IMPORTANT NOTE: This "Cross my heart and hope to die" poem is highly unlikely the original. The first paragraph for sure is a fixed one; an original. I found the poem on yahoo!answers (yes, not the best source) and I adapted the poem to this work of fiction.
Disclaimer: Percy Jackson and its characters solely belong to Rick Riordan.
This story can be found on Tumblr, and now, on AO3 as well as my other works.
Cross my heartand hope to die
Stick a needle in my eye
Wait a moment,I spoke a lie
I never reallywanted to die.
But if I may, and if I might
My heart is openfor tonight
Though my lips are sealed, and a promise is true
I won't break my word; my word to you.
You could never really place a certain value of a person's worth until there comes a time when you have to let go and inevitably lose them. The impact of a person's life would slowly sink in then, festering like a plaguing disease in one's mind, and eventually settling permanently like a vital piece; a haunting requiem. With every soul gone and lost in the wind, the eerie toll of a bell would resonate in the mind; a constant that manifests the gnawing personal guilt and dread for instances that could have been executed differently.
In Perseus Jackson's vision, demigods and mortals alike were nothing more than fleeting souls on a barren land. They would, in time, serve as nothing more than constant reminders that would manifest the darkness in his mind that lingered since his journey to the depths of Tartarus. Those campers – acquainted or strangers – from either camps, his loyal companions, the very woman that he had come to love irrevocably… they would all be just reminders to him, come the time. They would all be just reminders of people he, once more, was too late – a second or two – to save.
Bianca di Angelo, Zoe Nightshade, Charles Beckendorf, Silena Beauregard, Ethan Nakamura, Luke Castellan… So many more souls plagued his nights, and he endured each torment of self-inflicted abuse on his mentality in silence. Under the scrutiny of many, Perseus Jackson was every bit as flawless and stereotypically perfect as any hero would be, and he played along under that judgement, plastering a façade of calm and happiness in the company of anybody. But behind the closed doors of his sanctuary – his cabin – his state of mentality crumbled, bit by bit with every single day. The process is repetitive, unchanging, and he lived through it like a mechanical contraption – just with enough rationality to mask the chink on his armour. He could still feel, interact, and live, but they were every bit unreal as his façade was.
News of death and demise lingered occasionally on the grounds which they reside. It was a common occurrence, but it mattered immensely for the ones left behind by the departed souls. Many wept, offered their condolences, reminisced memories that revolved and brought out the best qualities that there was of the ones whom passed away. All of which were earnest and raw emotions, varying from despair and grief and remorse and devastation.
All of which he had stopped feeling.
When had he last shed tears naturally, and not out of the obligation to weep for a lost life? When had he last uttered words meaningfully, and not the white lies he fed of the grieving ones? When had he completely lost himself? When was the last time he was himself? When was the last…?
But, Percy was not on his own, no. In that barren land of nothing but souls, there was another being that truly was alive in his eyes.
Disregarding the gods whom bestowed such curse upon his existence, there was only one person that appeared every bit as human as Percy was – at least in his vision – for this person had cheated and gambled with death an innumerable times, grazing the shears by a strand of hair. In those dulling sea-green eyes, that person was the only sole being that was tangible and rather invincible.
In his dull eyes, he was the only other human left in his cursed existence.
Nico di Angelo, dubbed Ghost King and son of the god of the Underworld.
Nico di Angelo was the sole being that was actually alive in Perseus Jackson's eyes. The son of Hades being that lone individual that gambled with death a handful of instances under seemingly hopeless circumstances, yet still emerged ever victorious and breathing and alive. If there was one person that Perseus Jackson was certain that would not abandon him for death, it was Nico di Angelo. If there was one person that Perseus Jackson was certain that he would see through until his own demise, it would be Nico di Angelo.
If that was not to be the case, if the Fates would inhumanely test his beliefs out of spite for him, then Perseus Jackson simply would have to ensure that reality.
One way or another.
Cross my heart, hope to die
Stick a needle in my eye.
A secret's a secret; my word is forever
I will tell no oneabout your cruel endeavour.
You claim no pain, but I see right through
Your words ineverything you do.
Teary eyes; broken heart
Life has tornyou apart
Perseus Jackson did not know that he would just be another broken case; a broken semblance of a deceased hero in his mind. A false symbolisation of invincibility that everyone prided of. He was untainted and pristine in those worshipping eyes, when in reality he was anything but a cheap replica.
Nico di Angelo was the only person who could ever see through his facades, but pestered him of it to a minimum. It was relieving and agonizing on that same ground, but as long as the son of Hades graced him with his presence, the son of Poseidon would have his lips remain firmly sealed. Nico was aware that he was broken, just as much as the daughter of Athena whose name slipped constantly from his mind as he edged towards the brink of insanity. Neither had a grasp as to the extent of how shattered his soul was.
I was not supposed to die, the apparitions crooned in a saccharine sweet tone in his ears that should have been euphonious, but was in fact nauseating. You could not save me in time.
His rationality would have spared him from believing on fragments of his twisted imagination, but it was far too weak, too fragile, to convince him otherwise. It still kept him alive, that was all that mattered, yet he repetitively questioned if that was what he truly desired.
You could not save me in time. You could not save me in time. The haunting mantra played like a broken record in his head, rising in volume and becoming mere screeches that repetitively dangled him on the edge of madness.
In the morning, he would find his entire body battered and bruised, slick with the exertion of trying to keep himself whole. In most occasions, he was on his own, mending his own broken soul with the pieces that had fallen off. But in rare occasions, he would be there, cautiously assessing him with those deep dark brown eyes as if he were a ticking time bomb. Percy was aware that he was, truly he was and that he wanted – needed – to be reminded that he was grounded and sane.
But his lips would never part for the words of plea that a scintilla of himself – one that vainly hoped that he was fixable – demanded of.
Tartarus, he would whisper as cold nimble fingers attended to him, grasping at his frame as if he were that fragile. For a moment in those cold arms, he was whole. Tartarus.
The daughter of Athena would not know how to repair him, but the son of Hades managed – though Percy was certain he was unaware of – to keep him from tearing himself apart. Nico di Angelo was an object he associated with familiarity. He was tangible amongst the souls in that barren land. He was the son of Poseidon's personal fix, a necessity that slowly mended yet destroyed him on his broken seams with his presence alone.
Perseus Jackson did not need to be mended, if that entitled him to losing that individual he had possessively sunk his talons onto. His invincible, little fix.
Who would even fix a monster of Tartarus like him?
Cross my heart, hope to die
Stick a needle in my eye
I loved you then, I love you now
I'll still love youthough I'll break my vow.
I can't hold this secretany longer
It's hurting you, not making you stronger.
You're my friend, so I'll risk your respect
By hurting you
I can protect;
I'll save yourself, since you will not
You might hate me, but I'll give it a shot.
I'm willing to riskour bond that we own
So long as you're safe, you won't be alone.
A single bruise; a miniscule scrape. A shallow cut; a sliver of crimson blood.
None of those mattered so much for the son of Poseidon. Raised in the gruesome setting of spattered blood and clashing weaponry, it was disturbingly a common sight to behold in the years to adulthood. A body is fragile; susceptible to injuries. But in his ill state of mind, those had not been applicable to his invincible, little fix.
When that sharp hiss reverberated throughout the arena, and the form of the son of Hades had flickered just the slightest bit in his eyes when crimson blood seeped through a shallow cut that stretched on the back of his hand, Percy heard that one of the fine threads of his remaining sanity snap.
"Nico!"
The son of Poseidon vaguely registered of the slight crack in his voice – panicked and almost hysterical – as he made a mad dash to him, harshly yet unintentionally pushing the stunned son of Jupiter from beside the injured demigod, and leaning forward in his stead to fuss over a minor injury.
You could not protect me, so how could you defend him? A euphonious voice crooned in his ears, forcibly edging his facade centimetre by centimetre from completely crumbling apart. It was her voice; that apparition he had selfishly permitted to be sacrificed in a metal graveyard that was the junkyard of the gods.
"You can't get hurt. You can't die," Percy mumbled mostly to himself as he assessed the wound, needing for that trickle of crimson blood to stop. "You just can't die."
Make it stop. Make it stop. He chanted desperately in his mind, which struggled under the stress that he was placing on himself and the haunting reminder from her, a ghost of his past.
In a moment of insanity, he brought it to his lips and accepted the metallic tang into his system. His invincible, little fix. His little fix. Only then did Percy understood the degree of how much he needed Nico di Angelo to be alive. In having a part of him, in having him so close, he had a grip a slight grip on the reality he had thought was completely lost. In that instance that he had the metallic taste on his blood dripping on his tongue, Percy finally felt that he was close to something that was truly alive. In that instance that he grasped him to his frame, and clung to him desperately as if enclosing him from the whole world – the entirety of it that could only be capable of taking him away – Percy experienced once more the raw emotions he believed he was incapable of feeling again. Irrational fear and despair.
In that instance, there was a brief clarity once more, and the campers that had gathered round did not appear as apparitions in his sight for once. In that instance, there was that brief clarity and a dreaded realization of uncertainty and confusion in those eyes, weighing his worth and existence once more.
When his lips, warm yet coated with blood, pulled back the slightest bit, Percy finally registered what he had done as a cold hand cupped one of his cheeks firmly, tilting his head to meet those dark brown eyes. The son of Poseidon could see his reflection – of manic sea-green eyes that almost glinted with that edge of insanity, his erratically trembling hands and his blood-stained lips.
A monster.
"Don't leave me. Save me," was that suppressed plea that he had long needed to say, uttered in a hushed tone, before he possessively enveloped the slightly bleeding son of Hades onto his arms, his hands digging like sharp talons onto the pale olive skin of the demigod's complexion.
Darkness closed in like steady waves, dragging his mind back to the dark depths of Tartarus that he believed he had successfully escaped. But this was not haunting, this was not there. This was the familiarity of shadows engulfing his frame and taking him away.
His invincible, little fix. If there was anyone, anyone in that barren land of fleeting souls that haunted his very existence, it was Nico di Angelo – his much needed fix – that could fix him back.
Cross my heart, hope to die
Stick a needle in my eye
Break my promise; tell a lie
Save my friend
Though, maybe it's 'bye'
The fabric between reality and illusion had always been unnaturally thin. For them whom had lived a life that one usually assumed only occur in mythological texts, illusion and reality had been a subject that was contestable.
On the brink of insanity wherein one teetered, the fabric was almost non-existent.
Percy clung to the frame of the son of Hades with a vice grip as if he were his lifeline; the sole lifeline he had that represented the last of his rationality. He breathed in desperately the scent of cinnamon, pomegranates and petrichor, as if it was the most aromatic fragrance that graced his mundane existence. His senses focused immensely on the chilling and cold temperature of pale olive skin, of the syrupy sweet scent from his hitched intake of breath. His senses focused solely onto one significant detail: that he was clinging on that last string for his life.
Nimble fingers prickled against the heated skin of his cheeks, cautiously pushing him away; one that he did not welcome. Percy craved for Nico; for that representation he was in his life. Percy craved that touch of reality that he was isolated from as he drowned, night after night, on an abyss that was of his nightmares.
"Percy." His name sounded foreign even to himself, and he leaned in desperation, clumsily pressing his quivering chapped lips to that fresh breath of life. Too soon, too quick, it was raggedly pried from him, but he settled for anything – a patch of skin to press his lips – that would drag him close to the reality.
"What do you see?"
The question was breathed out with the barest hint of uncertainty. It was hushed, yet it reverberated on his skull. Those nimble fingers then pressed against his shoulders, gripping like talons and inducing a welcomed pain, as if the owner was in contemplation whether to push him off or to keep him firmly grounded.
It was the simplest question he could have ever been given, and if he just sneaked a glance at the figure before him, he might have registered the crushed expression and complete understanding that crossed those deep, dark brown eyes.
"No one," he breathed. "I see no one."
.
.
.
finisce l'amore