Chapter 1: Light Would Have Been Quite Helpful.

'Surely, surely, this is not how I'm going to die,' Percy Jackson begged, as he battled the drakon. It didn't seem right that he should live through so much—the First prophecy and a war against the Titans, the second prophecy and a war against Gaea, and a trip through Tartarus itself—only to die in his pajamas, fighting a runt lizard.

He had woken up that morning, poured cereal for himself, called Annabeth to see if she wanted to hang out—but he hadn't had any inkling of impending doom.

His world was awash in sensation. There was a burn across his left flank and scrapes on both knees. Everything around him was almost-dark—the almost-dark of early morning when sane, mortal people would be in bed.

All Percy could make out through the gloom was the occasional flash of scales and darting figures. The sounds, on the other hand, were overwhelming. His own rapid, harsh breathing was the forefront, followed closely by the battle cries of Annabeth and Hazel, dodging the sharp-toothed and scaly beast. The snuffles and crinkling, scaly sounds of the drakon filled the empty space.

"How did Clarisse ever kill that thing?" Percy marveled begrudgingly to no one in particular, dodging a spiky tail that swung right where his head had been.

"We need light!" Annabeth said from somewhere off to his left. She was alive, and that was good news.

"We need backup!" Percy yelled back. They could call Leo or Frank, anyone to give them the slightest edge of an advantage.

"I have an idea!" Hazel yelled, all hoarse-voiced and desperate sounding. "There's something sharp and metal, beneath the thing!"

"Do it!" Annabeth prompted.

Percy was lost; he had no idea what the plan was. If Annabeth approved, it would have to work, and he would have to trust.

His eyes darted back and forth, trying to see anything, to no avail. He shook slightly as the ground under his feet rumbled, then a sound of shrieking metal drove into his ears like a dagger. He clapped his hands over his ears, dropping Riptide onto the ground with a muffled 'clank'. There was a thick sound, a cut off roar, and a ground-shaking impact that wobbled the earth.

Hazel had impaled it on a metal from underground.

"Is it dead?" Percy hesitantly stepped forward. He needed to know, but couldn't see anything but a limp, hulking shape.

Then his life ripped sideways.

"Percy!" both girls shrieked at once.

His world exploded into a tidal wave of agony. All senses other than touch vanished, eclipsed by the sheer volume of hurt. The pain was radiating out, ripples of unyielding fire; one part of his brain recognized that something was very wrong with his arm, but the rest of it was screaming that he needed an anchor, like in the Styx—someone…anyone…but the screaming fell silent as darkness finally, blessedly, swallowed him.

.

When consciousness dragged him back from the darkness, he wanted to cry. The only reason he didn't was because he wasn't quite awake—the world was muted, and he was separate to what was going on around him. It was like he was trapped behind a veil. There were people on the other side, but there was pain there also, so he was happy to let his mind wander about on this side. The first place it wandered, or ran straight to, was to the pain.

.

The last time he had felt a pain like this, he had bathed in the river Styx.

This time, there was no drive. The pain was useless. In the Styx, he had known he was doing this for his family, the other half-bloods, and that kept him going. He had walked into the river knowing it would hurt, walking because he would always make that choice. If he had to suffer to save them, he would gladly take any measure of pain.

This time, hurting like this wouldn't—couldn't—help anyone.

Last time, Annabeth had saved him, like she always would.

Mind vaguely stumbling, he tried to remember her saying that, however long ago that had been. A lifetime.

"Percy," she had chided gently, when he once again came home injured from a fight. He was always doing that now, without the blessing of Achilles. She was binding up his ribs, which were probably broken, and he asked why.

Why? he had questioned, uncomprehending. Why did Annabeth follow him all those years ago, on the slight promise that he was important? Why did she risk her life for his, over and over again?

Percy, I love you, she had said around a mouthful of safety pins. Seaweed brain, she called him.

I love you too, he whispered. He'd stilled her hand as she wrapped the bandages, and tried to find the courage to look her in the eyes, and say what needed saying. Maybe the force that broke his ribs knocked his heart loose, as well. She spit the safety pins into her other palm so she could speak.

I know, she had said soothingly. She had brushed his overlong hair back and gone back to wrapping.

Later, they had talked about the obvious. There was a lot of breaking of dishes and hearts when they finally had to admit that loving each other wasn't the same as being in love with each other any more.

He was her hero. He belonged to her, in the same way he belonged to all the campers, except more so. She had pushed him up on the pedestal he had led people to victory on. He knew that, and knew he could never forget that.

Every time he saw the color grey, he thought of her stormy, thinking eyes. She had woven herself so entirely into his life, his being, that she couldn't be unwoven. They loved each other.

But after the wars and the losses, Percy realized. Demigods like them didn't get the happy stories of long loves, and maybe he didn't want one.

The love Percy had for Annabeth had never been the center of their relationship. His love for her—his best friend—was a softer love, a relentless one. It would always be there and it would always be the ground upon which he built other relationships.

But he wasn't in love with Annabeth Chase.

I'm not in love with you, he had said. He barely got the words out, as she wound fabric around his torso. She never even broke pace, never hesitated.

I know—that's the point, Percy, she said back. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and dropped ibuprofen into his palm.

Thinking of Annabeth soothed his pain, as always. He was lucky, in that.

He was always lucky. He'd lived when person after person around him had died: Bianca, Beckendorf, Selina, Luke, Jason.

He had seen the terror of monsters, and the deeper, more vibrant terror of losing your own mind.

It was accepted by then that all those who had survived the war had been driven crazy. Some of them hid it better than others. Those that weren't crazy were those that had died.

The rambling thoughts of his crazed mind deteriorated into murky sleep.

.

At some point, subconscious Percy must have decided he ought to wake up. At least, he'd say he decided to wake up, because someone slapped him and he needed to preserve some dignity. He dragged his eyelids open.

The world slowly came into focus. Blindingly bright light burned into his eyes. He shut them again, tight as a solid black wall.

"No. I need you to stay conscious for a minute."

Percy didn't recognize the voice. It was rough and commanding and sounded worried. Percy had just decided he didn't really care for this place right now, and was trying to go back to whatever comfortable, blacked out place he had come from when another slap of pain hit his face, this time on the right side.

"Nico, stop!" Hazel, he identified; that was Hazel's shrill voice.

She said Nico, he realized. She took me to Nico.

"I can't. He can't black out right now, he needs to stay conscious." Percy, who was still strung out on adrenaline, somehow made the connection that it was Nico who was speaking. And, that it was Nico who had slapped him. Dick.

Someone gently pried his eyelid open. He focused in on Hazel's golden eyes, swimming and shimmering above him.

"Hey, Percy."

"Hey." He managed. Gods, it hurt to talk.

"Nico's going to fix you up. Are you hurting?"

"Like hell."

"I'm so sorry. Annabeth and I are both okay." She added, before he had to ask.

"What hap'nd." He slurred, and then gasped as a razor-sharp pain filtered through whatever pain killer he'd been given. He tried to tilt his head to see, but Hazel grabbed his chin firmly and kept his face anchored where it was.

"The drakon got in one good bite before it died. I'm sorry, I should've told you it wasn't dead yet." She looked terrified and he could tell she was blaming herself. He shook his head as much as he could, between being weak as a newborn kitten and her grip on his jaw.

"Why are we here?" Percy murmured, barely moving his lips.

"Nico understands medical stuff better than anyone else." That didn't seem right, somehow. It seemed wrong that the lord of death's son was saving people's lives.

"How bad?" Percy saw the fear in her eyes as she flickered them over to his left, presumably at her brother.

"Nothing we're not fixing." Nico's face came into view and gave an encouraging—and slightly creepy—smile.

"Yay." Percy closed his eyes, only to have another searing pain in his shoulder tear them open again. "Gods!" He yelped, trying to sit up, only to have Hazel push down on his right shoulder and anchor him to the bed.

"Percy, you need to stay down." She insisted. His breathing picked up. That wasn't right, something was wrong, something was missing, that wasn't right…

"Percy, don't panic." Nico's face swam above him—eyebrows knitted, his words nonetheless seemed to help.

"Easy for you to say."

"Hazel, can you—" Nico started.

"Yeah, yeah." There was a rustling sound on the ground and Hazel's fingers, painted with glittery gold polish, appeared in front of him clenching a Drachma. Her other hand tightened on his chin carefully, and her gold-flecked fingers spun the shining gold coin around, like a dance.

"Can you watch the coin for me?"

Percy tried to nod but couldn't seem to get the message to his neck muscles. He watched the gold instead, watched the way it caught the dim light and flashed it back. After a while his focus stopped being a dingy room and a lot of pain—instead it was a golden hand with a golden coin, dancing.

.

"We're done for now." Nico declared.

"Good." Percy murmered, eyes closed. A hand tapped his forehead twice and he opened them. The ceiling looked the same as it had when he went down into what was now occurring to him to be a trance.

"You can sit up, Jackson. We need to talk."

Percy slowly moved up, still feeling out-of-touch in his own body. Hazel guided him up with gentle hands and propped a pillow behind him, which seemed odd, because it was obvious now that he wasn't a bed but on a floor. Nico was quickly wiping down metal instruments and sliding them into a box, finger dexterously locking each one into place.

Percy took a deep breath and looked at the damage.

He knew when he realized he had given up the Blessing of Achilles that someday he would be hurt badly.

Knowing was not the same as seeing; he was not prepared for the icy pit in his stomach or the sudden dead, unable-to-think feeling in his head.

"My arm's gone." He announced dumbly. The sound of his voice echoed through the room.

.

Author's note: I hope to make this a nice, long story. I also apologize to any of you who dislike me hurting our dear Percy.

-Tobi.