Throughout the majority of the next day, Luke began to understand truly the extent to which Jakku was an uncomfortable planet. After his years on Coruscant, he'd grown accustomed to the shaded, if stifling, streets. On Jakku, the little reprieve from the sun was found in either the hastily constructed tent of the rebels or the shadows cast by the upturned stalls, planted firmly into the sands by the explosions that had recently rocked the planet.
Exhausted, sweat running in rivulets from his brow and coating his limbs in a film, Luke reclined against one of these stalls, his legs stretched out before him upon a blanket leant to him by Gideon, the rebel that had been so knowledgeable of Luke and his people. Before him, the remains of the village were awash in activity as the rebels did their best to temporarily construct shelter for the survivors of the great massacre they had just witnessed. Romulus and Clover were nowhere to be seen, their figures lost in the shadowy haze of the desert as they trekked through the sands, led by Gideon's and Romulus' memories to the U-Wing. In an unspoken agreement, they'd decided to let Luke rest here, for the effects of the manticore's poison had not quite fully diminished, still sapping the strength from his limbs, though now he began to wonder whether or not it might be the heat instead that caused this great weakness. His eyes slipped closed, and despite his half-hearted attempts to remain aware, he succumbed to the exhaustion permeating him, and began to doze.
He was woken by a sudden stir of movement about him in the camp, and his eyes slid open to see a rebel soldier moving toward him beneath the sky, somewhat darker than when he had last seen it. Hours could have passed since he had fallen into his slumber, and he cursed himself for his inattentiveness.
"Sir," called the soldier, and Luke straightened, struggling to his feet. The man reached him just as he stumbled, and steadied him. Luke found himself assaulted with the smell of blood and sweat, as he shifted his weight slowly away from him.
"They've returned," the man told him, gesturing to the horizon.
Momentarily confused, Luke followed the man's finger till his eyes landed on a shape moving steadily toward them in the sky. Romulus had found the ship. A cry of relief went up among the surviving citizens of Jakku, and Luke smiled gently. Thanking the man, he rested his hand upon the hilt of Backbiter and limped forward through the sands, eyes fixed brightly on the approaching ship. As it drew closer, Luke moved forward toward the open sand they had designated for it to land.
With loud hisses, the ship began to gently lower itself into the sand, and Luke shielded his face as it was whipped up by the force of the engines and began to sting and tear at Luke's clothes and skin. About him, those that had joined him did the same. His smile grew brighter when the wind died down, and he pulled away his arm to let his eyes feast joyfully upon the image of their freedom. The U-Wing was shabby- reliable, but shabby, marked by its owner's exploits. Luke grinned in anticipation.
As the ramp disengaged from the ship and lowered into the sand, Luke limped forward and waved, relieved, at the emerging satyr. Clover's eyes brightened, and a smile split his face. Behind him emerged Romulus, followed by Gideon, whose emaciated face seemed to have regained some form of health as hope suffused him. Quickly he moved past Romulus and Clover, hurrying to his men and the survivors, already passing out instructions to his commanding officers. Luke followed him with his eyes for a moment, before closing the distance between himself and the ship.
Romulus nodded his greeting, then gestured to Luke's side and limp. "Are you healing well?"
Luke shrugged. "Well as I can," he assured Romulus, before gesturing in his own turn to the ship. "Is there much space?"
Romulus' face fell. "Not as much as I'd hoped," he admitted, "but enough."
Luke breathed a sigh of relief. He had a feeling the citizens of Jakku would not appreciate the news that they would not escape the remains of their home. There was a vicious desperation in each and all their eyes as they clustered together on the edge of the camp, a mass of families glancing distrustfully out at the rebels. The few that trusted the soldiers were a minority, and their efforts to help the rebel soldiers did not seem to sway much the opinions of their fellows.
As he contemplated the group, Gideon returned to them, smiling brilliantly despite the evident exhaustion the trip had brought him.
"We'll be ready to go soon," he informed the group, and then addressed Romulus. "We've organized the survivors into groups of ten or so, and have officers volunteering to stay behind and await another ship. They have enough supplies to last them a week."
Romulus nodded, and Luke could not help but notice the look of urgency that now seemed to permeate his expression. "Good; we should leave as soon as possible." He looked to Luke, "I fear for your sister."
Luke's gut sunk quickly, and he nodded. "So do I."
He turned back and faced the now moving mass of survivors, watched as they were sent forth in small groups, led by the officers of the rebellion through the whipping desert winds and sand. He stepped back beside Clover as Romulus disappeared into the ship, and together they watched the men and women and children shuffle, sharp-eyed, into the belly of the ship. They moved slowly, cautiously, and despite the urgency Romulus had instilled in him, Luke could not help but take pity on the people before him.
Suddenly, he found himself being shaken to awareness by Clover, who had grabbed hold of his shoulder. Looking up, alarm spasming across his face, Luke followed the satyr's eyes to an approaching ship on the horizon. Fear filled him; his heart seemed to jumpstart, and he straightened.
"Tell Romulus," his voice was urgent as he nudged Clover in that direction. The satyr wasted no time and hurried into the belly of the ship, slipping between the citizens of Jakku, apologizing profusely for the toes he stepped on in his hurry.
With his eyes still fixed on the ship, Luke jogged toward Gideon, who had now caught sight of it, too, and was watching it with dread.
"Is it Empire?" Luke shouted over the muttering crowds.
Gideon turned to face him as he slowed to a walk, hand gripping firmly the hilt at his side. "I don't know," he returned. "It's flying low, and it's small." He paused, musing. "They wouldn't send out a TIE on its own, and our radar can't detect it," he gestured to two or three men gathered about a small table.
Luke paused, confused. "Is it friendly?" It seemed impossible. According to Gideon, these rebels had been abandoned here for months. It was highly unlikely that the rebellion would rescue them now that there had been conflict. They wouldn't have known of it. Uneasiness seeped into his veins, and with a renewed energy, he jogged back toward the survivors.
"Hurry them in," he advised the first officer he came across, who promptly began to usher the survivors into the ship, hurrying them forward. A great rumbling rose from the ship; the engines had started, and the survivors began to move quickly of their own accord, understanding finally reaching their eyes.
Luke glanced back to Gideon and his officers. They were drawing blasters, readying them against whatever new threat might present itself. Of the same mind, Luke drew Backbiter and dug his heels into the sand, feeling the anticipation in his muscles as they quivered to readiness.
The incoming ship was now somewhat recognizable against the still dazzling, though setting, sun. It was a small U-Wing. Luke recognized it as one to be seen frequently on the landing pads of Coruscant, generally owned by wealthy citizens that occupied the more airy penthouses high in the sky, where the sun might reach them. Suddenly, Gideon was at Luke's side, and he jumped a little, his rising adrenaline reacting to the abrupt appearance of the rebel.
"That's not Empire," Gideon told him, his voice involuntarily low. "It seems independent."
"But is it friendly?" Luke mused, and Gideon shrugged his shoulders.
"Whoever it is, they're here for us," and he walked back to his officers, his blaster by his side, but his grip not relaxed.
Indeed, the ship began to sink through the air toward a free clearing adjacent to Romulus' U-Wing. Sand swirled about the belly of the ship, and the rebels found themselves buffeted by the winds. Against his wishes, Luke was forced to shield his eyes, though he strained to see who emerged from the depths of the ship. As the world stilled and Luke lowered his arm, the rest of the survivors hurried into the U-Wing and Romulus raised the gangplank, cautious against optimism. Silence fell like a deadweight, and Luke shifted his stance, tightening his grip on Backbiter.
Hissing erupted from the unfamiliar ship, and the rebel soldiers tensed as its gangplank lowered, agonizingly slow, into the sand. Steam enveloped the dimly lit opening, and footsteps suddenly echoed out from within. Luke took a step forward, peering into the darkness.
The steam seemed to coalesce into a figure, tall, robed in black, with shock white hair that crowed his head. As if slowed by confusion, it took several moments before Luke could recognize this new figure, and when he did, joy erupted in his soul, and he laughed loudly, sheathing his blade.
"Morpheus!" he cried in greeting, moving forward, relieved deeper than he though possible.
The god's laugh boomed across the sand. "Castellan! Wonderful to see you under such different circumstances!"
Luke smiled, recalling that the last time him and the god had met had been in the Hermes cabin of Camp Half-Blood as he lay, dying, barely kept alive by Rowan and the efforts of his father. The two met in the clearing, embracing with all the enthusiasm of long lost friends. There was a ringing laugh from their left, and they were suddenly bombarded by Clover, who threw himself into the hug, calling out his own greeting to Morpheus.
It was some time before they pulled apart, and beheld each other in the light of the fading sun. Morpheus' eyes were tired, older than they had been even in the days after the war, awaiting his sentence, and concern shot through Luke like a knife. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the familiar low voice of Romulus, approaching from the ship. One glance informed Luke that Gideon had been left in charge.
"Morpheus," Romulus nodded, "Nice to see you again."
A smirk flashed across Morpheus' face before he turned to Luke. "I see you've met an old friend of mine."
Luke smiled, forcing down, at least for the moment, his anxiety, but Morpheus was no fool, and his features softened in gentle compassion.
"You wish for news on your sister."
Luke nodded. "Have you heard from her?"
Morpheus' smile lost a little of its luster; his eyes darkened. "I have," he answered, and the graveness of his tone caused Luke's stomach to bottom out in dread. "She was on Coruscant a few days ago. She'd had a run-in with a manticore and was wounded in the process."
Luke smirked. "We met the same one," he told Morpheus, who nodded, as if unsurprised, and continued with his tale.
"She had a companion with her, one whose involvement in our lives may grow to be more than we expected," he paused, breathing deeply as he turned to face Romulus. Their eyes met, and a current of understanding ran between them as a pale fear suffused Romulus' features.
"Who was it?" Clover asked; Luke glanced over to see his friend's leg twitching, kicking up small plumes of sand.
"The son of Kronos."
Silence fell like a deadweight over the four. Luke's heart quickened, his eyes darkened, and he struggled hard against the memories that threatened to burst forth. He balled his fists, digging his fingernails into the tender flesh of his palms in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the pain lurking within.
"Come with us," he told Morpheus, and the god's eyes met his in a silent agreement, before he turned back to Romulus.
"We must make haste. I fear something will soon happen that will endanger us all. We must reach the Rebellion as soon as possible."
- - -
The sea breeze tore across Fernandina Beach, whipping through Percy's black hair with a vengeance as he kept one eye fixed on the horizon, where Typhon's approaching form edged ever closer, and the other upon the proceedings to his left beneath the pier that shot out a hundred or so yards above the ocean. Festus lay there, sheltered as much as possible from the wind, and surrounded by demigods, each bearing small vials of a sickly green vapor. Nearby squatted a pile of crates, loaded high with the stuff, and beyond could be seen the occasional demigod scurrying out from the entrance of their headquarters, bearing a similar crate to the pile. This would be Festus' last flight. They awaited only the arrival of Calypso to bid Leo farewell, and a shorter distance between Typhon and their decided point of assault, in the hopes that the blast would not only fatally wound Ouranus, but also the monster.
No amount of convincing from Percy had been able to sway Leo in his decision, and the pang of regret, of guilt, still burned deep within Percy. Eyes stinging as he struggled against the hot tears buried there, he turned his gaze fully to the ocean, trying hard to avoid the sight of Typhon, a shadow in his periphery, growing ever closer.
Poseidon, his father, had been gone too long. Surely it could not take months to convince Pontus of the necessity of defeating Ouranus. Of course, his father had had to find Pontus first, and that was not an easy task. Percy longed to be with him, traversing the oceans, at home beneath the waves. But his duty was here, with his friends and family, and he could not tear himself from that.
He wished Annabeth was with him. If he closed his eyes, he could lose himself in the memory of her: her steely grey eyes that shone like stars when she laughed, her loose and flowing blonde hair that danced in the summer breeze, her smile that dazzled him each time it split wide her face and let forth the ringing music of her voice.
He stumbled out of his reverie when a voice broke through the image. He turned and nearly fell, his feet cold and clumsy in the sand. Leo, the voice, caught him as he watched the ground come closer, and he breathlessly thanked his friend. Leo grunted his acknowledgement before his eyes caught hold of Typhon.
"He's getting closer," he muttered, a bitter sorrow to his voice.
Percy nodded, turning to face the monster alongside his friend. "That he is."
They stood in silence for a while, side by side, the crashing waves and roaring winds echoing in their ears as they shivered. They both seemed to have aged decades in the past couple days, their eyes losing luster with each passing minute, their features, already careworn, carved even more by each hours' anxieties. They could not help but feel they were sitting ducks, waiting simply to be shot. They had no more allies unless Poseidon could convince Pontus to join them, but even that seemed more and more unlikely with each day.
Despair settled into their hearts, and for a moment, they gave up the fight, letting it rest there, until Leo cleared his throat against the tears that formed there.
"I just spoke to Calypso," he said.
Percy shook himself to awareness. "What'd she say?" He kept his voice soft.
"She's a day away. She'll be here this time tomorrow."
The words faded into the wind. Leo could not bring himself to acknowledge what it meant. Percy couldn't either, as if to think of it would be to plunge himself into a pit he would never escape. His veins itched, and his eyes burned, and he fixed them with a raging intensity upon Typhon, the violence of his anger and pain bringing only even more hopelessness into his heart.
Leo noticed; sorrow slipped into his features. "You know I have to do this, don't you?"
Percy chose not to respond, eyes hardening.
Compassion filled Leo. "It's our only option against Ouranus. We have no other choice. As far as we know, Jason is-," here he paused, swallowing hard and letting his eyes fall to the sand. "We have no communication with our forces there, and they don't appear to be winning. I have to do this."
At Jason's name, Percy's harsh expression faltered and fell. He too felt the grief they all shared, and his heart hurt for Piper and the pain she suffered.
He breathed heavily, and looked to Leo. "I know," he told him, "I know. But I don't like it."
Leo nodded, and gave a half-hearted laugh. "Neither do I."
Together they looked back to the horizon, estimating Typhon's distance. They had a day, Percy realized. Deep-set, churning panic roiled deep within him. Tomorrow would determine all. They turned back to headquarters and began their trek through the sands to update Reyna on their situation. As the wind buffeted their backs and carried them inward, Leo gave a small, broken chuckle.
"Hey," he elbowed Percy jocularly, "Maybe tomorrow'll bring a miracle."