A/N: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE LOST HERO. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! DO NOT READ ON UNLESS YOU HAVE READ THE LOST HERO BY RICK RIORDAN!
My thoughts on Percy's and Annabeth's thoughts after the end of the Lost Hero. It'll probably be AU by the time Son of Neptune comes out, but y'know, thought I'd give it a shot:)
PERCY—
Two days ago, I woke up and had no idea who I was. Now, I'm not much closer. I've learned two things. My last name is Jackson. And I am the son of Neptune, Roman god of the seas. I don't have any siblings; my cabin at this camp for kids like me is empty, save for me. There's a pen in my pocket that, when uncapped, turns into a sword. And while this may seem really cool and all, I don't know why I'm here or how I got here. I don't know when my birthday is, what my favorite color is, if I've ever had a girlfriend, if I'm even from this time period. My knowledge of my life is basically limited to things I've already told you, and this: people here apparently don't like it when people accidentally call Neptune by his Greek name, Poseidon. It was an honest mistake, but no, I was almost skewered for it. Who knew I could sword fight?
Not me. Then again, I don't know anything.
Imagine waking up one day and not knowing anything about yourself except your first name. Where are you? When are you? Do you have siblings? What's the last book you read or movie you watched? Do you have friends? A best friend? A significant other? Can you play a musical instrument? What's your shoe size?
I searched through my pockets on the first day to try to find out who exactly I was. That's when I found the pen, and the picture.
It was a wallet sized photograph of two—well, more like one and a half—boys, plus me, and two girls. The first boy had black hair and clothes to match. Pale and short, he looked a few years younger than me. Next to him, stood a satyr—sorry, faun—with curly brown hair. He was grinning stupidly and looked really excited. I was standing next to him. On the other side of me was a girl with blonde hair, wearing a green T-shirt and blue jeans. My arm was around her waist and she was leaning into me like…like she was my sister or something. Next to her was a girl with red curly hair and bright green eyes. She was smiling and her arm was entwined with the blonde's.
When I flipped the picture over, it said, in a language I shockingly recognized as Ancient Greek, "August 18th." The realization hit me then that I had friends. I had a family. And I didn't know where they were and they didn't know where I was.
Now, as I sit on my bunk, staring at the photograph, a scary thought pops into my head.
What if I never find them? What if they never find me?
I don't know. I don't know anything.
And it sucks.
ANNABETH—
Stupid Seaweed Brain went and got himself into a Roman camp where they'll probably kill him as soon as they find out that's he's Greek. Fantastic. This keeps getting better and better.
I bury my head into my pillow, letting it soak up my tears. I finally got that idiot to see me as an actual female last summer and now he's gone. We'd spent a perfect 10 months together during the school year. We'd made out under mistletoe at Christmas; we'd gone to the beach at Montauk and spent nearly two hours in a bubble under the ocean playing I Spy and kissing each other's faces off; it had been perfect.
And now he's gone.
My heart tightens in my chest.
When will he be back? I wonder silently. When will we find him? Will he be okay? Will he remember me?
My gods. What if he doesn't remember me? What if we have to rebuild everything? What if we find him and he has no idea who I am? Will I have to go back to being Annabeth-the-best-friend, or will I suddenly be Annabeth-the-stranger?
I release more tears into my pillow, sobbing. Malcolm sits at the end of my bed—I can tell it's him because of the awkward shift of the mattress and the gentle patting of his hand on my hair—and calmly says, "We'll find him, Annabeth."
But he doesn't know that. And I don't know that.
I don't know anything.
And it sucks.
A/N: Thanks for reading, please R&R:)
Love,
E. M. Zeray