Summary: Annabeth can't hide from feelings forever, but she can sure as Hades try to. / And she'll do it well. Annabeth-centric. ONE-SHOT. :in second person:
by Eleos/Emily
Blood of my blood, dripping with love
I bring you a thing you need most
You don't remember falling to the ground,
but there you are, lying upon it anyway. It
feels rocky and hard and painful and yet
you don't—or can't—bring yourself to get
up. You feel weak, in a way, and utterly
powerless.
You don't want to stand up. You don't
want to move. You don't. You really,
really don't. This feeling is unwelcome
and makes you hurt inside and all you
want is it gone.
You want it to be gone like him, gone like
how the pranks Travis and Connor used
to play are gone and how Nico is gone
and how everyone else who used to love
him is gone. Except you actually don't.
You really, really don't.
You want to hate him, because he left.
You want to hate him because he was
heroic and he told you to go because he
knew he was going to die. You want to
hate him because he was always a little
too oblivious and a little too caring. But
you don't hate him, and you think you
might just like it a little better that way.
Silent between
supplies and machines
"You—you can't burn his shroud!" you
sputter angrily and perhaps just a little
foolishly. "It's not like he's dead, right—?"
The words die on your lips suddenly, and
you hold in a dry sob.
"I know it sounds stupid," you tell Chiron,
"but he's not dead. He can't be. The gods
would know! They would!" You bring out
points about him being the prophecy
child and all that, but soon after, you
start wondering if he really is dead.
Because Percy Jackson doesn't just
disappear, he doesn't. Percy disappearing
is like an extremely nice Clarisse, or an
ugly Aphrodite. It just doesn't happen.
However, you can't help thinking; wouldn't
people who have really, very close friends
know whether their other really, very close
friend is dead or not, like a gut feeling?
Wouldn't they? Shouldn't they?
Chiron sees the cogs and gears in your head
moving about. He sees your brain working and
processing and calculating. He sees it all. He
knows it all. He still says nothing.
He only looks at you for an intense moment and
then shakes his head with a small smile on his
face that he can't seem to hold back.
"Oh, Annabeth," he says with a sigh
that seems to have too many emotions in it
for you to read. "I'm sorry."
You almost ask "what for?" but hold it in at the
last moment, because you aren't sure if you want
to know. You aren't sure if you want to be eager
for information, you aren't certain that, in this
situation, you really want to know everything.
You nod weakly and leave his office, the sun
hurting your eyes, the absence of laughter in
camp deepening your frown.
You start to wonder how much knowledge you
can handle before you can't take it anymore,
because you already feel close to the breaking
point and yet you think you know next to nothing.
I hang in the corners like a ghost,
you know I live to be seen through
You don't remember starting to cry, but there
you are anyway, sitting on your bed, sobbing.
You don't—or can't—get up. You don't pull
yourself together or brush away the wetness
that is gathered on your eyelids. You feel stupid
and sorry and horrible.
You don't want to sit up, like your half-sister is
telling you to do. You don't want to "calm yourself,
woman!" like Travis says jokingly. You really, really
don't. These emotions are uwanted and unneeded
and you can't help but think that you don't need this
right now.
You don't need this because you have a million other
problems, you don't need this because there is a war
going on and you have people to take care of because
no one else will. You don't need this because you don't
have any power in you left to fight and you don't have
any willpower left to be stubborn. You just really don't
need this, except a part of you thinks you do, because
you deserve a little bit of suffering for letting him sacrifice
himself for you.
You want to be able to tell yourself that you really don't
need this but you won't because he was a hero and you can't
help but feeling you let him down by surviving. You can't
say it because he's dead and you are alive and you miss
him more than friends should miss just friends. You really
want to say that you don't need this but you won't because
hating yourself is a lot easier than mourning him.
Here is a heart, here is a heart
I made it for you, so take it.
I know the formatting's weird, but I kind of like it. And yeah, I know my music taste is weird.
I hope you enjoyed my writing. As you've seen the others' oneshots (or perhaps not) you might see we all have different writing styles.
So this shot is another way to delve into the mystery that is "Do as They Do," but I wouldn't expect many of them to come rapidly, I think this is the new-account jitters. Plus, these are easier to write than actual chapters.
By the way, the normal chapters won't have different formats or points of view, they will stay consistent.
A special thank you to the people who visited from my story "Who am I?", if any.