Left Behind | Percabeth

Part II

WHEN PERCY LEFT FOR training camp, both parties promised to write everyday. However, upon the third letter arriving at the doorstep of Paul's flat, which Annabeth had moved into in order to stay afloat, she was greeted with what she knew would eventually happen; Percy had not written to her everyday, which didn't surprise her.

   Standing outside on their balcony, Annabeth had the latest letter in hand, freshly delivered by the mailman. A soft breeze rustled both the paper and her hair, hands shivering to hold onto it, for fear of it leaving her grasp. 

   My love, the letter said.

   I write to you, to tell that I can't send you a letter every day; we simply don't have the time. Training is tough, but I'm pulling through alright. Paper is also sparse. We have a postal office wherein we are able to write and send letters; but the cost of it is nearly 3$, and both you and I know we can't spare that much. That does not mean that you are to send me money; keep it at home, and make sure Estelle and Paul are well—I know you already do.

   Even though I won't be able to write a new letter every day—opting for once a week instead, I hope—I want you to know that you're always in my thoughts. When I'm training, I hear you cheering me on from the sidelines. When I'm eating, I can smell your wonderful pork roasts. When I'm lying in bed at night, I feel you lying next to me.

   The others ask me why I'm always smiling; the answer is you, my love. You and only you.

   Though I smile at you, there's hearsay running among the troops; they're sending out a new shipment soon. And they'll begin to send a new shipment each week. They're cutting training time. If I'm lucky, it sounds like I'll have three weeks here.

   So here's to three weeks.

   I love you.

   Yours, Percy Jackson.

   PS.: Keep sending your letters. I read and reread them, every single night. I taped the photograph of you and Estelle to my wall. My room-mates ask if she's my child. No, I answer. But I have to live long enough to have one.

   Though chuckling at Percy's penmanship, Annabeth's heart dropped as she read the letter. Three weeks, it said. Three weeks was barely enough time to scrape enough money together for enough letters to fill those weeks. Three weeks.

   Annabeth didn't console her father-in-law; he was busy enough as was, trying to work the new additions of the school curriculum into his teachings. Instead, she hid the letter in her pocket to keep for herself. Upon hearing Estelle's cry, she walked back into the flat, hoping to cure the small child of her woes. Paul was always so dutifully impressed at her ability to soothe her; 'as if it were her own,' he'd say. As if it were her own, Annabeth would muse, silently wishing that she had gotten pregnant before Percy had left. She knew that Percy didn't want to have kids yet, but a forceful narcissistic want had grown in her, since he'd decided to leave her; if he could do that, then she could have his child, too. Something that would remind him of her—not that she'd ever forget him, but still. A child would be something selfish for her to hold onto. Even if he died, it would stay with her.

   Alas, she had not been successful in wooing her husband in the few days between him deciding to enlist, and him being shipped off to training camp. He'd worked more hours than ever before at the bakery, trying to earn a bit more for his family to live off of, after he'd left. Though he did earn money in the military, his wages would stagger significantly. They had put their flat for sale, though the real estator told them that housing was abundant, and their flat may not sell for the foreseeable future. Still, they had done it, and moved most of their furnishings for Paul's flat; luckily, he only lived a few streets down.