TW: dark themes, death, swearing
This might actually be a much darker than the original story of Razing of Camelot, but we shall see. Feel free to leave your thoughts below
Also unfortunately I have a massive midterm paper and presentation coming up so the next chapter will take longer than usual
Annabeth's mother disapproved of swearing. She said—or rather imparted, because one has to be present in one's life in order to say something to them—that profanity was the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate, and Athena was anything but weak rhetor. To a certain degree, Annabeth agreed. There was an art to outwitting someone, a sense of inflated pride that couldn't be rivaled by spewing expletives every other word, and being the daughter of the embodiment of wisdom meant she could hardly resist that particular temptation.
But when Annabeth turned around, searching for the cause of Percy's sudden nauseated expression, all that came to mind were a few choice vulgarities. One or two may have even slipped out.
Least her stepbrothers would be proud. They were at that age where exploring English's favorite four-letter words (and getting away with using them) was exhilarating.
Only Annabeth couldn't sit around and enact a monologue worthy of a Shakespearian misunderstanding. Not to say it wasn't important or about to become a blaring problem. They would have to address the Merlin issue sooner rather than later, like when they're chopping wood for the pyre, but the two thickset Saxons who had realized she and Percy were currently unopposed and were lumbering towards them took precedence over an overly suspicious wizard.
Gritting her teeth, Annabeth flexed her hand, shook out the knots from her white-knuckled grip, and then attacked. Everything that followed blurred into something out of a Dali painting. She lost track of time, of space, of the aches and pains that came from fighting fully-grown men with nothing more than her knife and wit.
It could have been a Battle Frenzy, had she not felt completely in control of her actions, but not once did she lose herself to the anger and disgust that coiled around her. As much as she wanted to. As much as their blood-stained blades taunted her. There was no berserking to be had.
Now that would make her mother proud.
Eventually, Annabeth spun around, coiled to strike yet again—except there was no one there. Blinking, she straightened slightly and glanced around. Her stomach revolted at what she found, something warm and acerbic pressing at the back of her throat. All of the Saxons laid at her feet.
Bloodied. Eviscerated. Or at the very least fatally maimed, twenty-three of them were scattered about the town square, and Annabeth couldn't bring herself to look any closer than letting her eyes drift over them in morbid curiosity. Many weren't moving at all, and the ones that were only did so through the barest rise and fall of their chests. It didn't escape her notice that the soldiers, or warriors more aptly, who were clinging to life, fell in a misshapen circle around her and Percy.
Her thoughts were strangely cloudy and offensively lethargic, but even so a part of her wanted to savagely rub this fact in Merlin's judgmental face. See? We aren't heartless killers. But then again, he'd probably turn it around on them and say they'd spared the enemies' lives because they were secretly in league with them.
Honestly, Annabeth was sick of his unwarranted suspicion.
She dragged the flat of her blade across her thigh as she checked around for Percy and the others. Percy was, of course, unharmed. He was a few feet away, kneeling beside one of the Saxons, and was—well, he looked like he was looting the not-yet-dead guy, patting him down and checking the folds in his tunic and furs.
Annabeth knew him well enough to know that was not the case, but she couldn't quite tell what he was doing.
Arthur, Gwaine, and Mordred were moving similarly about the fallen bodies, holding their blades below the men's noses, placing their hands on their chests, and waiting for their breath. Annabeth supposed they were checking for any hint of deception, that the Saxons might jump up and skewer the knights when their backs are turned, and she'd read enough history books to know that what came after finding a sign of life was something she didn't want to witness.
In the center of it all, a body moved. He must have thrown his cape away at some point because it turned out to be Percival, rolling to his knees. Swaying dangerously, he braced one hand on the earth as the other reached for his face. The right side was caked with a mixture of mud and blood, and as soon as his fingers connected with the fresh scabbing, more blood sluiced from the wound. He hissed, though he moved to touch it again. Annabeth darted to his side and caught his wrist before he could.
"Let's not," she chided softly. Dropping to her knees, she brushed his hair out of the way.
Percival tried for a sheepish smile, but with half of his face bloodied, it was more gruesome than endearing. "How bad is it?"
Annabeth hummed noncommittally. Whatever he hit his head on had been angular and unforgiving, clubbing his head as much as slicing the skin. Her money was on the corner of a house. The blood flow would have helped flush out any foreign objects for the most part, though lying face down on the ground hadn't done him any favors.
"I've seen worse."
"I reckon that means you've seen better too."
"I think that's a given, don't you?" she said with a smirk.
Annabeth cast about for anything she could use to clean and dress a wound, but naturally there was nothing. Their supplies—and more importantly, their water—were still in the saddlebags, which were on the horses, which were up on the ridge. Assuming they hadn't wandered off—or been stolen. That left her with very limited options.
Sighing, Annabeth used her knife to nick the hem of her shirt and tore away a long strip, only feeling a modicum of guilt. It wasn't even hers, but it had been really nice and a fairly expensive gift, given the linen's quality. Still, she could always get another once they get back to the castle.
As she reached out to dab away the worst of the muck, someone snatched hold of her wrist. Annabeth turned to meet Merlin's stony glare with a pissed one of her own. He was, also unsurprisingly, unharmed, and appeared not to have bothered to contemplate the multitude of possibilities before him. After all, there could only be one reason for why Percy and Annabeth did what they've done.
"I'll do it," Merlin said.
Annabeth met his gaze stubbornly. Really, she wanted to ask. As if she were stupid enough to sabotage Percival's headwound in front of the king and his knights. No, if she really had some nefarious plot in mind, she'd at least wait until they were asleep. Pull a Lady Macbeth before they even knew what hit them.
Instead, she ground out, "fine," spitting out a smile that dared him to take it further.
She doubted he would; if he was a sorcerer in this reality and sorcerers were executed or locked away in a windowless dungeon, then he would probably just wait until he either had proof or had sussed out their intentions. So, if he didn't trust her enough to not murder his friends out in the open, then he could play nursemaid all he wanted.
But if his pettiness came between her and people actually suffering and in pain, then they were going to have a problem.
When Merlin didn't move to release her wrist—Percival blinking confused between the two of them—Annabeth finally ripped it free and strode away. She found Percy where he had been before. Except now, he was sitting back on his heels and staring at something in his palms.
Annabeth swore, if he had actually looted the guy, like in one of his video games…
Coming to stand over his shoulder, she got a glimpse of blood-stained skin and a flash of metal. A Saxon laid there on the ground, looking anything but peaceful in death; one leg collapsed underneath him, his torso twisted like the curves on a screw, an arm thrown haphazardly over his chest. A strip of expensive linen—something that used to be a soft blue but was now a muckish purple—was wrapped tightly around the man's arm, just above the elbow. The blood flow had stopped along with his heart.
"He's dead," Percy said needlessly. Annabeth didn't know how he knew it was her standing there. He never looked up from his hands. "They caught him right in the artery."
"Percy…"
"I found this on him," he added, squinting at nothing in particular. "I wasn't looking or anything. It just sort of fell out when I grabbed his arm."
Dropping to her knees beside him, Annabeth brushed a few strands of hair away from his eyes. He didn't even blink. "What is it?" she asked quietly.
Wordlessly, Percy held out his hand, and coiled in the center of his palm was a necklace. A beautiful pendant carved out of wood, a bit of metal wiring securing a simple stone to the center. It was elegant but simple, like someone had made it out of whatever had been lying about. Annabeth doubted the stone was even rare—probably just a pebble they had found in a stream.
Percy tipped the necklace into Annabeth's open hand and said, "there's a bunch of other stuff too—that I did go looking for—trinkets and bits of gold or—bronze or whatever."
The necklace became lead in her hand. "Spoils."
Percy nodded, taking a deep breath. Annabeth watched as he struggled to shove the disturbing revelation to the back of his mind. Not exactly a healthy option, but even she could agree that it was tempting and smarter given their current circumstances. Agonizing over the atrocities and horrors of war wasn't a luxury they could afford right now. Maybe if they managed to separate themselves from the situation entirely, they could pretend it was just another chapter in Le Mort d'Artur. A storybook, riddled with accurate historical depictions.
Commotion out of the corner of her eye brought Annabeth back to the center of the square. Merlin heaved Percival to his feet, Arthur and the three other knights having gathered after they finished their rounds among the dead. Not one of them looked proud to be surrounded by the fallen Saxons.
"We can't stay here," Arthur announced. His eyes found Percy and Annabeth, and he gave a curt nod—a gesture to acknowledge his relief that they survived. "Morgana will undoubtedly return."
"Looking to collect on her prize," added Gwaine, his voice laced with sardonic humor.
Annabeth stole a glance at Percy.
It didn't take a wisdom goddess to guess that Morgana had sensed her and Percy's…unusualness, but what she wanted from them was anyone's guess. T.H. White seemed to believe Morgan Le Fay was a cannibal. Annabeth was hoping that arose out of pure imagination.
"What about the people who lived here?" Annabeth asked. She looked around pointedly, the one piece lacking that was now abundantly clear. "There's no blood, no bodies. They have to have gone or—or been taken somewhere. People don't just disappear. We can't leave."
"Morgana is ruthless," Leon scowled. "It is likely they are already dead."
Arthur dragged the corner of his cape across the flat of his blade. He took one last look around the square, his gaze lingering on each broken building and house, as if hoping the villagers had simply been in hiding and only now realized it was safe to emerge—except no one did. He thrust Excalibur into is scabbard and said, "we'll stay together. Go round the outskirts and make our way back to the horses."
With barely a scant regard to the remains of Langcliffe, Arthur and his knights started towards the southern end of the square, where a dirt road vanished into a set of trees. Annabeth allowed herself one, single deep breath before she dragged herself to her feet, Percy in tow.
The moment they passed more than a few feet, the forest completely engulfed the road; each individual bough had seemingly been sculped and woven into one another so tightly that only mere specks of light were able to break through the leaves. In any other circumstance, it would have been a beautiful, enchanting walk, but after a confrontation with an actual witch, enchanting was the last thing Annabeth wanted to experience.
Arthur and Leon led the way, wordlessly. The path seemed to carry on for miles, though realistically Annabeth knew it barely even covered a city block—a trick of the light, or lack thereof. It was frightening close to a wooden adit, echoing every step they took, making it seem as though more enemies were sneaking up behind them. The air was too cold without the sun, and when they finally emerged, the onslaught of light was blinding.
But it was a relief all the same. Gone was the suffocation of the of the depredated town, and in its place was the paranoia of open land. Not a whole lot better granted, but at least, Annabeth didn't feel like the walls were caving in, crushing her between scorched walls and bloody corpses.
The terrain on this side of Langcliffe was very much the same. Rolling hills with blocks of varying shades of green and randomly placed outcroppings of rocks. Gwaine had mentioned that the land was too rocky, the climate too extreme for the delicate crops found in England (or rather, in Albion), and it seemed to hold true. No wonder sheep and goats love it here.
Annabeth weighed her dagger in her hand, unable to shake the sense that they were being watched. With the number of stone walls, literal hedges, and spattering of copses, there were plenty of places to hide—except the only consolation about that was that none of them were fit for an army.
Instead, she kept her eyes on the horizon. While crows and ravens didn't have the tendency to circle above their prey like vultures, there was no denying the strange behavior of the carrion birds before. Dozens of black birds hightailing it toward the one place that turned out to be ransacked by the army they'd been looking for. What's not normal about that?
Annabeth was just hoping their oddness would continue and end up delivering them straight to the missing townspeople.
Her hopes were nearly dashed when, instead of continuing further on, Arthur took the first desire path they came across. It curved tightly around the outside of the bosk, cutting along the edge of a pasture that would likely lead them straight back to the horses.
Only, they didn't get any further.
With her eyes set in the distance, Annabeth didn't realize that Gwaine had stopped until she walked straight into him. The other men had stalled as well. She would have checked why that was, but it turned out she didn't have the time. Arthur took one hesitant step forward before he was full out running ahead.
He tore down the path, vaulted over one of the knee-high walls, and was halfway across another field before Annabeth could even form a question in her mind. The knights weren't far behind, and a second later, Annabeth and Percy weren't either. The entire time, she couldn't see whatever it was that spooked Arthur—her mind was more concerned with not slipping and breaking an ankle on a slippery divot—but when the wind shifted, she didn't need to see it. She could smell it.
A mouth-watering, savory smell that sat thick in the air. Smoke.
Annabeth ran faster.
She ran until her legs faltered, and her breath lodged in her throat, and her mind fell silent. Because as soon as she caught up with Arthur and Leon, Percival and Gwaine, Mordred, Merlin, she couldn't move. But it was odd, because there a lack of nausea, no sourness building at the back of her throat, and no tumultuous swaying under her feet like all the stories claimed there'd be. All she felt was cold. Disconnected.
The people of Langcliffe formed a perfect circle in the middle of a field. Completely still.
Everything—apart from her breath, which came ragged and heavy—was so silent. And cold. And distant and unreal.
Then Percy swore somewhere behind her, and she couldn't deny that it was real. Annabeth couldn't tear her eyes off the young boy lying in front of her to find out from where; how could she? One of dozens, lying there on his back, the kid didn't stir. No fluttering eyelids, no twitching muscles correlating to whatever dream was playing behind his eyes. None of them were moving at all.
Annabeth stumbled to her knees, the cool earth seeping in crawled the rest of the way to his side. Hands trembling savagely, she pressed two fingers against the boy's clammy neck, then to his inner wrist. Then rested a hand, barely even touching his clothes, on his belly.
He wasn't breathing. His heartbeat wasn't there. His skin was cold to the touch.
She couldn't pull her hand back fast enough. "He's dead," Annabeth tried to say, only her voice refused.
It didn't matter because the knights had already begun to spread out among the other villagers, lying in a circle, side by side. A firepit rested in the center. Time had eaten away all the wood, but the embers still glowed with residual heat; a wooden spit with charred remnants of flesh was enwrapped with the same savory smoke from earlier. A bull's butchered corpse, bleeding out next to the pit, completed the scene.
Completed the rite.
"They appear as though they are merely sleeping," one of the men say.
Annabeth could care less which one.
She fell back onto the ground and swallowed. They really did. Every single one of them, physically untouched from what she could tell from a very fleeting glance, looked as if they had laid back to stare at the clouds and fallen asleep. The boy's face had been relaxed. No frozen expression of fear or pain—simply peace and acceptance.
Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, Annabeth tried to force her breath to come softer and more controlled. While she was at it, she tried to smother the little voices shrieking inside her head too. They were revolting against one another, trying to get the upper hand. She should be feeling disgust and be wracked with nausea to the point of dry heaving, but she wasn't; she felt nothing. She should be studying them to get a better idea of what had happened, but she couldn't. The scene before her wasn't printed on a glossy page in a history book, and yet the world they were in was torn from one.
One voice in particular, sounding like her mother—cool and collected—reasoned with her quietly, and that only made it that much more powerful. It argued that her shock and human decency were keeping her from realizing something important, but Annabeth's own voice, echoing her younger, more innocent self, couldn't bear to disturb the young boy any more.
But her mother was so fucking insistent.
Attempting to quell the belligerent maelstrom in her mind, Annabeth peeked out of the corner of her eye at the man to her right. He was old, grandfatherly. His hair was grey. He had a weathered face. Happy, with more laughter lines than scars from stress and worry. Like all the others, he was laid on his back, his eyes closed. His clothes were simple linen—drab almost, if it weren't for a flash of bright color.
Shock shattering through the catatonia freezing her limbs, Annabeth looked more closely.
Thick strips of fabric had been draped over his arms and his chest, the dark, monochromatic jerkin making the vibrancy of them jump all the more. Annabeth rocked to her knees and grabbed one of the cordons. It was finely woven and richly dyed a deep red ochre—a color that would have cost an exuberant amount to purchase in England at this point in time. In fact, ribbons like these would have been reserved for the most important rites in Greece—
No, it couldn't—but actually…couldn't they be?
Were those…tinia? The very same ceremonial adornments that decorated sacrificial animals about to be led to slaughter. Ribbons typical of a Greek ritual.
Annabeth scanned the other victims quickly, and every single one of them were swathed in similar cloths. Dyed deep, expensive, honorific pigments. Luscious laurel wreaths crowned each of the women's heads.
Stephanoi.
Needing to confirm her theory, Annabeth stumbled to her feet and made her way over to the bull. Its throat had been cut. The belly had been disemboweled. Flecks of brownish red stood out against the white patches of fur on its face, and Annabeth was willing to bet that if scoured around, she'd find bits of rice or salt peppering the grass.
The burning of organs and bones, the specks of wine, the ribbons—everything was consistent and oddly accurate to a traditional Greek sacrifice, except for one thing: the ornaments were on the people instead of the sacrificial bull.
Annabeth flinched when Arthur suddenly came into the center, walking with stiff, jerking movements. He took one look at the butchered animal and rasped, "sorcery."
Not sorcery, Annabeth objected voicelessly. At least, not in the sense he was used to fighting. No, this was something else.
If they'd been in Greece, she would have said it was a ritual sacrifice like a thysia or thyesthai, but those were always followed or preceded by a celebration—a fest with games and music and an abundance of food for the plebians. This—this was nothing more than a barbaric slaughter. A twisted perversion of pagan rites.
Annabeth reached behind her blindly, expecting to find the comfort of Percy's presence, but her hand grasped nothing but air. She turned around. Percy hadn't moved at all. He stood on the outside of the circle; his hand clenched Riptide tightly and then released it, only to crush it in his grasp once again. His face was pure stone.
"Merlin," Arthur called. "What did you find?"
As silence answered, Annabeth dragged herself around. The sorcerer was hunched over another victim, running his hands methodically along their body, checking for any sign of foul play. As the physician's ward, it made sense that he would have some medical knowledge, and it seemed he was putting it to good use. Not that there was much to find.
"There's nothing to find," Merlin admitted, sitting back on his heels. His gaze traveled over the townspeople in turn, counting the number of hours it would take to prepare a grave for each and every one of them. "Gaius would be better suited for this. It's possible he'll know," —he waved a hand broadly at the scene before them— "maybe, he'll know what this is."
"You mean what this achieves," Gwaine injected. "I may not be a scholar in these matters, but I know a ritual when I see one."
"Do you think they did this to every town that was attacked?" Percival asked. "The girl from Baile Avon said people were going missing."
"She also said that what they did find were only remains." Gwaine sauntered over to spit and snapped the supporting stalk, knocking loose the pieces of pieces of heart, liver, kidneys, lungs, and spleen that had been clinging to the wood by sinews. He tossed the entrails to the ground in disgust. "I think she would have mentioned seeing something like this."
Unless they started off small, Annabeth thought. If Morgana wanted to stay under the radar at first—give herself time to test out the ritual or gather her forces before Arthur could mount a defense—then she would have started with only a few victims. Like Holden said, other villages were losing people, travelers were vanishing, livestock disappearing. It was the smart play. It's what Annabeth would have done.
"Arthur?" Merlin prompted. "What should we do?"
"The same as before. Return to Camelot."
"What about them? We can't just leave them for the birds."
Arthur's face was a picture of conflict. None of them wanted to leave the people of Langcliffe for scavengers to feast on, but realistically, they couldn't spend the time it would take to dig a mass grave. Not when an entire army was still unaccounted for.
Whatever Arthur had for a response was lost on Annabeth because as soon as he opened his mouth, a hand slipped into Annabeth's. Long past overdue. Annabeth peered up at him, but his expression from earlier hadn't changed. Not that Annabeth thought it should, or even wanted it to.
Percy leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. "We're being watched."
Two and half words was all it took to send her heart thundering. Annabeth squeezed his hand once to show she'd heard him. She watched the knights' mouths move as they debated their next steps, but their words meant nothing. It took all of her strength not to whip around and search for the prying eyes.
"By the wall," Percy breathed. "To our left."
Annabeth chanced a glance out of the corner of her eye.
At first, there was nothing. The nearest wall was a quarter mile away. The trees were fewer and far between on this side, and where they were on the pasture gave them one of the more panoramic views of the area. There was no sign of Saxons or psychotic witches.
Then a little head popped over the side.
Annabeth froze. The head ducked back behind the knee-high stone wall as Arthur made a broad gesture that shifted the attention back to the horrific circle. Definitely not a Saxon. She couldn't be certain, but they looked far too small to be
Annabeth chewed on her lip, cycling through the very limited possibilities of how they could reach out to this person and not scare them. For some reason, yelling out 'come on out, we're friendly' while standing in a circle of dead bodies didn't seem to convey a high level of trust. Running over to them without so much as a warning, however, seemed even worse.
Just as she was considering alerting the knights to their spectator, Percy made the decision for her.
He let go of her hand, walked straight outside of the circle, and yelled, "you can come out. We're not going to hurt you."
Well, Annabeth thought, driving the heel of her hand deep into her eye socket, least he thought about the dead bodies' part of that scenario. When the group of knights turned to her with a mix of incredulity and physical preparedness, she could only shrug and follow Percy's example. She stepped out of the circle and hoped they hadn't scared the kid away.
"I know how it sounds," Annabeth added. "But it's true."
"I know you're probably scared, but look," Percy called, catching himself just as he gestured behind them, grimacing. "King Arthur. And his knights."
Arthur stepped into Annabeth's line of sight, ostensibly searching for Percy's mysterious companion himself, but failing. The man—or boy—if he was even still there, stayed cleverly out of sight.
"Someone's been watching us," she explained. "I think it's just a kid."
Without any further prompting, Arthur strode over to Percy, who had been inching his way closer, one sliding step at a time, to the stone wall. He rested a hand on Percy's shoulder then continued on alone. "It's true what they say. I am King of Camelot, and we have come to help." The only movement was the wind, coursing through the grass.
Arthur was only a few feet away when Annabeth decided to approach as well. If the person did choose to appear, she didn't want them to be forced to look at the scene any more than they already had. The squelch of boots in the soft earth told her the knights had followed suit.
"I swear, no more harm will come to you," Arthur declared.
"You can't promise that," a tiny voice answered. The barest thread appeared over the top of the wall. Then it grew into dirty brown hair, then two eyes, and a tear-streaked face. "The Winged Woman said we'd be safe, too."
The patch of moonlight had started by the wardrobe. Barely the size of a papercut, it carved a diagonal across the porous marble floor. Neat. Exact. Then, as the moon inched a bit further across the sky, the angle allowed for a larger allotment of light. A thin, precise rectangle the size of a balistraria. Annabeth had watched obsessively as it crept from the far end of the room until it became an amorphous pool at the side of her bed.
The light fluttered and dimmed, and with an unenthused, bated breath, she counted the seconds it took for the cloud to part ways with her only source of entertainment. Eleven. Eleven seconds, and the moon shone just as bright and full as eleven seconds earlier.
Annabeth reached out a hand, only able to catch the light with the tips of her fingers. She'd tried forcing herself to fall asleep—batted her eyes a couple hundred times, sucked in slowed and controlled breaths, tightened every muscle to the point of pain and then released them in a cascading order—but nothing worked.
Her mind couldn't be fooled into believing it was tired.
Her memory couldn't let go of what they saw in the field.
And so, she did what she always did: shove everything aside and obsess over the bare facts.
Only there was just so much she didn't understand. Forcing aside the fury that arose every time she imagined the needless horror—even if it had been mostly psychological, that could sometimes be even worse than pure carnage—Annabeth had been trying to make it compute all night, but her brain refused to keep up and come up with suitable answers.
Why was Morgana doing this and what did she get out of killing her future citizens? You can't rule a country with no countrymen. Even if she only allowed the slaughter of a portion of them, no economy could recover from that.
Who was the so-called Winged Woman? The kid from Langcliffe had described her as a completely separate entity from Morgana—a gorgeous woman with wings like an eagle's and who emanated pure strength and confidence. It didn't sound like any harpy or siren Annabeth had ever heard of, and she'd read and listened to every interpretation of Greek myths every composed. Was she a goddess? An anemon with a sense of irony? Or of course, there always was the possibility the woman wasn't Greek at all. Angels, Valkyries, Isis, Gamayun, and Peris were all depicted with wings at one point or another, and that was just off the top of Annabeth's head.
Whoever she was, she'd participated in Morgana's spell, and Annabeth found herself counting on the fact she would face the two women again. And she planned to have her knife in hand when that happened. Maybe this woman was their reason for being here in the first place and dealing with her was the solution.
As if it could be that simple.
Annabeth rolled onto her back and stared listlessly at the domed canopy. The mattress was filled with goose feather, the sheets an incomparably soft linen, the posts exquisitely carved oak. Honestly, it rivaled the Lotus Hotel and Casino in comfort, and that place had had literal ages to enchant and perfect its allure, but she would give it all away for her cramped and overly ordered cabin at camp.
Actually, what Annabeth really wanted was to wake up in an over-sized t-shirt at an apartment in upper East-side Manhattan. To the smell of coffee and pancakes made with more food-coloring than flour. She was even willing to tolerate the knowing smirks that would be hidden behind a perfectly timed newspaper. Which had happened more than once because Percy was somehow completely incapable of reading a calendar —
A sound, a sort of cross between scratching and tapping, caused Annabeth to go even stiller than she'd been before.
Catching her breath, she put everything behind locating the source. Because if it was a rat, after everything else that had transpired that day, she had a few choice words for the Fates and their sense of humor.
But, as it turned out, the Fates would have to wait for another day. The wretched tapping happened again, this time more clearly, sounding as if it were coming from the door. The door, with the barest, softest movement, shook.
Really hoping she wasn't about to meet a big, persistent rat on the other side, Annabeth slipped out of bed and darted over to the door, shivering from each point of contact her feet had with the stone floor. She pressed her ear to the wood. Nothing.
Then, so softly that it was barely audible, there was a dull, single thud. Like someone had gone to knock, only they never pulled their hand back and ended up punching the door instead. Probably not a rat then. Which meant it was either Percy, their resident stalker, or a criminal, and considering any thief or assassin who thought to knock first was no thief or assassin in Annabeth's books, she thought the first two were more likely.
Annabeth lifted the latch and opened the door just a crack.
Of all the torches and braziers that illuminated the many layers of Camelot's castle, only one was located on her floor, and it had gone ignored. Its meager light did nothing more than offer a flickering glimpse of the humanesque shadow currently haunting the hallway. It shifted its featureless figure, and it became apparent that the person was trying to stealthily disappear the way they'd come. Even in the dark, she'd recognize that ambling form anywhere.
"Percy?"
The figure whipped around. Annabeth could just make out the curve of his eyebrows, the round, owlish swell of his eyes. "Annie?" he hissed incredulously.
"Percy," she parroted.
"You're awake."
"Well, I heard someone outside my door." Annabeth hugged her arms around chest, fighting back a chill. It was much colder out here with nothing more than stones and tapestries to contain the heat. "What are you doing?"
Percy shrugged.
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder, like he was expecting to be caught out of bed after hours. A hard habit to break after years spent at boarding schools. When he turned back, he shrugged again. "What, I can't go for a midnight walk around the castle?"
It was Annabeth's turn to shrug.
Percy's shadow shifted. "I didn't want to sleep." He let out a ragged breath, dragging his hand through his hair. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, but I just—I couldn't—wait for the stupid sun to rise."
Despite herself, Annabeth felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. "It's okay. You saved me from waiting for the moon to set." She reached out to him, jerking her head toward the dark, unwelcoming room behind her, and said, "come on. It's cold out here."
Percy clasped her hand firmly and let her pull him inside. The door latched shut of its own accord.
The moonlight had moved again. Now, it was creeping up the bedpost like opaque spider legs—and Annabeth decided she'd had enough of Albion for one day. She crossed the room and snapped the curtains shut, only to turn back to a room cast in near total, fully perfect darkness. There was something to be said about castles and their airtight construction.
"Sorry," Annabeth whispered, realizing she'd taken away Percy's light as well.
He let out a small huff of laughter. It sounded like he hadn't moved away from the door yet. "It's fine. Most fish can see fine in the dark anyways."
"Are you finally admitting your part fish, Seaweed Brain?"
"Don't tell Nico. I only just got him to stop calling me sushi."
Annabeth wished there was just enough light to see that goofy half-smirk that undoubtedly accompanied that statement. Hearing it, though, was nearly just as good. But still not the same. She inched forward, skirting the armchair she was fairly certain was to her left, and kept walking, her arms outstretched.
Her fingertips jabbed something round and warm. Skimming around the surface, Annabeth wondered just what part of Percy she'd found.
"You trying to strangle me, Wise girl?" His pulse thrummed under her touch.
Snorting, Annabeth located his shoulder and traced his arm all the way down to his hand. She leaned in close, able to see only the faintest outline of his face, and whispered, "you wish." Then she tugged him away from the door.
He stumbled as he walked; one thud, then another shortly other, following them across the room as he kicked his shoes off haphazardly. With only a bit of guesswork, they managed to make it to the bed without any dire toe injuries. Annabeth perched herself on top of the duvet, feeling the mattress dip under her. Percy plopped onto his back with one solid thump.
Again, Annabeth wished she could see him, though not enough to navigate back to the window or scour around for matches and a candle. She could picture his face well enough—a pensive curl to his lips, the crease between his eyes. His hair was probably spilling out against the covers like a splotch of ink.
"Did you sleep at all?"
Percy hummed. "Maybe a couple minutes, but it wasn't to be. You?"
"Not really."
As silence fell about them, Percy's hand draw spirals up Annabeth's arm absentmindedly. She leaned into the touch, letting her eyes fall shut. The peace lasted only seconds before the lights behind her eyes painted a gruesome picture, and her mind tricked her into believing she smelled smoke. An ambrosial scent that had, for years, been a comforting constant at camp.
Her eyes snapped open.
Annabeth fell onto her side and sidled up next to Percy, her legs awkwardly hanging off the side of the bed, one of the unnecessary throw pillows digging into her back, but she didn't care. She rested her chin on his shoulder and stared at the faint outlines beginning to form out of the darkness. Percy continued to draw nonsensical designs along her arm, tucking her head under his chin, kissing the top of her head.
They laid like that for an uncountable amount of time, but even so, Annabeth's mind rejected the gentle lull of sleep pulling at her body. She tried to content herself with the comforting randomness of Percy doodling along her back, counting his breaths and listening to the movement in his chest. His heart would burst into a new fervent beat whenever it seemed to calm enough for him to fall asleep. Annabeth didn't have to wonder what was going on in that seaweed filled brain of his for long.
"I keep picturing it," Percy admitted. "I mean… I know we've seen dead bodies before." He scoffed, "hell, we literally fought in a war. For four years. Killed how many monsters that could turn human in a blink of an eye. Beckendorf. Michael Yew. Selena."
Luke.
"But that wasn't…they weren't…" Weren't what? Innocent? Annabeth couldn't bring herself to say the words, but they were true in a sense. They had died warriors and heroes, and as messed up as that was, it was their reality. "Our friends chose to fight and died for what they believed in. Those people at Langcliffe—they were killed without reason."
Percy's chest rose and fell heavily. "Were they though?" The drawing stopped. "I may not be an expert at pagan rituals or whatever, but that didn't look like your run-of-the-mill slaughter."
"No," she agreed. "I think it was an epoidai."
"A spell?"
Annabeth hummed. A sacrifice. A spell. Whatever you wanted to call it, it still made no sense. She told Percy as much. "Human sacrifice. I mean, I know the Greeks did it—rarely, but it did happen—but…" Annabeth dragged her hand across her eyes. "They were meant to appease the gods. Like with Iphigenia. Or it was to earn favor from chthonic deities."
Percy was silent. "…okay, but isn't that what that was?"
Annabeth bit her lip. "Yeah, but the people should have been the ones…" she trailed away, not wanting to explicitly describe just how brutal sacrifices could be. "The bull was the sacrifice. The villagers just died, and—" again, she broke off, swiping away the angry tears pooling in her eyes. "And I hate it because, as if killing them wasn't enough, our new mystery woman said it would all be okay."
Percy wrapped his arms tighter around Annabeth, and she leaned into it wholeheartedly. "We'll figure it out." He smiled into the side of her face and amended, "or rather, you will, Wise Girl."
Annabeth pressed her face deeper into the nape of his neck. His skin burned against hers, and she tried to remember if it had been like that before the Styx. They hadn't had many intimate moments before the final battle, but surely, she would have noticed the fire burning below the surface.
Thankfully, the hellish water hadn't scorched away the smell of the sea that always seemed to accompany him. She'd mentioned it once to him, that he smelled the ocean during a storm, and he'd given her his sarcastic half-wit smile and said it was just sweat. She vaguely remembered rubbing mint ice cream in his face after that.
Annabeth settled deeper still and wrapped her arms around Percy, but not before feeling around behind her and cocooning them in as much of the comforter as she could. While far from perfect, it was better than before. The scent of the sea chased away any acrid smoke. Percy's arms held back the cold numbness, and the moonlight and any reminder of Albion was kept firmly out of reach. Whatever was going to happen—finding the answers they needed, taking on an army of Saxons and Helladans—it could wait for tomorrow. For now, she was safe.
Annabeth didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until she began to fall.
No, not falling.
Diving. Riding down through the clouds that whipped past her like river rapids. Thunder cried so loudly, her heart shook with the sound's vibration, lightning blinding her to the point that, even after it had passed, all she saw was white. Her blood thrummed with exhilaration.
Reins made of gold and silver rested in her hands, loosely, and Annabeth wrenched them to the left, just as an arrow sailed past her cheek. A fierce grin broke out across her face. She drove her horses on, and they tore across the sky, their hooves clattering on the clouds as if on stone.
Winged beasts speckled the horizon, their jaws snarling and snapping at the Winds. A man, colossal, burning with hatred, roared at them to forgo their opponents and to set their sights on the approaching chariot. As one, they swarmed.
Strike them down, a voice commanded, and Annabeth responded through action.
Her silver blade whipped through the air as lightning eviscerated the harpies by the hundreds. Golden ichor showered the earth below, and Annabeth felt a laugh tear from her throat. She steered her winged steeds further through the horde, sheering their wings and listening to their cries as they tumbled through the air. Their blood would replenish the waters of the Underworld.
A gift for you, my mother, she whispered to the wind.
Keep your focus, the voice chided from behind. Now is the time to prove your loyalty.
Annabeth followed their gaze to below, where another warrior had joined the other, standing upon the earth ravaged by fire and war. A flicker of hesitance coursed through her veins. All for naught, she reminded herself, for she cannot possibly lose. The stars had seen to that.
The horses obeyed her commands without hesitance, driving the chariot as faultlessly on earth as in the sky. Annabeth sheathed her blade and took up the reins with both hands. Her skin was afire with lightening. Behind her, Zeus readied his strike, calling forth the storm into his hand.
Annabeth drew herself up and urged the horses on faster, harder. She met the second man's gaze challengingly. I am sorry, father. But I always choose the winning side.