Flowergirl, Percy Jackson

012. the Death of Man

012───────ஐ〰ฺ･:*:･✿the death of man

      SHE CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. 

      It's more than an obsession, more than mere intrigue. Obsession is temporary and transient and fades away faster than life moves. But this, this is stained with ever-glowing permanence, carved into her essence. Every thought she has, every furtive glance is tainted by it's enigmatic state, every movement she has is covered in stains of guilt and fury at the sight of it. Everywhere she looks she can see it; the jar standing there, unmoving, unattainable. It's a curse and a blessing wrapped in one, the one reminder that she's the first of her kind. 

      The jar itself is unremarkable, a clay statue in a museum of marble, grass in a field of daisies. She should just look past it; it's of no consequence. Just an ordinary jar to be displayed for all to see. He's proud of it. She should be. 

       She remembers when they handed her over. "Beautiful," they said, voices dripping with honey. "You'll love her."

      And he did. And she loved him, with all of her ichor-stained heart and blood-forged lips. How could she not? He was kind and loving and he loved her, no matter what anyone else said. How could he not? 

    (It's hard being the first of your kind. The Earth Mother's hand-crafted child, through and through, flesh carved from the Earth beneath her feet. The first woman to walk the earth, the revolutionary being to bring kingdoms to heel and empires to their knees. Nobody else understands what this is like — men seek men, but who should she seek? She is alone, with just her thoughts and her husband. And the jar. 

     They warned her not to open it. With their glowing auras and kind eyes, the fire slipping from their fingers, the love pouring from their souls, they had taken her by the shoulder and told her; no matter what, you cannot touch it. And she believed the kind gods, for gods are kind and truly right, and they would never hurt her. She is human, and the gods love humans. 

      It's not her fault that the curiosity is consuming her. She's drowning in it, she can feel it pushing her to the bottom of the pit and falling in over her head until she can't breathe. She doesn't know what it would feel like to drown, but she imagines it would be something like this. There's too much — it's everywhere, surrounding her, no matter what she does it's always there. Sometimes she would do anything to make it all stop. Anything.  

      "Pandora!" she hears him call. "What are you doing?"

      She looks around. She hadn't even noticed, but she somehow picked it up. Or maybe it leapt into her open hands — it has always seemed to love her presence. She can feel it pulsing in her hands, like it is alive, with it's own mind and heartbeat. It's begging her; open me. 

      I need to know. 

     (Just one look. She'll check what's inside, then close it again.)

      "Pandora," he says again, brows creasing in panic. She hates to worry him, but she needs this. What's inside?

      "Just one look," she tells him.

        And then she unscrews the jar. 

       PERCY'S FUNERAL WAS NOT AT ALL HOW LILA IMAGINED IT. 

      Honestly, Lila always thought that his shroud would be burned near the ocean. It wouldn't be traditional, but it seemed like the sort of thing he would prefer. He'd be buried on a wonderfully sunny day, framed by the scent of strawberry fields and saline air. His shroud would be burned on the sand in front of the sea, and it would be so beautifully embroidered that no other shroud would ever measure up to it's beauty. Percy's mom would be there, too — it seemed weird to Lila that Sally Jackson was not allowed into camp, even for her own son's funeral. Perhaps Poseidon should have attended.