Wildfires, Heroes of Olympus ₂

063, no more mr. nice guy...

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
PERSEUS          JACKSON

Percy felt homesick for the swamp.

He never thought he'd miss sleeping in a giant's leather bed in a drakon-bone hut in a festering cesspool, but right now that sounded like Elysium.

He and Sylvie and Nemo stumbled along in the darkness. The air was thick and cold, and the ground was alternating patches of pointy rocks and pools of muck. The terrain seemed to be designed so that Percy could never let his guard down. Even walking ten feet was exhausting.

Percy had started out from the giant's hut feeling strong again, his head clear, his belly full of drakon jerky from their packs of provisions. Now his legs were sore. Every muscle ached. He pulled a makeshift tunic of drakon leather over his shredded shirt, but it did nothing to keep out the chill.

His focus narrowed to the ground in front of him. Nothing existed except for that and Sylvie at his side.

Whenever he felt like giving up, plopping himself down, and dying (which was, like, every ten minutes), he reached over and took her hand, just to remember there was warmth in the world. Sylvie was all things good, real, pure, empathetic, nurturing, and loyal that he knew.

Although, Percy couldn't deny that he was worried about her. More worried than his natural level of "very worried." She was moving too slowly, and she would occasionally let out a wheezing breath. Every time Percy questioned her about it, Sylvie shrugged her issues off. She told him she was fine, and it wasn't like Percy could stop all they were doing to investigate the validity of her statement. They were in Tartarus.

It didn't make him feel better that her stomach kept grumbling. He thought about the few grapes she'd eaten back at Hermes's shrine. He wondered if Sylvie had eaten Damasen's drakon meals back in his hut, despite the fact they were meat and she was vegetarian. Sylvie had to set that aside for the sake of starving to death. Right?

Again, Percy didn't know. Sylvie wouldn't tell him.

He did know, however, that her talk with Damasen had only pulled her further into the ocean of despair. Percy knew she tended to latch onto people who showed her hospitality and kindness. As they walked, she frowned in that way that made Percy want to carve out the nearest person's smile and give it to Sylvie to make her feel better. She was convinced they needed Damasen's help, but the giant had turned them down.

Part of Percy was relieved. He was concerned enough about Nemo's staying on their side once they reached the Doors of Death. He wasn't sure he wanted a giant as his wingman, even if that giant could cook a mean bowl of stew.

He wondered what had happened after they left Damasen's hut. He hadn't heard their pursuers in hours, but he could sense their hatred... especially Polybote's. That giant was back there somewhere, following, pushing them deeper into Tartarus.

Percy tried to think of good things to keep his spirits up—his apartment with his mom, the time Sylvie had surprised him there after he'd had a particularly bad week. The lake at Camp Half-Blood, the time he'd kissed Sylvie underwater. He tried to image the two of them at New Rome together, walking through the hills and holding hands. But Camp Jupiter, Camp Half-Blood, and home all seemed like dreams. He felt as if only Tartarus existed. This was the real world—death, darkness, cold, pain. He'd been imagining all the rest.