Disclaimer: I do not own the Percy Jackson and the Olympian series, nor am I in any way affiliated with the Percy Jackson and the Olympian franchise. All characters, places, and events that you recognize are not my own.
The rock is cold. Cold, like the Underworld. Cold, like death. Cold, like the scythe that took his warm life away from him.
Luke's gotten used to the cold by now. Coldness is in everything. It's in the glares that are sent his way. It's in the terse, abrupt words that he gets whenever he asks anything. It's in the way the spirits stiffen when he approaches them, in the way they straighten up and tighten their lips. It was in the demeanor of the three judges as he passed through the judgment. In their faces as their verdict was pronounced.
He knows that he shouldn't care so much. After all, the gods asked for it. He was never the type to just sit back and take it without a whimper. He knows that he should be used to cold.
But he watches now, with a twinge in his heart, as his former friends (no, he reminds himself, his acquaintances) pass through the gate, welcomed with smiles and cheers, their gray-streaked hair patted in congratulations. He knows that they deserved it. He knows that, had he made a different decision, he might have joined them. He knows he didn't. He knows that if he did, then he would feel warmth instead of cold.
Sometimes, he wishes that he had been punished. At least, then, he would be able to be alone, never mind that he would be subjected to some form of torture. The Asphodel Fields are dull, boring, and its inhabitants stare at him and whisper amongst themselves. He doesn't miss the scathing, frigid words that are directed at him. He wonders if this was their subtle, cruel way of punishing him. He's pretty sure that it is. He was sharp enough to catch the muttered phrases, the sharp glares of the other two judges as the one in the middle proclaimed his fate. No matter what he did to redeem himself, bad deeds are never forgotten.
Luke shifts slightly on the rock. He's glad, he tells himself, that the kid of Poseidon hasn't passed through yet. He's still a coward, no matter what he did in the last minutes of his life, and he's not eager to meet the kid again. Luke shakes his head. The kid's not a kid anymore, Luke reminds himself. He's older than Luke right now. The son of Hermes struggles for a minute to remember his name.
Perseus Jackson.
He smiles wryly as he remembers how Kronos had made him hate that name. No, the loyal part in his mind corrects. Kronos had allowed him to hate that name. The gods wouldn't have. Perseus (Percy?) was their master pawn. He was untouchable.
Even with all the garbage that Chiron and the gods had spewed about goodness, and badness, and everything in between, nothing had ever been mentioned about the Underworld. True, the Fields of Punishment and Elysium had been explained. But Asphodel had never been. It was always the empty prairies of Kansas. It was always the place where those who weren't bad, and weren't good, went. Heroes were always good. Villains were always bad. There wasn't much room in the middle.
That's no explanation, though, about why there's so many souls in Asphodel. Those who found friends, who found company, don't mind the loneliness that much. The warmth of their bond fights back the cold. But with so many people clustered together, animosity spreads no matter how hard one tries to stop it. Mortals that he would never have even noticed before now knew who he was, what he was, and they steered clear of him.
Once, a small Mexican boy came up to Luke. He spewed out a steady stream of Spanish that Luke couldn't understand, but the hate that burned in his eyes was unmistakable. It hit him then how much of an impact he'd made.
He pretends he doesn't care. That those who sneer at him, who laugh at him, who want to kill him, again, don't mean a thing to him. He pretends to turn a deaf ear to the empty threats, to the hollow jeers. But each one hits him hard, hard, like a little missile jutting into his still heart. Many say it is made out of stone. He wonders how hard the missiles must be if it could penetrate stone.
Two girls drift by him, their misty silhouettes shaking with laughter. He stares at them idly, wondering what killed them. They are still young, innocent, and they would have had their entire life ahead of them if they had lived. Luke shifts slightly, still watching them. He wonders how long they've been here. He wonders if they were kept from Elysium because they were too young to be judged.
One of them carelessly glances to her side; she spots him, her eyes opening wide. She nudges the other girl, her little pigtails swinging in agitation. The other girl – Luke guesses that she's older, from the light in her eyes and her height – stares at him, and hurriedly drags the younger girl along. They sprint to a mass of other spirits, and the cold they feel is driven away. Older, wiser spirits watch them cross the field, fondness in their eyes, and then they turn those same eyes to him. Only now, they're harsh and accusing. An icy fire is lit there, one that Luke knows will not be quenched. He longs to yell in his whispery voice that he hadn't done anything to those girls. That he wouldn't dare to, because of the backlash it would cause. He knows that no one will listen.
When he first arrived, filled with a mixture between remorse and hate, he'd brushed off one of the spirits. He'd bugged Luke endlessly, like a little babbling tail. Finally, annoyed, Luke had spun around and slapped the boy's phantom face. The whispers were almost unbearable for weeks. Or so he thought. Time in the Underworld wasn't quite like regular time.
He turns his shadowy face back toward the creeping line, those waiting to be judged. Luke hasn't recognized anyone for quite a while now. The Stoll brothers were the last ones, and the son of Hades before them. He isn't sure if he's relieved or exasperated by his former friends' (no, acquaintances) refusal to die. Perhaps a little of both.
A glint of gold catches his eye. He looks closer. The gold isn't really gold, insomuch as a pale rendition of gold. Still, it shines with an exuberance that Luke hasn't seen since he was alive. It compels him forward, whispering him along. He gets up off of the rock, ignoring the pale titters of the dead crowd around him, and he walks toward the line.
He is only a couple yards away when the glint of gold reappears from the writhing mass of spirits. Luke realizes, a little belatedly, that it's from a mane of hair. He snorts in disgust, and is about to turn away when the girl with the golden hair turns, giving him a view of her ghostly profile. His breath catches in his throat.
Stormy gray eyes meet blue.
They linger for a second, and Luke feels like he can't move. The steely gaze seems to have locked him in place.
Then, it slides away, looking past the blue, into the gloom of the fields. The girl steps away from the crowd.
"Annabeth," he breathes in his whispery voice. Almost immediately, he scolds himself for the rather desperate edge his voice takes.
"Luke." The tone is brusque, abrupt. He glances at those stormy gray eyes again, and he's almost surprised to see a slight misting on the edges. Then she blinks. The mist is gone, and her eyes are cold and calculating again. He's forcefully reminded of the time the little girl had almost pounded his head in with a hammer. Luke wishes he could go back to that time, when his only troubles were where to find food and how to fight monsters.
The steel softens, ever so slightly, and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. But he doesn't He doesn't want to show weakness. He knows he's not weak.
His brain suddenly seems to go on autopilot. "How's life?" he asks, and then internally cringes at the pure stupidity of the question.
Her expression hardens for a moment. "I'm dead."
He almost groans then. "No. I mean, how's the world above here? The real world? Before you died?"
Annabeth turns away, and it's a shock to Luke when he sees wrinkles carved into her skin. He's almost forgotten that people are still aging, even though he isn't. That's one thing death can do for you.
"It's good." No thanks to you, is the hidden, unspoken supplement. They both feel it. Luke doesn't remark on it, though. No matter what he did to redeem himself, bad deeds are never forgotten. He's used to that by now.
"How was your life?" Luke knows he's prying now. He doesn't care. He never realized it before, but he's desperate for information.
The daughter of Athena is silent. He wonders if he's crossed the line.
"It's fine," the answer drifts back. Then she pauses. "It was fine. We had a beautiful little daughter, Lillian." There is a slight hesitance in her voice, though, that makes Luke think that everything wasn't as perfect as it was she said it was.
He notices the wedding ring on her finger, and he's pretty sure who she had bonded with.
"How's Percy?"
The question seems to reverberate in the hollow, dark world, and Luke can feel the stares of many, many spirits on him. If he still had blood in his system, he would have blushed. He's pretty sure the blatant use of his former enemy's name startles quite a few of the dead around them. Annabeth turns towards him.
She appears a little shocked, too, but she quickly regained her composure. "He's fine. Still trying to save the world. Devastated, probably, but he'll live." A wry smile plays upon her lips at this last statement, and Luke's struck again with how much she's changed. It's always been Luke who was the older one, the decisive one. The one in charge. Now, it almost feels like Annabeth is.
He shuffles slightly, uncomfortable with the pause. "Thalia?"
He's pretty sure that she detects the ever-so-slight tremor in his voice when he asks that. But she doesn't comment on it, or tease, like she would have so long ago.
"Okay. Artemis let her help with Lillian before…" Her voice trails off, and she turns away again. Luke doesn't want to pry, at least not this time, so he lets the matter rest. He's certain, though, that he's seen a little black-haired girl, hysterical with grief, being passed through the gate with sympathetic glances from everyone around.
"So you didn't try for rebirth?"
This time, it's Annabeth who breaks the silence. She cocks her head to one side, the ghost of a smile gracing her features.
He rolls his eyes playfully. "What do you think?"
But it doesn't seem like enough to him, for some reason. Luke clears his translucent throat, lowers his ethereal voice. "I couldn't."
Her plastered smile slowly slips off, and she stares at him with those steely gray eyes of hers. "I'm sorry."
"I know you are." He didn't mean it to come out that abruptly, or rudely, but he doesn't need the sympathy. He knows what he's done before, and he knows that he can't expect a full pardon for it. He's not proud of it, but he doesn't really regret it, either.
Annabeth turns her eyes longingly toward the bright town on the far side of the dull field, and he knows that she should be going to Elysium. She's earned it. Luke pushes away his feelings of nostalgia, and plasters a bitter smile on his face. "Go on," he says. "Everyone's waiting for you."
He knows it's true. He can almost hear the anticipation of those heroes who died before her. Luke glances over, and he can just make out the dense crowd that gathered while they had talked. He looks back at Annabeth.
She smiles at him, the first real smile he's seen in so long. "Thanks, Luke," she says, and starts walking away from him. Then she stops, turns back to him. She murmurs something, so quietly that he can barely hear it. But Luke knows what she said, and he smiles, too.
"I missed you."
He glances around, at the spirits who were whispering not-so-subtly to each other. But he doesn't mind, for once. When Luke looks back at Annabeth, she's just a slight figure in the background. He's certain she won't hear it, but it doesn't stop him from saying it.
"I missed you too, Annabeth."
For one minute, one blissful minute, she turns around, as if she's about to walk back toward him. But then she pauses; glances first at the charming village in the distance, and then back at the dreary fields of Kansas on which he stands. Even from the distance, he can see the slow, wistful smile that seeps across her features. Then she turns back toward Elysium. She seems to spot someone, breaks into a sort of floaty run, and finally, she is swallowed up by the lights and vigor of the place where she belongs.
Annabeth sees their faces, alight with joy, an underlining suspicion darkening the atmosphere. But it clears up when she flings her arms around Silena, one of the first figures that she encounters. The two girls, never too close in life, bonded by suffering and death, hold the embrace for a joyful while. Then they break apart, and all of Annabeth's old friends come swarming up, demanding news from the outside world. The suspicion dissipates, and the Elysium is filled with a boundless cheerfulness.
She smiles, laughs, shares news. She talks about the Hunters, about Apollo's newest tanka phase, and demonstrates a few of his worst poems to general delight. She talks about the newest advancements in technology, and the mishaps that the Camp had suffered. She gives vivid reports on the still-living heroes of the day, and changes her stories about Percy into a wonderful romantic adventure. Annabeth doesn't know how long she spends, just talking, sharing decade's worth of information. But she never tires. Her voice never breaks. She never has to take a sip of water.
The area sobers, though, when she talks about her daughter. Those who passed through more recently have already related it to the others, but this does not lessen the general sympathy or the impact of the carefully woven words. Not all of the crowd is in the hushed, spellbound silence, though.
Annabeth ends her recount, telling of how the small pine box was lowered slowly into the earth, when a small, shrill voice cuts through the crowd.
"Mama!"
The daughter of Athena loses all pretense of control. She lets out an almighty shriek, and scrambles up from her cross-legged position on the ground. A little black-haired, gray eyes girl is jostled out of the endless crowd, and now both spirits are crying, hugging each other with long-lost vigor, while those veterans of the Underworld chuckle at their antics.
The crowd disperses, leaving the two alone for a moment. The little girl is inconsolable, weeping endless tears of joy, the ghostly drops evaporating before they hit the ground. She asks where Daddy is, and Annabeth holds her tighter, promising that Daddy would come soon.
She turns back toward Asphodel, holding on to her little girl, and she sees a single figure in the background. She's certain it's Luke, although she can't see exactly, and he looks so forlorn in the empty field. Annabeth raises her hand, not sure if he can see it from his viewpoint so far away.
Someone taps her on the shoulder, and she whirls around. It's Connor Stoll.
"Hey," she says. He grins at her, clapping her on the back.
"You want something to eat? Some Dionysus kid's started a barbecue."
Annabeth shifts Lillian in her arms, and nods, smiling back in response.
She glances back at the lonely figure, wondering what he was thinking. The figure still didn't move, and for a brief moment, Annabeth thinks that he's in shock. She raises her arm again, ignoring the odd looks she gets from Connor.
At first, the wraith-like figure doesn't move. Then, it raises one arm in response, and Annabeth smiles, putting her arm back down again.
"Mommy?"
"Yes?" she asks, looking down at her little girl.
"I'm hungwy." Lillian sticks her thumb in her mouth. Chuckling, Annabeth removes it and holds the little pudgy hand. She isn't sure if, after all these years, Lillian knows that she's dead yet. But she doesn't trouble herself much about the matter. Lillian has her mother here, now, and Annabeth vows to take care of her in death, since she didn't do that well in life.
"Okay, darling. The nice man will take you to get some food. Is that okay?" Annabeth asks, her voice high and gentle.
Lillian nods, and so she's transferred from one pair of arms into another.
"Don't corrupt my daughter!" she yells teasing after the son of Hermes as her mingles in with the crowd.
"I'll try not to!" he calls back, mirth in his voice. Annabeth laughs, letting her motherly instincts drift away for a moment.
For some odd reason, she's compelled to glance back at the fields of Asphodel. She still sees the lone figure, and to her surprise, his arm is still raised in a half-wave. She just stares for a few seconds, before a warm presence envelopes her thoughts.
"Come on," Silena says, her smile bright against the darkness of the cavern sky. "Mingle with the crowd for a while. You're one of us now."
Annabeth returns the smile, although the radiance seems slightly muffled. "All right. How's Beckendorf?"
The daughter of Aphrodite smiles even wider. "He's great! Come on. He's eager to meet you again."
Annabeth lets herself get pulled along, laughing, and the few tendrils of thought about a lonely friend slips out of her mind.
Luke lets his hand fall down, limply, by his side as Annabeth gets engulfed in the whirlwind of light, sound, and happiness. He turns, walks, and sits back down on the cold rock which he'd sat on before this all happened.
There's a difference now, though. He isn't entirely cold anymore. There's a small pinprick of warmth, ignited from the presence of a friend, and it reaches out to all of his limbs. He smiles.
A/N: Thanks for reading. If you could take the time, I'd appreciate a little feedback. I'm not very good at grammar, and my computer seems to intensely dislike correcting my grammar and spelling, so if you could point out ways to improve, I'd be happy to change it. I also know that the characters were most likely OOC. I've rewritten this several times now, and if you could give me a few tips, I'd be extremely grateful. I will say that I made Luke a little weird on purpose, because I thought he might go a little off his rocker after so many years in the Underworld.