𝐂œ𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐬é𝐬 [Percy Jackson]

106

"Then come with us," Hadrian tried to pour some charmspeak into his voice. "Help us."

"HA!"

Hadrian jumped. In the bed, Percy muttered deliriously in his sleep, "Ha, ha, ha."

"Child of Eros," the giant said, "I am not your friend. I helped mortals once, and you see where it got me."

"You helped mortals?" Hadrian knew nothing about this guy. He wished Annabeth was here, so she could bump shoulders with him and call him an idiot before explaining the story. As irritating as she was sometimes, he missed her. "I—I don't understand."

"Bad story," Bob explained. "Good giants have bad stories. Damasen was created to oppose Ares."

"Yes," the giant agreed. "Like all my brethren, I was born to answer a certain god. My foe was Ares. But Ares was the god of war. And so, when I was born—"

"You were his opposite," Hadrian guessed. "You were peaceful."

"Peaceful for a giant, at least." Damasen sighed. "I wandered the fields of Maeonia, in the land you now call Turkey. I tended my sheep and collected my herbs. It was a good life. But I would not fight the gods. My mother and father cursed me for that. The final insult: One day the Maeonian drakon killed a human shepherd, a friend of mine, so I hunted the creature down and slew it, thrusting a tree straight through its mouth. I used the power of the earth to regrow the tree's roots, planting the drakon firmly in the ground. I made sure it would terrorize mortals no more. That was a deed Gaea could not forgive."

"Because you helped someone?"

"Yes." Damasen looked ashamed. "Gaea opened the earth, and I was consumed, exiled here in the belly of my father Tartarus, where all the useless flotsam collects—all the bits of creation he does not care for." The giant plucked a flower out of his hair and regarded it absently. "They let me live, tending my sheep, collecting my herbs, so I might know the uselessness of the life I chose. Every day—or what passes for day in this lightless place—the Maeonian drakon re-forms and attacks me. Killing it is my endless task."

Hadrian gazed around the hut, trying to imagine how many eons Damasen had been exiled here—slaying the drakon, collecting its bones and hide and meat, knowing it would attack again the next day. Like Sisyphus pushing the rock uphill, endlessly.

He could barely imagine surviving a week in Tartarus. Exiling your own son here for centuries—that was beyond cruel.

"Break the curse," he blurted out. "Come with us."

Damasen chuckled sourly. "As simple as that. Don't you think I have tried to leave this place? It is impossible. No matter which direction I travel, I end up here again. The swamp is the only thing I know—the only destination I can imagine. No, little demigod. My curse has overtaken me. I have no hope left."

"No hope," Bob echoed.

"There must be a way." Hadrian couldn't stand the expression on the giant's face. It was the look of heartbreak and resignation. Knowing, that he could never have what he wanted.

"Bob has a plan to reach the Doors of Death," he insisted. "He said we could hide in some sort of Death Mist."

"Death Mist?" Damasen scowled at Bob. "You would take them to Akhlys?"

Hadrian almost misheard the name as Achilles. 

"It is the only way," Bob said.

"You will die," Damasen said. "Painfully. In darkness. Akhlys trusts no one and helps no one."

Bob looked like he wanted to argue, but he pressed his lips together and remained silent.

"Of course we will" Hadrian grumbled, he was getting tired of all the pain, death, great suffering warnings. "Is there another way?"

"No," Damasen said. "The Death Mist... that is the best plan. Unfortunately, it is a terrible plan."

Hadrian felt like he was hanging over the pit again, unable to pull himself up, unable to maintain his grip—left with no good options.

"But isn't it worth trying?" he asked. "You could return to the mortal world. You could see the sun again."

"The sun" Damasen mumbled. Hadrian tried not to think of Kira. He had to make it to the Doors of Death— for Percy and for her. He really hoped they were captured over there, so that Hadrian could rescue her and then they'd all make it out of this wretched place. 

Damasen's eyes were like the sockets of the drakon's skull— dark and hollow, devoid of hope. He flicked a broken bone into the fire and rose to his full height—a massive red warrior in sheepskin and drakon leather, with dried flowers and herbs in his hair. Hadrian could see how he was the anti-Ares. Ares was the worst god, blustery and violent. Damasen was the best giant, kind and helpful... and for that, he'd been cursed to eternal torment.

"It's warm" Hadrian explained, "And it makes you sweat but it makes beautiful paintings in the sky at daybreak and sunset. It's yellow and orange sometimes, but you can't look at it directly or it will hurt your eyes"

For a moment, Damasen looked like he might give in.

"Get some sleep," the giant said instead. "I will prepare supplies for your journey. I am sorry, but I cannot do more."

Hadrian wanted to argue, but as soon as Damasen said sleep, his body betrayed him, despite his resolution never to sleep in Tartarus again. His belly was full. The fire made a pleasant crackling sound. The herbs in the air smelled fragrant, like he was in a flower field.

"Maybe a little sleep," he agreed. "Thank you, Damasen, Bob"

Bob scooped him up like a rag doll. He didn't protest. He set Hadrian next to Percy on the giant's bed, and he closed his eyes.