Author's Note: Hi! My name is Baye. I've been a PJO fan for forever, but I usually write for different fandoms. I'm borrowing a concept from a different fic of a different fandom that I left behind several years ago, and adapting it for PJO and percabeth. This story will likely feature some other couples, generally the canon or popular ones, but I'm not tagging them because I don't want to clog those tags when percabeth is the main ship here.
This is a story in the fantasy genre. I will 100% be employing familiar ideas, characters, and abilities from the PJO universe and Riordan's conceptions of Greek mythology, but just know that it's going in a different direction from all of that. This will include "original" concepts, worldbuilding, storylines, and even renditions of characters and their relationships, though their core personalities will all stay very familiar if not the same - and of course, there will be so much percabeth. You may as well think of it as its own dark fantasy novel, because this is gonna be a long one, folks.
As one final note - I encourage you to imagine the characters in this fanfiction however you like; as Riordan has put several public statements out in defense of the casting of the Disney+ show (haven't actually watched it yet, though), it's not about how the characters look, it's about who they are. I may include some specific physical descriptors in this text regarding their appearances, but I think readers, viewers, artists, and production teams can visualize these things as they please, and it shouldn't be as big a deal as it was when the casting was announced. The original books were written in the 2000s, and they were not as diverse as they could and very well should have been. What should always remain is our affection for the characters, the story, the writing, and the PJO universe, regardless.
For a more complete collection of this story's appropriate content tags, please see the mirror on Archive of Our Own under user /Baye.
I won't leave a long A/N note like this again, but if you read all of this, that makes me happy. Enjoy, and leave reviews if you'd be so kind!
If his brows weren't stained with sweat, if his muscles didn't tremble under the tremendous weight of all that bears onto his sunburned shoulders, then he wouldn't be trying at all, would he?
He can't escape this line of thought. It stalks him like a monster in the woods. As is the case on every training day, Percy cannot rest until he knows for certain that his body is on the brink of collapse. It is one of many things about himself that he cannot help, as much as he grasps that it does more harm to him than good.
It is a bright summer's day. The sun beats down on his bare, taut back as if to scold him.
After a full hour of this exertion, he finally foists the large boulder in his arms onto the verdant ground before him. The grass pads its fall and stifles its thud, but that thing must have been nearly three-hundred pounds. He'd carried it for about five miles, from deep within the forest hollow beyond their village's boundaries, all the way back to the front "yard" of the humble cottage that he calls home.
At that moment, a refreshing breeze swings by and whispers cool, sweet air across his burning skin. A small moan escapes his lips as it washes over him; how nice that the wind is more gracious to his weary body than his mind could ever be. Percy raises his arms above his head and begins to stretch his tired limbs just slightly behind his shoulders. They tremble from the strain of his tremendous efforts.
"Hey, Percy?" says a voice some feet behind him.
Mid-stretch, Percy turns his head towards the voice, though he certainly knew who it was without checking.
"Yeah?" he responds, following through with more upper body stretches as he speaks. "I was just finishing."
Frank walks forward, a quizzical look on his face as he approaches Percy's newfound boulder. "I was just gonna tell you that lunch is ready, but... was that giant rock here before?"
"Uh, no." He chuckles lightly. "I brought it here."
Frank doesn't look any less confused. Percy scratches the back of his head.
"Before you ask, I dunno why I did it. I guess I wanted a challenge?" says Percy. It doesn't make sense when said aloud, either.
"Um..." Frank looks at the boulder, then turns toward the other man with a raised brow. "What kind of challenge?"
"Endurance, I guess."
"... Huh. Okay. I guess we've got some new outdoor decor, then." Frank, though mildly puzzled, is not surprised. This brand of extreme, exhausting exercise from his friend is nothing out of the ordinary. "Lunchtime, then?"
"Hell, yeah."
. . . .
At the dining table, Frank has prepared a modest serving of some curry-like dish—meat, potatoes, and carrots under a thick, flavorful sauce. Percy dives into it gleefully, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth with reckless, indulgent abandon.
"Thanks for the food, man." He speaks in between portions of stew. The man may be rather rough around the edges, but at least he doesn't talk with his mouth full.
Frank is more slow and steady with his helping. "Oh, glad you like it. I call it, 'Leftover Meat Stew.'"
"With the kinda stuff I've seen you do with leftovers, you oughtta open up a restaurant."
"I wouldn't bet on people wanting to eat at a place that serves leftovers." He lets out a small laugh. "Oh, but, speaking of job opportunities... I wanna show you something. Hold on."
Abruptly, Frank excuses himself from the table and escapes to the other room. Percy tilts his head, staring after his friend as he disappears out of sight, but not for long—he has food to focus on eating, after all.
Their little abode is a simple cottage that sits at the precipice of a sprawling forest, the same forest where he'd found his new friend, Sir Giant Rock. In the humble Village of the Fire Rat, where Frank and Percy have lived for as long as they can remember, people work for themselves to survive. They farm, they keep livestock, they make and sell their own clothing. They build their own homes and endure their own battles. No one is rich, but few are dirt poor. This enduring self-sufficiency has guided and defined the village as if it were their jurisprudence.
The boys are no different, they care for themselves. And when they do need money, they know how to labor.
Frank returns to the dining table with a worn-looking sheet of parchment. He lays it down in the center so that Percy can look closer.
"I was in town for the Farmer's Market the other day, and the wind blew this in." He takes a seat at the table once more. "Take a look, see if you're interested."
"Uh..." Percy squints at the poster. With no formal education under his belt, he isn't exactly the most competent reader. Frank was always more skilled in that regard. "... I see the words, 'Grand Prize' at the bottom. Is this some kind of job?"
"It's a fighting competition. See?" He points to the artwork in the center of the poster, which depicts two men engaged in combat—one jumping towards the other with his leg raised in attack, while his opponent ducks with both arms raised to block its impact. Percy stands up and bends slightly over the table to get a closer look.
"The main problem is, it's six days from now and it's hosted in the Village of the Pearl Moon," Frank continued, "But Pearl Moon is a wealthy village. The payout from something like this is probably huge."
"A fighting competition..." He echoes in wonder. "... Hey, some of it's torn off at the bottom?"
"Yeah, it's kind of beaten up—I'm guessing that it blew in from far away. But all the major details are still there, and this is the exact kind of thing you've been looking for, right? I know you've been getting tired of all these basic monster hunting jobs, so I thought I'd show you."
He does have a point there. Percy takes a moment to mull over this proposal.
Monster hunting has been their sole source of income for years. Any time there were reports of creatures and demons running amok and ravaging the lands, he and Frank have teamed together to tear said beasts asunder. Be it their own hometown or one of their many neighboring villages, not many people are equipped to risk their lives and fight these dangers. Frank, with all his skill in wielding his bow and arrow, and Percy with his sword and his abilities, they know how to live and they make it work unfailingly.
However, for a while now, Percy has found himself worn by a burdensome sense of yearning. He can only feel joy so often in his day-to-day affairs—waking up, eating food, slashing through the neck of some unsightly beast, returning home, eating food, and going to bed. Perhaps it is just a matter of ego, but he can't help but feel that there is something more that he could be doing with his days.
It is a privilege to be exhausted by a monotonous life; he knows that very well. Things weren't always so easy that he could afford to sigh with disappointment in the face of a warm bed, a full stomach, and an effortlessly slain monster. It doesn't make sense for a safe and happy person to lust after that which may bring strife and hardship.
But the yearning has forged a soul of its own. At first, the feeling was a mere discomfort, like a tight shirt collar that chafes against raw, flustered skin; now, it does not merely beg his attention—it demands, and it grabs him by that collar and drags him towards the outer bounds of comfort and familiarity.
There has to be a way to satisfy that feeling. A way that doesn't involve carrying boulders over great distances until his arms are at risk of breaking from his body.
"... I'd be lying if I said I weren't interested," he finally replies, a curious smile forming on his face. "But 'fighting' is kind of vague. What are we talking, here? Fistfights? Sword fighting?"
"It doesn't specify. Based on the poster, I think it's hand-to-hand combat—but I mean, you could win this no matter what it is."
"Oh, could I?"
"Well, yeah. You're the strongest guy I've ever seen, Percy. Who's gonna beat you in a fight?"
At first, Percy chuckles, thinking that it's merely flattery—but Frank's lack of mirth tells him that he was actually being serious, forcing him to ponder the question honestly. Is he actually that good? Who would beat him in a fight? What would that person be like?
"So, you don't wanna compete, Frank? Not at all?" Percy asks, feeling anxious at the mere thought of levying his fists or sword at his friend.
"Oh, sheesh, no. Not even a little bit." He seems almost repulsed by the very prospect of it. "I fight monsters, Percy. Not people. I don't wanna hurt anyone."
"But you're okay with me hurting someone?"
"You're not me, Percy." Frank takes a sip of his tea, and Percy considers those words, wondering if there might be multiple meanings behind them.
Maybe it's that sense of yearning, or his confidence, or maybe it really was his ego all along, but regardless of the outcome of the tournament, and in spite of the great distance they'd have to travel to get there, Percy feels that he must answer the question—is there someone out there who can defeat him?
If so, he sure would like to meet them.
. . . .
'Inhale. Then, exhale. Deep breaths, Annabeth.'
A red full moon sails high in the sky, surrounded by a world engulfed in total blackness—a world of deep space, it seems, where no other planets exist. Its color is impossible. Her eyes are overwhelmed, as though unable to absorb its tremendous crimson hue. This world is not her own. There is no warmth, no stars, no life in the air—only horrifying emptiness beyond her comprehension.
She lowers her gaze from the pitch black sky to the surface that she stands on: a rocky bridge in the middle of this empty world, no wider than her forearm. The bridge seems to float midair, having no structural support beneath it. It goes on and on with no end in sight in both directions.
This terrifying world, it has only Annabeth, the red moon, the brick path, and the infinite blackness around her. At least, so was the case before she blinked. And then suddenly, the bridge started moving on its own.
Her eyes widen, and her breath hitches. Out of nowhere, something has appeared in the distance—a person, she assumes, draped in a hooded cloak whose color is as devastatingly red as the moon up above. Their features are perfectly hidden, buried in the folds and shadows of their lengthy robe. And like Annabeth, they stand on the surface of the bridge—at least, she thinks they are. For all she knows, the hooded figure is levitating just above it, because as Annabeth is being pulled closer and closer in their direction by force of the moving bridge, the stranger remains in place.
Nervousness bubbles within her. The gap between her and the enigma dressed in red is closing.
She attempts to take a step backwards. With such a narrow bridge to stand on, she must be careful not to lose her footing and disappear into the emptiness below her. It takes a moment for her to find her nerves. No matter what, she cannot let herself be paralyzed by fear.
Swiftly, Annabeth jumps high in the air and flips backwards. As narrow as the bridge is, she lands with her feet firmly planted on it, now facing in the opposite direction. Taking pause, she turns her head over her shoulder in halfhearted hope that it may no longer be there, but of course, it continues looming ominously in all its red glory. She can feel it in her soul that nothing good will come if she allows it to get closer to her.
Annabeth takes off on a confident sprint. Her feet are careful, nimble, staying balanced on the bridge despite its unforgiving width and hurrying away from the foe behind her. In these moments, her heart is hopeful; to hell with this dark world, to hell with the forces that seek to harm her, and to hell with her life outside of this nightmare. As long as her legs are working, Annabeth will keep running, and in truth she would gladly run away from it all until her lips breathe their final sigh of life. She won't be a stepping stone anymore, a means to a treacherous end. The bridge stretches on into oblivion, as if never-ending, and so never will she succumb to the cruel machinations that have controlled her for far too long.
But just as she feels that she must have outpaced the moving bridge, that she must have put some sizable distance between herself and the red-robed figure, another quick glance over her shoulder reveals that she had never gotten far at all—and that person is standing right behind her.
A panicked shriek rips from her throat.
"No, no!" She gasps tearfully. "Get away, get away!"
Her breaths are quick and shallow. Her heart beats a mile a minute. She tries to run faster, faster, faster, further, her legs burning with strain, but no matter what she does, the stranger sticks to her like a shadow. 'This isn't possible, how can this be, why can't I get away—' Her mind buzzes with frenzied questions, with utter confusion, but she feels no emotion stronger than the colossal dread and horror of what will happen if she can't escape.
Then, out of nowhere, a knocking sound echoes in her ears.
Slowly, Annabeth opens her eyes.
She is standing in the center of her room, exactly where she was the last time her eyes were open. It is an elegant room, befitting of any woman of nobility. Her bed is made, her hair is brushed, her body is clothed. Nothing is out of place. It's as though she had just finished preparing to head out for the day. A brief peek at the window cements that this is, without a doubt, her home—the Village of the Pearl Moon. The real world.
Calmness settles within her—gradually, like a tea bag steeping its flavor throughout hot water.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door to her room opens.
"Annabeth," Hazel emerges from the other side of the door, her expression grim. "I'm sorry, but it's time."
"..." She stares at the younger girl blankly. "... Sorry, Hazel."
"It's okay. I'll be outside."
"... Alright."
Hazel closes the door. As Annabeth reaches for her cloak, she is almost astounded by how little she feels anything at all at the moment. It is a momentous day, after all.
Today is the day that she will find a warrior to marry. A warrior that will help her save the world.