𝐃𝐄𝐉𝐀 𝐕𝐔 • Percy Jackson.

21

THERE'S A CRY. It echoed through the desolate yet busy fields. No one glances at it, but one. He stares as Grover cried for help. Taking in his look of fear; his mouth moved with shouts, his eyebrows shot up, while his eyes opened wide, and the pupils shook turning left and right.

He stared as Percy and Annabeth panicked to find a way to prevent his foreseen doom. Yelling useless ideas that prevented nothing but bring out the chaos. Those winged shoes, white and clean, tainted with the wrath of a man willing to defy the gods as they dragged the wrong man down. Down. Down. Pulling him closer to the pit of the ancients who await for a revolution.  Yet he only stares.

He should be helping.

help–

help them.

why should I help?

How could a fool trapped like a phantom be able to help? He only laughed. Boastful and cracked.

They wouldn't hear.

They don't even look at him. He was nothing but a sad ghost, trapped and left for eternity with the only entertainment being to spectate the heroes who prevail through the misty memory of words on a couple of pages. Pages that once brought comfort in his past beating heart.

– A distant —--.

—

He clutched his head, wincing. What the fuck? He thought, glancing at Grover with furrowed eyebrows. He talked to Percy and made his occasional faces of expression. He glanced at the shoes. They were still as if they were a regular pair of shoes.

They were walking through the fields of Asphodel. Dark was one way to describe it: Black grass that had been trampled on for eons, black trees sprouted in groups around the area, while a warm breeze blew through. On the ceiling held stalactites that fell every now and then as seen when he caught a glimpse of one impaled on the ground.

As they walked, they all tried their best to blend into the crowd, keeping an eye out for security ghouls.  Amani couldn't help but observe the dead. He could see their faces; the range was pretty sparse. They looked slightly angry or confused, that was it. None would come up to him, but a few would go up to Percy who didn't seem to understand anything. That fact only made him more uncomfortable as he heard every whisper and every vowel like an echo in his ears announced with the utmost diction. Yet there was one thing he could discern:

The dead aren’t scary. They’re just sad.

They crept along, following the line of new arrivals that snaked from the main gates towards a black-tented pavilion with a banner that read:

JUDGMENTS FOR ELYSIUM AND ETERNAL DAMNATION

Welcome, Newly Deceased!

These signs are so…Amani's thoughts trailed off as he saw the tent split into two smaller lines; Elysium and punishment.

On the left, spirits surrounded by ghouls marched down a rocky path to their inevitable destiny. The Fields of Punishment glowed and smoked, red and grey. In the distance there was cracked wasteland with rivers of lava flowing through. Dotted along the landscape held minefields and miles of barbed wire to separate the different torture areas. 

The right side of the pavilion looked much nicer. It led to a smaller valley surrounded by walls, like a gated community. Beyond the gate we're neighborhoods of homes from every time period in history: Roman, medieval, and Victorian.  Silver and gold flowers bloomed on the lawns. The grass rippled in rainbow colours. He could hear laughter and smell barbecue cooking.