Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
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Even now, I stare at the damp, withered and torn pieces of paper, its once white colour now tinted dark yellow with splatters of dried red, its familiar musty aroma mixed with distinct odours, one I can tell from anywhere even if my senses are diminishing with my passing age. My shaking, wrinkled fingers hold the old papers as if it is a relic, which in some ways, it is.
Heroes… they speak legacies of their deeds, they crow about the ways that they will be honoured, they tell the next generation on how they will be, forever and eternally remembered.
But a few hundred years later - perhaps even a decade later, I assure you that no one will be able to even recall their names, even if they had built hundreds of monuments honouring themselves, even if they had put their names in thousands of legends, to be passed on to the next generation of youth.
Maybe they had done something worthy to be remembered in their life - but those who are usually do not boast; modestly do not tell their tales; and because of that we forget their legacies. We remember the crude; the selfish; the hated — and not the loved; the cherished; or the appreciated.
And because of that, we will never know. Usually, it is those who do not deserve to be remembered get remembered, their goals and achievements in life becoming examples of what one shouldn't do.
My old age torments me. My life is diminishing like a passing, fading ember — what once had burned so brightly, with impulse and discipline and desire has to come to a silent end.
My journeys, my goals, my achievements — everything I've done is passed on, is being passed on to the younger generation as I write. It is hard to imagine me - a legacy! Though I had never asked for this, nor do I ever want this. They may say that I had done great things — things that helped to shape the world herself — but in my heart, I know that I had not. They were just writing down my multiple failures, all my rash decisions that had caused a life or two, my imperfectness.
So, as my clock keeps ticking, as the hands keep moving - I will write about someone — somebody who does deserve to be remembered for their deeds — somebody who should be remembered for all they had done, all they had sacrificed to help shape this world… but had been forgotten, along with his companions in favour for a new world to be built, leaving behind the horrors of the last.
My hands tremble as I transcribe their memoirs, written down hastily in pieces of broken paper. I fear that my shaking will cause the ink to splatter, but that is the least of my worries for now. I am the only one that remembers.
For now, I will transcribe the papers that I had found during my many scavengings. I can only hope that they will be remembered, but what the future generation does and what they do remember is not in my hands.
For now, I will keep transcribing. Until my last breath is taken, or until the clock stops ticking.
… Who am I? I am Jason Grace. And this is the story of Percy Jackson and the goddess Artemis, who has saved us all from a fate darker than death.
A/N: Well, surprise!
This AU is about what if Percy didn't give Luke the knife. I'm interested in seeing if anyone is interested. This is a bit of a test-run - and please review and tell me whether if you think I should continue or not!
Pairing is Percy/Artemis, with respect to Percy/Annabeth.
Reviews are needed to keep the old man transcribing…