Oh my gods Rick Riordan, why do you do this to me? Why do write thes wonderful character that turn me into a shuddering puddle of estrogen? It's cruel.
But please, a happy ending for leo. I'm begging.
Disclaimer: If I was Rick Riordan, this would be a much more boring series. Im incapable of being so mean.
He will not come back
It is the first meleancholy thought that crosses her mind as the raft- that infernal, cursed raft, - shrinks and dims until it is not more than a pinprick on the skyline and then it is gone.
She pretends not to hear his oath.
She gardens and pretends she is not dripping tears into the soil and damaging the plants in her vigor. She gathers up the remains of his singed, left behind clothes and most certainly does not cling to them while she sleeps because the carry his scent – smoke and oil and something spicy she can't identify – and she does not wait because there is nothing to wait for.
He will not come back.
She cooks and cleans and goes about her day. Several times she finds herself staring, wistful, at the horizon, as if in anticipation, or gathering up loose pieces of celestial bronze for his gadgetry, or braiding bronze coils for navigation circuits and she has to drop them and clamp down on the warm cloying hope that rises in her throat.
She doesn't keep those trinkets neatly in a basket where she can grab it in a hurry. She doesn't.
They are flying to Olympus when it happens.
He needed lead pipe – or was is copper wiring? He can't remember – and what should be a routine stop quickly turns into a brawl against a violent pair of Venti that cause a city-wide blackout and give Piper a concussion.
And Gaea laughs at him.
She will die. I will destroy her and it will be your fault.
Rage that he cannot put into words consumes him and for a moment he is fire, only fire, burning like a supernova and when the swirling motes of ash clear, the venti have simply evaporated.
He storms past Frank, who looks stunned, and Jason, who looks like he may know something but is silent, and he doesn't care. He hears nothing and heads straight for the navigation console, working like a madmen, hooking up a crystal and a beat up bronze astrolabe.
By the time he realizes someone is talking to him, they have clearly been trying to get his attention for several minutes. It is Hazel who grabs his arm and spins him, demanding an explanation and, before he knows what he is doing, the whole tale spins out of his mouth, falling like lead on the ground and he is begging them, begging them to understand that he cannot leave her there.
Surprisingly it his Annabeth who steps forward in the stunned silence, her pale hands tweaking the astrolabe for him, since he is so utterly incapacitated his hands are shaking. He does not recognize the sharp glint in her eyes, or understand this sudden camaraderie, but he is grateful for it.
Percy looks at him, and his face holds something akin to triumph.
The detour takes them days out of the way, but nobody seems to care.
She is asleep when it starts.
The sand itself seems to have coming alive, swirling around the island like a whirlpool; the trees crack and fall, the sea churns, and the ground beneath her feet seems determined to knock her down and never let her up.
For a moment, she is terrified, but then she is only furious.
This is her island.
She lets out a shriek of defiance, snatching up her basket of trinkets and the closest things to weapons she has (A broom and scissors for clothe, sadly) and climbs to the highest point on the island.
She will die, she realizes. She will be destroyed if he does not come for her.
He will not come.
She crushes the doubting voice in her head. Now she must hope. Hope is all she has.
When he first sees the island, he lets out a barely contained whoop of joy that makes Jason grin and the others stare at him, half amused, half amazed.
After a few seconds, the smile is gone. Because somebody beat him here.
The sea rages and the island is overrun with venti and more monsters than he can keep track of and his heart freezes.
Jason and Percy yell orders, speeding their pace, preparing for battle.
They land and are instantly at war.
He doesn't know how many monsters fall to his fire, or Percy's sword, or Jason's spear, only that soon he and his friends are surrounded by dust and he feels a rush of affection for them so strong that he cannot imagine how he ever thought he was an outsider.
His heart swells when he hears a battle cry from the most beautiful voice in the world.
That's my girl!
She is so stunned that she misses the venti she is trying to stab with her scissors, but it doesn't matter because it sizzles and evaporates and she is scooped into an embrace of spice and smoke for an instant.
Before shes knows what is happening (a whirl of a half-dozen sprinting demigods twists before her eyes, fighting as they run, her breath catching as she is defended) suddenly she is on the deck of a ship and she watches, half-jubilant, half horrified, as Ogygia sinks into the sea
She isn't moving.
She is staring at the swirling water where her prison home has sank, her face blank, and he fears something in her may have broken.
Calypso
She turns to him and he forgets that his friends are watching, forgets where he is, forgets his name, because gods, she had actually managed to become more beautiful.
She slaps him.
He supposes he should have expected that.
You idiot! You walked straight into a trap; are you trying to kill yourself?
Words form before he has a chance to process them.
Me?! Who fights off a venti with kitchen scissors? Who does that?
For a moment she stares at him, her eyes wide. His half-scowl doesn't hold, and he cannot help but grin at her wonderfully, stupidly perfect face and her ripped blue jeans and grubby white t-shirt.
Man, I really love you.
And he kisses her.
The crew of the Argo lets out a collective cheer and Calypso turns bright red, pulling back from Leo's face, but she seems to be physically incapable of letting go of him completely.
Most of these faces are unfamiliar – a tall boy with slanted eyes and a manic grin, a coffee-colored girl with gold irises squealing like a child, an imposing blonde who looks so happy he could fly, a girl with braided hair and a smile so wide her face might split – but she realizes the two she does recognize one from memory, one secondhand stories, are also smiling at them, and that she feels no pain.
It is liberating.
"Hi. I'm Calypso,"