Rewriting to improve writing.
"Gods are born out of the need of humans but they shall die at the hands of the ones they've wronged."
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The world of demigods has never been a safe one, plagued by monsters, the wrath of gods, and the impending d...
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My father asked me how I pride myself in being better than him; I don't, perhaps that is why I hate myself just as much as I hate him.
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༺♥༻✧ Tw- none.
*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿
The world seemed to shift, tilt, and do a lazy pirouette around Luke.
It was as though the entire universe had decided to mess with him, like the gods themselves were watching from Olympus with popcorn in hand, cheering on the ridiculousness that his life had become. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thought bitterly. Here he was, supposed to be the cool, calm, collected Luke, the one everyone thought had his head screwed on right. But no-nothing made sense, and yet, somehow, everything made sense in the blink of an eye. And that, more than anything, was the most annoying part.
No, no, no. Please. Let this be confusing. Let me flounder in self-pity for a bit longer.
He wanted it all to be unclear, hazy, as if he could pin this massive mistake of trusting someone-this someone who now stood before him, smug and unrepentant-on the sheer opacity of life. But no. Of course not. Fate, being the cruel mistress she was, decided to lay everything bare. Every red flag that had been screaming in his face. Every sign. Every gut instinct he had ignored because he was too busy proving to himself, and everyone else, that he was not the traitor.
Hah, joke's on me.
As much as he wanted to call her a liar, he couldn't. And wasn't that just the worst? It would've been so easy. Just call her a liar, Luke, you fool. Go ahead. Do it. But nope, she hadn't really hidden herself, not from his eyes, at least. Not from Y/n's eyes. Those damn soulful eyes that had seen so much in the brief time they had spent together-her soul practically laid out like an open book, waiting for him to turn the pages. And yet... somehow... he had skipped straight to the epilogue, missing all the very obvious clues along the way.
Because, you know, why pay attention to details when you're blinded by the thought of someone else being the villain in your story?
He was an idiot. A big idiot.
Luke brandished Backbiter with a sharp, dramatic shing!-the kind of sound that Hollywood sound engineers would sell their souls to create. He pointed the blade directly at her, the girl he had trusted through hiccup after hiccup, through every storm that had rocked their little boat. The girl he had once been so sure of, the girl who, despite all the chaos, had never made him fear for his life. Because in his head, she was the truthful one, the one who would never betray him.
Oh, how wrong you were, Luke. Oh, how gloriously wrong.
Was this his karma? Was this how Annabeth and Percy had felt in that damned forest? Was this the price of being too trusting, too blinded by loyalty or whatever twisted thing he had convinced himself this was?
