A Magician's Sea

VIII

Knees crashing to the wooden floorboards, its sound reverberated and danced around the small bedroom. The dull sting of sweat and crimson scratches painted on the rough of my kneecaps.

Groaning, I leaned from side to side, unbalanced and fatigued as warm drips fell from my steaming top. The stabbing sense of a coming headache drowning the back of my eyelids.

"By gods... this is impossible," I exclaimed in paused huffs, practically gasping for a full breath.

Sea-green eyes stained red, looking upon a leather clasped book poised in the center of the room; propped on a fragile nightstand like an altar.

My fingers, arms, and legs sat numb to the exercise of repetitive motion, lips dry and chapped as I licked them in habit, tasting only dried blood. In the corner of my vision near my right hand laid the wand I had been practicing my abilities with for the past six months.

I closed my eyes in bliss, the dark sensation mildly easing the metaphorical slashes at the back of my neck. I exhaled, "Why can't I do it? There has to be some sort of trick."

Over half a year had passed since Albus left my company, half a year and yet I've gotten nowhere. Magic was a lot harder than I assumed it was, and being a child of the Big Three, it was a very foreign obstacle.

My hand rose to wipe a bead of sweat that crawled to my eyebrows. "One more time, just one more time and I'll get it," I motivated myself.

Pulling myself to my feet, I swept my magical stick back into my hand for another go at the charm I was attempting to cast.

Locking eyes with the leatherback book that stood undefeated, I breathed out slowly.

"Accio book!?"

...

"...!"

Like all the other times—nothing happened. I was sat with the same scene: my wand outstretched toward a book that never moved. It was frustrating, so frustrating that it made the skin around my bones feel fuzzy.

"Stupid magic, stupid wand, stupid book," I complained.

Closing my eyes I dropped the wand onto the ground and fell back onto my slightly comfortable but actually much more—definitely, one hundred percent— uncomfortable bed.

I sighed, turning my head over to the direction of the open side of the room. Slowly opening my eyes, they trained onto my target.

"Go to Tartarus, dumb book."

My hair fell, covering my eyes like window blinds. There wasn't much time left until Albus would return, and the numbing disappointment that creased my sides was sickening.

Over half a year and I was still stuck at the starting line, never moving... just like the book. This world of magic was simply too complex, there were too many steps and too many rules.

Rubbing my fingers together, I grumbled annoyed, and snatched the wand up that had somehow rolled over to the bedside. Staring at the detail engraved into the wood, I whispered.

"Why?"

It was simple enough. The word expressed an entire story as to how I felt. Simple... the complete opposite of what my reality had morphed into.

Breathing out my exhaustion, my eyes closed behind the raven-black curtains. I felt my grip slowly slip around the useless branch of wood.

Without a thought, my hand let the wand drop to the floor.

...

Because, demigod, a wand is not who you are.

Now normally you would think, 'Percy, a strange voice just talked to you, aren't you surprised?' My answer to that is—I'm the son of a mythical god who fights monsters for a living.