Hello :)
A fair warning to all my lovely readers whom I would not want to disappoint:
This second part is not an exact continuation of the first. It is written in a different style, and is far shorter – more of a musing on what might happen next than anything else.
If anyone did want to take up this story seriously, or write anything derivative of it, that would be great… just a thought, as this is likely as far as I am going to get with it.
Rick Is The Owner.
A really awful haiku.
Apollo is proud.
Percy Jackson is lying, half-dead, on a doorstep when he hears her voice again.
"He's the one. He must be."
Which, to his half-dead brain, makes absolutely no sense, and he's just seen his mom die and fought off a freaking monster and can't he just catch a break?
Because if there is one thing he does not need, it is hallucinating about Annabeth Chase's voice as he dies slowly… no way. It's not her. It isn't her, he thinks helplessly, too immobile to do anything else – he tries to raise his head a little, to see where she should be, but it feels like it is straining to float away while attached to a lead weight, and it hurts, it hurts, where is his mom?
"Silence, Annabeth. Bring him…"
Definitely hallucinating.
But his illness must last for a long time, because he sees her again – stroking back his hair, or on another occasion – was it another occasion?- asking him about some summer solstice, which doesn't make any sense to his fevered brain because they definitely met in spring, not summer, so why is she talking about summer?
Then, when he finally wakes up for real, it's to Grover offering him a drink. Awkward, loyal Grover – his best friend – yet he's about the last person Percy wants to see right now.
Everyone is, except Annabeth.
"Hey, Percy," Grover says. He's using his nervous voice. Now Percy knows that he's a – well, a satyr, then, it sounds more like a bleat than ever.
"Um, you should drink this," he continues in a rush. "It helps you heal."
"Me, specifically?" Percy croaks out, natural curiosity taking over. He takes a sip – it tastes amazing, like his mom's homemade blue chocolate chip cookies melting all over his tongue.
Grover shifts. "Uh, no. People like you. Well- you should really let someone else-"
"He means demigods."
Her voice is clear, not melodic, or pretty, even, but strong and regal. It's like taking another sip of the drink, whatever it was – it reinvigorates him, makes him want to sit up, makes him want to live. Even without his mom.
He looks at her, and something just falls into place.
Honey blonde hair falls over her shoulders, just as he remembers it, tied impatiently into a messy ponytail with half of it falling out like it doesn't want to be tamed. Her face is streaked with dirt, and her steel grey eyes shine with the resilience she possessed even when they met all those years ago.
'Demigods?" he asks faintly, more because he wants to repeat her words to check she said them, than because he's registered the implications they hold.
"You're… Annabeth Chase."
"Yeah," she says, lips twitching into a smile. "And you're Percy Jackson."
They haven't come full circle, not just yet.
But they've definitely started.
"Percy, slow down!" Annabeth Chase, owner of a newly acquired degree in architecture, shrieks. Not shrieks. Annabeth Chase does not shriek.
Not usually, anyway.
Percy just laughs and hits the accelerator. The car – a Maserati GranCabrio – flies effortlessly across the highway at what is, to Annabeth, an increasingly alarming rate.
"Perrrrrrcyyyyy!" she screams. A few more heart stopping seconds, then he slams his foot on the brake and swerves so sharply into a service station that she's fairly sure she left her breath back on the road.
She's hyperventilating, eyes tightly closed as she forces her heartbeat down.
He's still laughing – he's laughing.
"Perseus Jackson," she grits out, "I swear I will get you for this."
He continues smirking.
"Ever think about oblivion? Because that's where you are heading if you don't apologise."
"Of course, Wise Girl," he says airily. "I mean, less so now we're not under immediate death threats every few seconds."
"No," she says, mellowing a little. "Only every ten."
"Well, now we're grown-ups," he says. "And at least we have something to fight the monsters off with."
And it's the end.
Technically, this is the second non-oneshot I've ever completed.
Ah, yes… thought we might hit that snag soon. Yes, I am sorry. Yes, I am a terrible fanfictor. No, you do not want excuses.
It would be great if you could check out my renaming poll on my profile – otherwise, review!
(soon not to be) ~thaliatheawesome
PS: BlueCookiesforRick - there is your happy story.
