𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀𝘿; heroes of olympus

ghost kisses

ERITH JAY
ERITH WAS SURE SHE WAS GOING INSANE.

She was currently stuck in Tartarus with Percy Jackson, one of the most famous heroes of all time. She had just burned a goddess with light that definitely wasn't a gift from her father, until her skin sizzled. 

Now she was stuck in utter blackness with a boy who had killed himself.

Luke was dead. Dead as fuck. Deader than every single monster Erith had killed. He'd stabbed himself in the one spot that could kill him, and down he was.

But he was in her head, in her bedroom, in her bloodstream. And now he stood here: in front of her.

For what it was worth, he looked rather solid. Nothing about him shimmered. He had sandy blonde hair swept to the side, blue eyes that seemed leeched of color, and tanned skin. A scar split down one of his eyes, and, ironically, he wore a Camp Half-Blood t-shirt and rolled up blue jeans. His feet were bare.

The only sign of injuries: his hand, dripping blood. Whenever he turned it up, Erith saw, in place of a palm, a gory hole.

So bloody hand aside, he looked remarkably good for a ghost in Tartarus. He had been dead, for what―nearly a year by now? And yet he didn't look decomposed at all.

Ironic, that Erith looked worse than a ghost. Felt worse, too, probably. Her head buzzed. White steam rose from her body, but the heat was no worse than it had been. Her clothes were absolutely shredded, and she was down to undergarments, which were doing nothing for the rocky terrain―er, the previously rocky terrain.

Because right now, everything was smooth blackness. She turned in every direction: black. Black, black, black. Nothing but darkness. There was no ceiling, no walls, and although the ground under her feet felt solid, there was nothing that identified it as ground.

The only two things that weren't putrid nothingness were Luke and herself.

Which prompted her first question: "Where's Percy?"

Luke raised his eyebrows. "You're talking to a dead man, and you could be dead yourself, and you're asking about Jackson?" He shook his head. "I will never understand loyalty."

She supposed her feelings for Percy were rather―no, very―mixed right now, but at the end of the day, she needed him. It was more primal than anything, a fear of fighting alone. Even in early humans, they had fought in tribes, made families and painted things on walls. 

Humans needed humans. For art, for blood, for music. And right now, in this godforsaken place, there was only one other human. And Erith needed him more than she had ever needed anyone.

She struggled to stand, but her legs wobbled. "Just answer the question, Luke."

Luke shrugged. "Jackson's got his own demons to face. I hope he can hold his own, because they're a lot less kind than I."

Erith could've laughed had the situation not been so dire. "We both know you're not kind, Luke Castellan."

"Exactly why I wish Perseus luck." Luke scrutinized her. "This will likely be the first and last time we get to have an actual conversation. Are you going to be focused on Percy, or are you actually going to allow me to help you?"