𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 [Jason Grace]

64

𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡. Forgetting Jason had been worse. Dante couldn't even explain what had happened. One moment he had been next to him, then the next he was terrified, not sure who's voice had been speaking to him.

For the first time, he understood what Jason and Percy had been through. Having their memories taken from them was nothing short of absolutely terrifying.

Without any memories of Jason, Dante hadn't known who he was either.

Who was Dante without Jason Grace? Who was he without his first friend? Without his first best friend? Without his first kiss? Without the first person he killed for? Without the person he hated so much it lit his insides on fire? 

Without Jason, he was nothing.

Not entirely true. But Jason had been in every part of his life since Dante came to Camp Jupiter. Whether they were friends or if Dante hated him. Jason had seeped into every part of him, like a leech. And he had refused to let go. Dante hated him.

But watching Jason slowly die from Basilisk venom was the worst curse of all.

Hipp slung Jason over his shoulder like a bag of sports equipment while the skeleton kitten Hoop curled up on Jason's back and purred. Hipp lumbered along at a fast pace, even for a Giant, which made it almost impossible for Dante to keep up.

His lungs rattled. His skin had started to blister again. He probably needed another drink of firewater, but they'd left the River Phlegethon behind. His body was so sore and battered that he'd forgotten what it was like not to be in pain.

"How much longer?" he wheezed.

"Almost too long," Hipp called back. "But maybe not."

Very helpful, Dante thought, but he was too winded to say it.

The landscape changed again. They were still going downhill, which should have made traveling easier; but the ground sloped at just the wrong angle—too steep to jog, too treacherous to let his guard down even for a moment. The surface was sometimes loose gravel, sometimes patches of slime. Dante stepped around random bristles sharp enough to impale his foot, and clusters of... well, not rocks exactly. More like warts the size of watermelons. If Dante had to guess (and he didn't want to) he supposed Hipp was leading him down the length of Tartarus's large intestine.

The air got thicker and stank of sewage. The darkness maybe wasn't quite as intense, but he could only see Hipp because of the glint of the point of his spear.

Jason flopped around, causing the kitten to readjust his nest in the small of Jason's back. Occasionally he would groan in pain, and Dante felt like a fist was squeezing his heart. He told himself it was a normal human reaction to seeing a long time friend in pain, no matter his feelings of hatred toward the boy now.

He had to concentrate on the present, putting one foot in front of the other, taking this downhill intestinal hike one giant wart at a time.

His knees felt warm and wobbly, like wire hangers bent to the point of snapping. Jason groaned and muttered something he couldn't make out.

Hipp stopped suddenly. "Look."

Ahead in the gloom, the terrain leveled out into a black swamp. Sulfur-yellow mist hung in the air. Even without sunlight, there were actual plants—clumps of reeds, scrawny leafless trees, even a few sickly-looking flowers blooming in the muck. Mossy trails wound between bubbling tar pits. Directly in front of Dante, sunk into the bog, were footprints the size of trash-can lids, with long, pointed toes.