𝐂œ𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐬é𝐬 [Percy Jackson]

90

When they reached the ledge, Hadrian was sure he'd signed their death warrants.

The cliff dropped more than eighty feet. At the bottom stretched a nightmarish version of the Grand Canyon: a river of fire cutting a path through a jagged obsidian crevasse, the glowing red current casting horrible shadows across the cliff faces.

Even from the top of the canyon, the heat was intense. The chill of the River Cocytus hadn't left Hadrian's bones, but now his face felt raw and sunburned. Every breath took more effort, as if his chest was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. The cuts on his hands bled more rather than less. Hadrian's shoulder, which had been almost healed, seemed to be reinjuring itself. 

Assuming they could make it down to the fiery river, which he doubted, what would they do?

"Uh..." Percy examined the cliff. He pointed to a tiny fissure running diagonally from the edge to the bottom. "We can try that ledge there. Might be able to climb down."

He didn't say they'd be crazy to try. He managed to sound hopeful. Hadrian was grateful for that, but he also worried that he was leading Percy to his doom.

Of course if they stayed here, they would die anyway. Blisters had started to form on their arms from exposure to the Tartarus air. The whole environment was about as healthy as a nuclear blast zone.

Percy went first. The ledge was barely wide enough to allow a toehold. Their hands clawed for any crack in the glassy rock. Every time Hadrian had to use his right arm, he wanted to cry out in pain. He ripped the other sleeve and the bottom part of his t-shirt off as well so he looked like he was wearing a sleeveless crop top. He used the cloth to wrap his bloody palms, but his fingers were still slippery and weak.

A few steps below him, Percy grunted as he reached for another handhold. "So... what is this fire river called?"

"The Phlegethon? Maybe?" Hadrian mumbled.

"The Phlegethon?" He shinnied along the ledge. They'd made it roughly a third of the way down the cliff—still high enough up to die if they fell. "Sounds like a marathon for hawking spitballs."

"Phlegmathon" Hadrian proposed. At least if they died like this, he'd have a smile on his face. 

They kept going, one step at a time. Hadrian's eyes stung with sweat. His arms trembled. But to his amazement, they finally made it to the bottom of the cliff.

When he reached the ground, he stumbled. Percy caught him. He was alarmed by how feverish Percy's skin felt. Red boils had erupted on his face, so he looked like a smallpox victim.

"Can't call you pretty boy anymore" Hadrian joked. 

"Of course you have to look annoyingly good even in fucking Tartarus" Percy grinned. 

"If you want me so bad, all you have to do is say the word"

His own vision was blurry. His throat felt blistered, and his stomach was clenched tighter than a fist. He had no doubt Percy was lying, he could only wonder how bad he looked. 

We have to hurry, he thought.

"Just to the river," he told Percy, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "We can do this."

They staggered over slick glass ledges, around massive boulders, avoiding stalagmites that would've impaled them with any slip of the foot. Their tattered clothes steamed from the heat of the river, but they kept going until they crumpled to their knees at the banks of the Phlegethon.

"We have to drink," Hadrian said.

Percy swayed, his eyes half-closed. It took him a three-count to respond. "Uh... drink fire?"