𝐂œ𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐬é𝐬 [Percy Jackson]

105

Cozy. 

Hadrian never thought he would describe anything in Tartarus that way, but despite the fact that the giant's hut was as big as a planetarium and constructed of bones, mud, and drakon skin, it definitely felt cozy.

In the center blazed a bonfire made of pitch and bone; yet the smoke was white and odorless, rising through the hole in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with dry marsh grass and gray wool rugs. At one end lay a massive bed of sheepskins and drakon leather. At the other end, freestanding racks were hung with drying plants, cured leather, and what looked like strips of drakon jerky. The whole place smelled of stew, smoke, basil, and thyme.

Part of him was tempted to run, but Bob had already placed Percy in the giant's huge bed, where he nearly disappeared in the wool and leather. Small Bob hopped off Percy and kneaded the blankets, purring so strongly the bed rattled like a Thousand-Finger Massage.

Damasen plodded to the bonfire. He tossed his drakon meat into a hanging pot that seemed to be made from an old monster skull, then picked up a ladle and began to stir.

Hadrian didn't want to be the next ingredient in his stew, but he'd come here for a reason. He took a deep breath and marched up to Damasen. "My- my friend is dying. Can you cure him or not?"

His voice caught on the word friend. Percy was a lot more than that. Even if Percy would never see him that way, Hadrian would take whatever part of Percy he could take. If that was just "friend" he'd take that as well. 

Damasen looked down at him, glowering under his bushy red eyebrows. Hadrian had met large scary humanoids before, but Damasen unsettled him in a different way. He didn't seem hostile. He radiated sorrow and bitterness, as if he were so wrapped up in his own misery that he resented Hadrian for trying to make him focus on anything else.

"I don't hear words like those in Tartarus," the giant grumbled. "Friend. Promise."

Hadrian crossed his arms. "How about gorgon's blood? Can you cure that, or was Bob just bluffing about your talents?"

Angering a twenty-foot-tall drakon slayer probably wasn't a wise strategy, but Percy was dying. He didn't have time for diplomacy.

Damasen scowled at him. "You question my talents? A half-dead mortal straggles into my swamp and questions my talents?"

"Yep," he said.

"Hmph." Damasen handed Bob the ladle. "Stir."

As Bob tended the stew, Damasen perused his drying racks, plucking various leaves and roots. He popped a fistful of plant material into his mouth, chewed it up, then spat it into a clump of wool.

"Cup of broth," Damasen ordered.

Bob ladled some stew juice into a hollow gourd. He handed it to Damasen, who dunked the chewed-up gunk ball and stirred it with his finger.

"Gorgon's blood," he muttered. "Hardly a challenge for my talents."

He lumbered to the bedside and propped up Percy with one hand. Small Bob the kitten sniffed the broth and hissed. He scratched the sheets with his paws like he wanted to bury it.

"You're going to feed him that?" Hadrian asked.

The giant glared at him. "Who is the healer here? You?"

Hadrian shut up. He watched as the giant made Percy sip the broth. Damasen handled him with surprising gentleness, murmuring words of encouragement that he couldn't quite catch.

With each sip, Percy's color improved. He drained the cup, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked around with a dazed expression, spotted Hadrian, and gave him a drunken grin. "Feel great."