✔ | [1] 𝒞𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒾𝒸 | ᴘᴇʀᴄʏ ᴊᴀᴄᴋꜱᴏɴ

𝓁𝓍𝒾. The grief of war

I hope ur still buckled in, guys.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

I'm in the trees; I'm in the breeze

My footsteps on the ground

You see my face in every place

But you can't catch me now

Through wading grass, the months will pass

You'll feel it all around

I'm here; I'm there; I'm everywhere

But you can't catch me now

No, you can't catch me now

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

⚔ Annabeth had expected him to cry.

But Percy was just staring. 

The moment Helena stopped breathing, the temperature in the throne room plummeted; the girl was no longer there to create that subconsciously warm atmosphere. Annabeth watched Percy's eyes lower, and as he stared at Helena's chest, he stared and stared—waiting. 

The gods arrived in their full war regalia a few minutes later, thundering into the throne room and expecting a battle.

What they found was Annabeth and Grover standing over the body of a broken half-blood in the dim, warm light of the hearth and Percy holding Helena in his arms.

"Percy," his father called, awe in his voice. "What ... what is this?"

Percy doesn't acknowledge him; he just keeps staring at Helena. None of the gods had realised what they had walked into. Percy just kept staring, and she watched a single tear fall down his cheek.

"Percy?" his father calls again, taking a step forward. His eyes fall on the body in his son's arms, and he tenses. Suddenly, everything makes sense.

Annabeth opened her mouth to say something—anything. She blinks, and suddenly, Percy is screaming. 

His screams were filled with nothing but unfiltered pain. His vision was tunnelled; her name was the only thing he knew. He screamed until his voice broke and grew hoarse and cracked. 

And then he started crying. Heart-wrenching sobs as he pulled Helena in closer as if trying to breathe life into her. Apologies tumble out of his mouth as if they would help seal the growing wound in his soul.

Poseidon walks over and places his hand on his son's shoulder. Nothing he could do would fix this; nothing would heal this pain.

The door to the throne room swung open, and the god of war sauntered in, a grin on his face as his eyes fell on the dead body of Kronos. He took a breath in; he loved war.

"Damn," Ares whistles, impressed. "Spark got him good. Where is she? Spark?"

There was no reply from anyone.

Ares looked around. The gods were never this silent. His eyebrows furrowed when his eyes fell upon his Uncle Poseidon's face.

Grief.

What was his uncle grieving, not his father; he hated that fucker, so what—Jackson? That idiot had gotten himself killed, hadn't he?