Everyone's already writing about what will happen in the Son of Neptune. Dang, I'm just as excited as you all are.
.:*:.
.:Moments:.
Annabeth stood next to the ping-pong table, consumed in her thoughts. Her cheeks stained with dried tear tracks; Hera had taken so many things from her, had destroyed so much hope. There was all supposedly an idea and a purpose behind the most recent, but the Romans currently refused to cooperate unless they participated in the gladiator games, cheap amusement.
Annabeth didn't think much of that and brought her attention to the day she had found Percy. He was tired and dirty, a few Roman campers scouting around. When they spotted her, she was taken in for questioning and Percy stood to the sidelines and watched. When the girl in charge began yelling, he intervened, claiming that they would never find out anything if they weren't civilized about it. That was when he gently and cautiously asked her name. The world collapsed for a moment and she narrowed her eyes.
Seaweed Brain
He began to strain against some internal force. Luckily, Annabeth's group of friends arrived long enough to create a distraction. Annabeth grabbed Percy's arm and dragged him forcibly away toward the shore line, no matter how stupid that idea was. She forced him on the ship and when they had all regrouped, they forged back to Camp Half-Blood.
Her mind was lulled back to the present.
"He'll be a little… unresponsive," Gwen, the daughter of Hecate, warned the group of cabin counselors.
"What does that mean?" Annabeth asked, her whole being returning to the now, out of the then. She straightened and her face twisted into a fierce look of disbelief.
Gwen hesitated, trying to figure the wording and weave them correctly. "You'll want to try to force him to remember; you might get frustrated."
Annabeth bit her lower lip and restrained from rude comments about magic. The hocus-pocus trickery was nothing in Annabeth's acceptance range. Wisdom and strategy was something pure and real; what made magic work? How did it function? What was its weakness?
"I've fed him some of Hecate's special recipe," Gwen continued. "He's physically weak, possibly even mentally." She noticed the flare in Annabeth's eyes but courageously stood her ground. "The magic will make him more open to attaining his memory. I just need a volunteer."
Annabeth glanced at Chiron and the silent argument began. Chiron refused the duty, claiming that he could not get involved in the Roman affairs; it was strictly forbidden. Had it not been released memories on account of unity between the two opposing forces, he would've been more than willing. Besides, he was not always there beside Percy to be able to assist in any way possible.
Annabeth rolled her eyes. Her response: fine. She stuck her hand in the air when no one else volunteered. "I'll do it."
Gwen pursed her lips nervously. "Are you sure? Things could get hectic; you might see him at his worse."
Annabeth hesitated. Did she want that? Couldn't someone more distant, such as Clarisse, perform whatever tasks necessary without feeling her heart skip a beat? No. It had to be Annabeth. She reluctantly insisted.
"Okay," Gwen nodded, "come on."
She walked towards the two double doors that divided Percy from the others. Gwen pushed them open and led Annabeth inside, where a pitiful, almost heartbreaking scene waited. Percy sat in the center of the room on a single chair. He was staring at his palms, hopeless and broken, examining his jeans and the orange shirt Chiron had given him. All of the windows were covered, allowing for no natural light. A single, yellowed bulb hung above him, illuminating a wide circle of the wooden floorboards.
Gwen walked around Percy, keeping a safe distance from him. She pulled a small cloth bag, easily fitting the palm of her hand, from her pockets and gripped it tightly. The bag peaked Annabeth's curiosity but all of her attention was on Percy.
"Percy," Gwen's voice wavered. She cleared her throat and her voice came out stronger, "Percy. I'm Gwen, daughter of Hecate."
He didn't acknowledge her. Instead, he peaked up at Annabeth and refused to take his eyes off of her. She stood confidently, not allowing herself to break or appear weak in any form.
"Percy, do you remember Annabeth?" Gwen asked. The tone she used made Annabeth's skin crawl, bad memories with the therapist her father had hired when she was younger. They talked down to you, treating you as younger than factuality, always assuming you didn't understand. She didn't want to hear what Gwen was saying but she forced herself to listen.
Percy ignored the question, staring at the girl in front of him. Of course he remembered her; he had seen her just recently, sneaking around the Roman makeshift campsite. He remembered the interrogation. His kindness had gotten him locked up. His hands formed tight fists.
He was refusing to speak.
Gwen sighed and looked to Annabeth. "Use key words. In order."
With that, she left the room. Annabeth hadn't understood those directions. Key words for what? In what order? She just remained in spot, meeting Percy's gaze. Maybe he had only refused to speak with Gwen; maybe he did remember and he did trust Annabeth.
"Perce?" she asked. No response.
Maybe he didn't.
Annabeth pursed her lips; what was she to say to him? She ran through the possibilities. He had been missing for too long, she missed him so much, and he didn't remember her. She should've anticipated with the Jason situation. She made a decision: reminisce. Make yourself remember.
"Uh," she thought back. Start with his memories? Or the ones they had made? "Mrs. Dodds?"
Percy stared blankly at her. What Annabeth couldn't see, though, was the most crucial. A mangled, old hag's face appeared in his mind's eyes, leathery bat wings, huge talons, a little purse. The way she lunged at him in the museum. It was a fuzzy image, contorted with the magic, but it was there.
"Okay," she breathed deeply. "Montauk."
The thought of warm sand between his toes, the sun on his face, the freezing water cooling him down. He could almost feel, almost taste the sun's rays on his tongue. The hurricane whirled through his ears and the terrible lightning struck the thoughts floating around him. He remembered the way his mother looked at him, terrified and exhausted. What was her name?
"Minotaur," Annabeth tried, leaning her back against the wall before Percy.
He lifted his head and stared at her, no emotions evident. His eyes were barely open and his unruly hair was flattened with sweat and from grabbing at it in frustration. The Greeks had held him in Chiron's office, waiting for some sign of security and hope. It rarely showed, but when it did Gwen appeared in the room and worked some sort of magic, trying to lull that hope out into the open or just making him physically tired, which made him frustrated. Annabeth worried about what voodoo she was casting on him.
In Annabeth's eyes, Percy could see a form of respect for whatever he had done, if anything at all. The way she watched him, mixed him up. He was already going out with… no, that was what they called the Mist. It wasn't real. Was this real life or thoughts pieced together by untruths?
In an instant, the wide eyes of a bull peered at Percy from the wall beside the girl. A muted snuffling noise appeared next to his ear and he shook his head as if to rid himself of a pest, such as a bee. The snuffling was behind him now then a loud roar, or was the monster groaning? It bellowed and a snap materialized. Had he broken something?
The image of a bull underneath him, tall, wet grass at his feet. Tighty whities. Fruit of the Looms. What was happening? Then he saw it; the satyr resting in the grass, moaning something incomprehensive.
"Grover," Annabeth had heard him whisper and repeated, firmly, confirming.
Food. Grover was moaning about food. Grover was his best friend. Of course, how had he not remembered? Guilt swelled in his chest but he pushed it off.
"Sally Jackson," Annabeth supplied as he imagined the bull-man lifting the woman off the ground, clutching her neck. "Your mom."
Percy's head went slack, and Annabeth nearly panicked, about to call out to Gwen, when she heard him mutter something under his breath. She stepped towards him, curiosity peaked.
"I killed the Minotaur," he repeated, at the same level, only to himself. He did remember that much.
Annabeth's smile grew on her face, peeling away a layer of despondency. She pulled her hair off of her shoulders and dropped it again, thinking that the task wasn't that hard. He would remember on his own at that point.
"He killed my mom," Percy looked at Annabeth. "Right?"
The excitement dispersed. No, the Minotaur had not killed his mother. She thought of telling him that, no, she was kidnapped by Hades, but she knew Gwen wouldn't allow it. Too much information, out of order. Maybe Gwen just wanted the way he had felt to surface after each experience was relived. It could trigger something.
"The Pine," Annabeth told him, ignoring the question. His breathing shallowed out and he could feel his face heating up with fury. He could not just simply believe his mother was dead, he couldn't accept it. His eyes rebuffed the tears he knew would come.
He tried to restrain himself; he didn't want to remember anymore. His life, if it were tragic, was a story he would save for Venus, for Aphrodite. He didn't want to hear it, but he could already feel the tree sprouting out of the floor next to him, growing up. It wasn't there in actuality, but that was the essence of the magic. It was in the eye of the beholder, and Annabeth's hands were empty.
When he glanced at his side, he nearly fell out of his chair. The tree was sprouting up from a young girl, around his age. She was molding into the tree. His eyes were wide with disbelief, but he let the memory flow freely, just wanting to witness the miraculous event.
"Big House," Annabeth said.
He could feel his legs pumping with adrenaline, slowly beginning to drag under a weight on his shoulder, though he stayed in place. The satyr was leaning on him, passed out. He walked the steps of the house, and he recognized it as the building he was being held in. The wrap-around porch, the table and chairs, the ceiling fans, the white trimmings. And as he approached the porch, a feeling of safety washed over him. This place was his haven; he had felt it at his most recent, forced entrance.
His body collapsed in his mind and all he could see was the dirty, yellow light, a fan slicing through the air above him indolently. A face appeared before him, concern etched, then the girl came. It was the one before him. She was whispering fiercely to the man, this was the one she was waiting for. His mind went blank, and he came to realize that he had passed out.
"Ambrosia and Nectar."
A warm, gooey taste melted in his mouth. Cookies, no doubt. His… mom's cookies? How he longed for that taste. He suddenly wished to be trapped in the memory forever. The blonde girl was leaning over him, stuffing his mouth and asking questions, words he couldn't process. His mind went slack again.
"Mr. D," Annabeth told him, a disgusted look on her face. He barely muffled a laugh before it turned into a cough. Annabeth withheld a grimace.
A plump man, curly black hair and cheeks like Santa Clause, yes he remembered the man. God of wine, quite the drunk, and an insanely sore loser. He messed up his name, hadn't he? Peter Johnson. He was playing a card game with a man in a wheelchair. Mr. Brunner? No, they called him Chiron.
"Hermes cabin," Annabeth said, her own voice wavering for a moment.
That was right. The image of a cabin room, the floor hidden under bunks and sleeping bags, items everywhere, people joking around. He remembered their faces, etched in his mind permanently. A boy walked up to him, blonde hair and a narrow scar, smiling at him. And the blonde girl next to him blushed. He had caught it, and his present self was ignited with Jealousy and his eyes narrowed, but the past one could only mock her.
Annabeth noticed the expression and told him, depression underlining her tone. "Luke."
I'm stopping there. Yeah.