Percy was going to die.
It wasn't the fall he was worried about, although he certainly should have been from this height. The side with the balcony overlooked the steepest part of the hill, so he'd be rolling for quite a while, even if he didn't break his neck. No, he knew he would die for the simple fact that the whole of the backyard was covered in razor-sharp threads that would make mincemeat of him way before he ever hit the ground. Why was this? Because Percy had ordered it there.
Stupidly.
They said time slowed when you were about to die, and Percy found it took an eternity to move even an inch toward the ground.
In that time–that short yet long time–he found himself not afraid but wistful. He finally had what he wanted, still clutched firmly to his chest, yet now he was going to depart from them, forever. What would happen to the threads when he died? Normally, from what he'd experienced, the color remained the same, but a far duller shade, indicating that the person on the other end could do naught to reciprocate it. But since these threads were so tied to his magic, would they simply fade away along with him? A sad fate, to condemn them all to erasure, instead of just stasis.
Although…since those words the copy of him had stated, the bonds on his back had begun to feel strangely…dull. Like they lacked the spark they once held. Clearly, the imposter's influence had addled his mind. They were still there. He just didn't feel them the same at the moment.
…He swore he could hear a faint chuckle, his own, calling himself a hypocrite.
He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see what would happen when the first string hit him. He only hoped it wouldn't be too gruesome for the others. Although, with him gone, maybe they'd be relieved. Then they would have no more reason to stick around here. They'd be free.
He could feel a squeeze over his heart. A whisper resounded in his brain, the very last thought he'd think. A cruelly honest one.
That he did still want them by his side, even if he didn't deserve it.
Then time resumed and he waited for the first strike.
Instead, he felt himself being yanked upwards.
Reflexively, he opened his eyes at the tug. Then he stared, baffled.
He no longer fell, but found himself suspended in the air by the very threads he thought would cut him to pieces. Slowly, carefully, he could feel himself descending again. He twisted his body, the best he could under the tight pressure of the threads, and soon his eyes landed upon something he could hardly believe.
Perse, being supported by Gilda, straining to keep him up there. Her face nearly ashen, hand trembling, he knew it must be taking all her strength to not let him go.
Both were bloodied, and bruised. Gilda's skirt was torn to shreds, leaving only her shorts intact. Perse's glasses were crooked and cracked. Yet they possessed a determination that seemed to fail Percy the instant he heard himself speak those damning words. His first thought was that his death would be inconvenient to them, which is why they tried so hard. But wasn't he just thinking how they would be so much freer without him? What other motive could they possibly possess?
Did they want to save him because they…cared? Because they were…his…his…
"Friends," he breathed. The word, once so aggravating to say, now caused an unusual peace to descend upon him.
A peace that occurred the same moment Perse finally collapsed to the ground and the string around him gave way, leaving him to fall the last half dozen feet on his own to the squishy grass below.