Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

FlashFictionFriday #153 "Welcome To Hell"

Welcome to hell, the blood sings from where it leeches into his hands, dyeing the skin with what feels like a permanent colour even though somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows it'll wash off.

He knows it'll never wash off, not in his mind.

Welcome to hell, the hellhounds howl as they charge forwards, felled by arrows but there's too many beasts and not enough archers and no-one to defend them so they have to defend themselves.

It's more luck than skill, who escapes the jaws.

Welcome to hell, the screams whisper in his ears. He doesn't know who they belong to, he doesn't want to know who they belong to.

He doesn't want to know who's dead and who's dying.

Welcome to hell, the breaking bridge roars. He can't tear his eyes away from the sight, from the way his brother loses his footing, falls, disappears, can't ignore the way the background tug of minor and not-so-minor injuries disappears from his awareness.

Dead bodies don't need healing.

Welcome to hell, golden eyes taunt, staring out of a familiar face that was once a role model, once a friend, now an empty shell occupied by the stuff of nightmares, stuff that revels in their suffering and gloats at their losses.

Why did he come to kill them?

Welcome to hell, the clamour of battle echoes around him, too loud, too deafening, too close. He can't get away from it, wherever he turns there's more and it feels like he's stuck in the middle with no way out.

Even if he could leave, they need a healer.

Welcome to hell, glassy, dead eyes transmit directly into his mind. Familiar eyes, eyes he's seen full of life day in, day out. Eyes that will never blink or smile or cry again, just stare blankly forever more unless someone places drachma over them.

It feels like he can't save anyone.

Welcome to hell, bones creak as the dead rise up, their god at their head and their prince leading the advance in pitch black armour with a wicked black sword to match. He knows they're on their side, but it's no less terrifying than the army that opposes them.

Death is the opposite of everything he is.

Welcome to hell, the world cries as it collapses all around him, leaving everything a blur of fear-terror-panic-blank.

There's no escaping it.

Not my original plan for the prompt - that got too long, so I guess it's joined the pile of things to write later. This thing, on the other hand, is short and a little experimental in style.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari