recite the list in his head. Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Connor. Travis. Frank. Grover. Clarisse. Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Connor. Travis. Frank. Grover. Clarisse. Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Conn-

His list is interrupted by the feeling of a tap on his hand. Percy looks up to see bright grey eyes looking at him and his heart speeds up.

“Good morning, Mr. Jackson.”

“Good morning…?”

“Letha. I took your sword fighting class last summer.”

“Right. Letha. How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you would give me private sword fighting lessons. I’ve decided that the sword will be my weapon and after taking your class I’m sure you’re the most qualified to teach me. I think two-a-days will be most effective for my learning style, but I promise to be flexible with how we spread those out. Though I do ask you keep in mind that I have other classes I’m taking. I want to be the most well-rounded hero I can be.”

Percy considers the girl in front of him, surely no older than 13. Her hair is a dirtier blonde than children from Cabin 6 usually have, but her eyes are so bright they almost look silver instead of grey. They are clear and innocent, not yet tinted with the burden of being a hero, but have a flare of aggressiveness that will serve her well if she’s trained properly. She is sure of herself, like any child of Athena, and she projects a confidence that takes Percy back to when he was twelve years old. She sits up straight with her shoulders back and looks him directly in the eyes.

Charles. Silena. Michael. Heroes are disposable.

“So, Mr. Jackson-”

Leo. Connor. Travis. A grey funeral shroud.

“-what do you say?”

Frank. Grover. Clarisse. Regret.

Percy takes a deep breath, sitting up straight to match her posture as he reaches a hand across the table towards her. Charles. Silena. Michael. Leo. Connor. Travis. Frank. Grover. Clarisse. In his mind, Percy stares down his pile of regrets.

If he can help one demigod make it, maybe that will be enough.

As Letha takes his hand and shakes it, Percy smiles. “You’ve got a deal.”

iii. I wonder, how do you trust a man whose eyes can go from green to gone in a single night?

Percy stands shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror, watching water trail down the sides of his face and drip off of his chin. He considers himself, a man lost in the curves of his own soul, and wonders what it will take for the real him to return. If it’s even possible at all. If there is even a real him that remains or if it’s simply a figment of his imagination. He is shaken from this reflection by loud banging on the door of Cabin 3. When he opens it, a satyr with panicked eyes rushes forward and grabs his arm.

“We have an incoming party and they’ve got company! We need you!”

Percy quickly turns back into the cabin, grabbing a shirt and pulling it over his head as he begins his jog to Half-Blood Hill.

He stands at the crest of that old, familiar hill with Riptide in pen form twirling between his fingers. Ghosts of a childhood lost run past him, leaving whispers of Annabeth’s laugh and his hope for a happy future. To his left, Peleus sits at attention sniffing at the air while curled protectively around the Golden Fleece. Chiron appears to Percy’s right, with two older campers accompanying him.

“How many monsters?”

Chiron releases a deep sigh riddled with concern, “The last report the satyrs could send out said at least three, maybe more by now.”

“Do we know whose kids we’re dealing with?”

“All suspected but a daughter of Hecate, a son of Hephaestus, and a child of Aphrodite.”

“How the hell did they all end up traveling together?”

“All from affluent families, all ended up at the same boarding school. They tried splitting up but I’m afraid they were… they were herded back together.”

“So this is a hunting party.”

“It would seem that way, yes.”

Percy rolls his eyes, “You know, I’m really sick of the The Fates’ shit.” The sky rumbles and Percy waves it away with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

One of the campers, a son of Demeter, steps up to Percy. “So what’s our plan?”

“The plan is simple. Monsters on me,” he says, stepping up to the boundary, “While you two make sure those kids and satyrs make it back across this line. Clear?”

The other camper, a daughter of Apollo, looks at Percy skeptically, “How can you be so sure the monsters will go after you when they’ll have five other demigods to choose from?”

Dark shadows appear on the horizon of the trail and Peleus growls from deep in his throat.

Percy looks at the camper, his green eyes shifting into something else entirely as he begins to slowly walk backwards down the hill, his arms stretched out. “What monster wouldn’t want a chance at the son of Poseidon?”

Growing up, Percy never thought of himself as a fighter. It wasn’t something he chose, but something that had always happened to him. Life as a demigod made fighting a necessity; a survival tactic that he happened to master. Now, as he stumbles back across the Camp border bloody and bruised, the feeling of fighting is one he instantly misses.

When he fights, he is not Percy Jackson: ex-boyfriend, terrible son, horrible brother, old friend who doesn’t keep in touch. When he fights, he is simply Percy Jackson, Son of Poseidon. As much as it is a title that burdens him, it is one he knows how to bare. It is his heaven and hell, his penance, his salvation, his legacy. The weight of Riptide in his hand, a monster at his throat, is the only time Percy feels in control of his fate. As he slices, stabs, dodges, and dives, he feels the burn of the ichor that runs through his veins. He becomes someone powerful, a version of himself that the world can’t touch or hurt. As long as he’s fighting, nothing else matters. But as long as he’s fighting... nothing else matters. This duality haunts him, as the thrill of battle is all that he craves but that craving is what keeps him from moving on. At some point, he became a fighter and no one ever bothered to teach him how to stop. But then again, heroes aren’t supposed to stop fighting, he realizes. They’re supposed to die.

In the throes of battle, a hero does not have to think of all the ways he is failing or how many people he has let down. Fighting, when done correctly, consumes a hero and distracts them from everything they are and everything they aren’t. That is the feeling that Percy chases; the place where who he is and who he could be collide to create nothingness. It’s easier, most of the time, to be a hero rather than to be a person.

He lays on the grass staring up at stars that tell stories like his and mentally checks off all the types of monsters he has killed. I’ve got a few more to go, he thinks as a wicked smile spreads across his face. I just gotta chase ‘em down. And fight.

iv. Check his mask, he wears it well

The list of people who recognize the cracks in Percy’s mask has grown small over the years. Distance, both emotional and physical, has robbed Jason of the ability. Piper is annoyingly perceptive, which is why Percy keeps their interactions short. Sally’s voice has become more concerned during their weekly phone calls but she isn’t yet desperate enough to really push him to admit to anything being wrong. Chiron can see through the mask but always makes the conscious decision to let Percy keep it on. Percy doesn’t think either of them could handle what might happen if he loses it.

Most of the time, he is happy to have it. It allows him to be social at times, visiting New Rome for a weekend or meeting his family for a day in Montauk. The mask comforts him, giving him permission to pretend not to be as broken as he feels. He can assume the persona of a Percy who made it through everything unscathed. He can pretend to be a man better than the one he is. When he has his mask on, he can pretend to be in control. He wishes he didn’t so desperately desire to be in control. But he does. He feels stunted and polluted, as if he is undrinkable, toxic, deadly. So every morning, rather than dive into the depths he is sure are filled with nothing but debris, he keeps his head just above the surface. He slips his mask on, and presents the front of a pure and untainted mountain stream. People can look at him like he is something fresh and undiscovered, somehow clean despite the virulent environment that surrounds him.

Then there are days when the mask grates against his skin. It irritates him, makes him feel confined, and it takes everything in him not to scream in frustration. Those are the days he wishes Annabeth were around to rip his mask off of him. She had always had that effect on him, even when they were twelve years old and complete strangers. And she was never shy about it either, not that there was anything Annabeth Chase was ever really shy about. She would tear his mask off and wave it in front of him, but it never seemed like taunting.

No, rather she held it up like a mirror, waiting for him to take in his reflection and see what it was he was hiding behind. For most of his life, his mask had been made up of hope. Hope for his father to come home, for friends, for getting through a school year without attracting any attention, for his best friend to fall in love with him, for a future that went past age 17. This hope is what kept him going for so long. That hope was a reminder of why he was fighting so hard. That hope grounded him in who he was as a hero and as a person.

Thinking on it now as he lies in bed avoiding the start of another day, he’s not sure what his mask is made of. Memories maybe, he muses. Memories glued together by nostalgia….and maybe a little hope. He finally rises, fitting his mask to his face as he opens his cabin door.

“Good morning, Percy! How are you today?” A satyr asks.

Percy adjusts his mask, and considers what kind of hero and person he wants to be today. Smiling warmly, he answers back. “Morning! I’m great, thanks. How are you?”

v. But sometimes he comes home and he’s lonely

The floor creaks beneath his feet as he enters his apartment, chased inside by the rising sun. He peels his jacket off and throws it onto the couch, thinking he should probably just put it up now but it’s fine, he’ll do it later. There are no pictures on the walls of his apartment, no decorations or knick-knacks on the shelves to make it look like a home. The only clue that it is a space in which someone lives is the cereal bowl in the sink and a single seashell magnet that clings to his refrigerator. Percy drags himself down the hallway to the bathroom, where he reaches into the medicine cabinet and pulls out a small bottle of dark green pills. The label is simple, white with a red caduceus on the front. They had been a gift from the Hermes cabin, sleeping pills that block nightmares but only if used sparingly. Take them too often and a demigod could get so backlogged with nightmares that they never really wake up from them. Percy pops two into his mouth and swallows hard before brushing his teeth and heading to his bedroom. He sheds the rest of his clothes and climbs into bed, tired in every way imaginable.

Percy awakens slowly, his eyes taking their time to adjust to the sensation of being open. It is nighttime again and darkness has crept in around him. He turns his head and spots his little blue fish night light, a remnant of his childhood innocence that has stuck with him through the years. Looking at it gives him something to focus on, a happy epicenter to coax his mind out of its sleepy haze. Before long though, the reality of his life encroaches on the happy space that the night light provides and suddenly it’s as if there were no light in his life at all. He turns back to look up at the ceiling, his fingers interlocked across his stomach. They begin to tap nervously as thoughts race through his head until he can’t contain them anymore. Idle hands and all that, he thinks, as he reaches over to his nightstand to pick up his phone. He slides his finger across the screen until he opens a new message.

To: Leave Her Alone

I miss you. Can we grab a drink?

He hits send without a second thought, wanting to allow himself this fleeting moment of reaching out to someone (even if he had promised himself he would stop reaching out to this particular someone). Almost immediately he sees three dots appear, and without realizing it he begins to hold his breath.

The bar near my place in 20.

vi. Sometimes he does things because he knows that tomorrow he will choose to forget them

It is 4 am and he watches Annabeth sleep, softly running his fingers across her bare back as it rises and falls. They’ve been like this for a few years now. Too in love to completely let go, but too broken to really try and make it fit again. Percy wishes he wasn’t such a coward about it, but he doesn’t know what’s worse: this back and forth game they play or trying and losing her for good. Her back rises and falls again, in time with Percy’s own breath. What if she doesn’t understand, he thinks. Or what if she does and it’s still not enough?

So tonight, like every other night their loneliness has chased them back to each other, he will creep through the dark of her apartment to put his clothes back on before leaving without saying goodbye. As he walks home, he will keep Riptide in his hand as he hopes for a monster to challenge him. No monster will show and he will call the Fates cowards under his breath. He will crawl back into his own empty bed, silently praying the smell of her doesn’t fade too quickly from his clothes, before drifting off to a nightmare-filled sleep. When he wakes in the morning, he will delete the text he sent her in an attempt to reclaim the alone that he has so carefully cultivated. He will then make himself breakfast while pretending to read the paper. He will call his mother and decline talking to his sister, but will tell his mom to give her a kiss for him. After taking a shower, he will head back to Camp Half-Blood and spend the day training kids in the hopes that they don’t die too quickly. That night, he will stay late in the training arena, hacking away at air in an attempt to make himself feel alive. He will go to bed after three glasses of whiskey, a bottle of which he keeps stashed in his bunk. The whiskey will help him forget that the night before he was not alone, but rather in the bed of the only woman he has ever loved.

He will choose to forget that it was his decision to leave.

When morning comes, he will choose to forget why he bothered saving the world so many times.

#i attempt to write #percy jackson #pjo au #canonverse #maskless

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