The monster bursts into a scattered mound of yellow dust, with a single swipe of a dagger so sharply acute it was easier than running a hand through hair. The explosion was like a beautiful shower of bright, golden powder, as if it were a small, macabre firework display. The sphinx had definitely gone out with a bang, a very literal one, with the fizzes and pops still echoing around Annabeth's skull as she watches the sparks and flames flicker and die out in the evening breeze.
She sighs, catching her breath. Her shoulders are racked with great, heaving panting and the breaths that are forced through her dry, cracked lips are laboured and ragged with the shallow, uneven rise and fall of her chest. Annabeth collapses to her knees, the searing flare of pain in her shoulder almost too much to bear. She is weak, and tired, and her stomach aches with an almost unsatisfyable hunger. The cold, late-afternoon chill pricks at her skin and she shivers, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.
A small, quiet sob escapes her dry throat, already rough from crying, but the rest of her tears are swallowed before she allows any more to fall. Slowly, she pulls her legs in and wraps her ams around them, taking deep breaths as she glances frantically in the gap between her knees. I must look mad, she thinks. Covered in her own blood, wrapped up in the tattered and torn fabric that was once her tidy, stylish clothing, with a rats nests for hair and wide, frightened grey eyes, curled up into a ball in a Manhatten dustbin alleyway surrounded by a scattering of golden dust.
Her dagger is still in her hand, in a grip so tight her knuckles had turned white. She has left her stuff and spare clothes back at the camp, where her three-man quest group are probably waiting for her, worrying themselves half to death. How had she gotten caught in this mess? Annabeth knows she has to get up, clean up her wounds and eat some ambrosia, but her muscles are stiff and she feels as if her bones have all been superglued together. She doesn't have enough willpower to do anything right now. Because he's not here, a small voice tugs at the back of her mind, but she shuts it away. He's the last thing she needs on her mind right now.
Hours seem to pass, as she sits here and rocks herself, but in reality it's mere minutes. The world seems to turn around her, like she's the axis point, and in this small bubble time has stopped and everybody else progresses while she is frozen in an eternal stillness. Because he's not here. No. She mustn't think that.
Eventually Annabeth drags herself to her feet, but she feels like she's at the bottom of the ocean with the weight of all the water in the world pressing down on her shoulders, making her movements slow and slurred. But she can smell the salt. She inhales deeply through her nose, and just for a second she's there. She stands up fully, her eyes closed as the fresh ocean breeze whips at her hair, and she can feel the flecks of sea-spray on her face. She can feel the sand between her toes, feel the power of the water pulling at her and throbbing mightily, but then her shoulder starts up again and the magic is lost. She is in an alleyway, surrounded by bins and trash bags, with the smell of rotting food, garbage and alcohol stinging her nostrils and nothing but grotty, gum-stained ashphalt beneath her feet.
She slides stealthily behind one of the bins, trying to forget the feel of the seaside. Right now, she needed to focus on staying alive. Sheathing her dagger, she pulls the spare bandage from her jean pockets and clumsily starts wrapping it around her shoulder. Her once nimble fingers are rough and calloused, and she winces at almost every move her hands make.
There. She's does it now. The sting in her arm subsides until it's very faint, but it's still there nevertheless. Then she gets the last of the ambrosia out of her other packet and, with a deep breath, stuffs it into her mouth.
She almost chokes at the shock of it.
She can taste him. He's there. Percy. There's no mistaking it. Salty, like the sea, but with a faint trace of baking from his mom. Annabeth closes her eyes and starts chewing slower, savouring the taste. The taste of his skin, his lips. It's all there. A sudden warmth spreads through her body, the very memory of him making her feel like she was glowing from her head to the tips of her toes. The ambrosia melts on her toungue, but the taste is still there, lingering on her lips. Then it's gone. The glow dies, but Annabeth feels better. The faint sting in her shoulder disappears completely thanks to the effects of the ambrosia, and her muscles are fuelled with a new strength.
But it's not enough. She needs him. She needs Percy. Before, she could hold it back, but now she's just had a brief taste of him, there's no point resisting any more.
Annabeth breaks down. A stream of tears flood her face, rolling off her chin and onto her shoulders. She can taste their metallic, salty taste in her mouth but it just makes things worse. She stumbles, her shoulders heaving with great sobs. She howls and screams, she sobs and cries, but this time, there's no one to make it better. She needs him so much closer. He wasn't there- he, he isn't there and it's not okay because he's not here and she needs him to be. She fought, and he didn't have her back. His kind, playful voice wasn't ringing in her ears and his warm, comforting arm wasn't around her shoulder telling her it was okay, because it's not okay. He's not here.
She can't hear anything anymore. Even her mourning and wailing is drowned out by the lack of his presence, the horrible absence she feels and has been feeling for six bloody months. She had tasted him, felt him, felt the power of the sea and it was just her mind playing cruel, harsh tricks. It's not worth it anymore. She's been looking for so long, but it just seems too far now. Every step she takes, he'll be a hundred further away. And now, it feels farther than ever before. She needs him so much closer.
Annabeth falls back against the graffitied walls, her body still trembling from her pitiful cries and sobs, her throat coarse and rough and aching from the wailing and her face streaked with tears. She wraps her ams around herself, rubbing her shoulders gently. Her crying has been reduced to sniffles and quiet moans, but the world seems dead to her now. Everything was alive, vibrant and colourful when he was here, but she can feel him getting further and further away, further than ever before, and everything feels grey and lifeless.
Because he's not here. And it's not okay.
A faint smile tugs undecidedly on her lips, because just for a second the arms around her aren't her own, but they're his. And then the moment is gone, and her eyes flicker closed as she shuts away the pain of the outside world and, in the darkness, he can finally be here.
Because in reality, he's not here, and it's not okay.
She needs him so much closer.