ocean eyes || Percy Jackson (HoO)

I CHANNEL CINDERELLA ON A SPIRITUAL LEVEL

He loved her, with more love than he ever thought possible, but he never said it enough. He'd learn to regret that, soon. 

He opened his mouth, and was about to tell her just that, when a too-loud CLANG echoed through the dungeon.

The huge, metallic double-doors off to Percy's left opened with a hiss of smoke. As expected, Percy's (current) worst nightmare strolled in. A figure, dressed from head to toe in a black cloak, so cliché and stereotypical of some storybook super bad guy that he half expected them to break into a villain monologue. But, unfortunately, they were silent, which was much worse. There was only a swish of the cloak around their shoulders—not even footsteps—as the nightmare glided towards—

Oh, gods.

"Don't touch her," Percy snarled, as the shadow advanced on Annabeth in her cell. He knew his voice was barely loud enough, but was surprised when the figure stopped. There was a strange, high-pitched whining coming from the cloaked thing, but it was almost inaudible. Percy felt his heart skip a few beats, as the demon's face turned painfully slowly to stare at him—no, to state straight through him.

The beast's face was obscured in the darkness, the hood casting it into shadow. But the eyes—the eyes shone through the shadows, like torches. They were grey, but not the same grey as Annabeth's. They were a cold, dead grey, with elements of a murky green. It was like Percy was staring straight into the most polluted part of the Mississippi River. It sent shivers down his spine, and he felt like something was pressing down on his brain, trying to tell him—warn him of something that was just out of reach.

With another whoosh of its cloak, the nightmare drifted towards where Percy was laying. The Son of Poseidon strained against the leather straps, trapping him to the stone. As the shadow got closer, Percy began to realise that the thing wasn't just a clump of bushfire smoke (if you don't know what bushfire smoke is, then you've never been to Australia—Percy did, once, when he was a lot younger and it was one of the most traumatic experiences of his life) with a billowing cloak. Instead, it was solid and hovering ever so slightly above the ground. Its hands appeared from within the robe, and Percy's heart lurched.

At first, he thought they were just like everybody else's done here; dead, shrivelled and grey. And then he began to realise that it was different. As the monster lifted their hands upwards, reaching for their hood, the movements were jerky and disconnected. As the fingers were flexed, spontaneous but quiet cracks ripple through the air. It sounded almost as if its bones were cracking, but like the bones were made of stone.

"What do you want?" Was what Percy tried to say, but it came out more like, "Whaddya wan'?" Which was not nearly as intimidating.

The old-weird-stoney-bad-dark-dead guy was beside Percy's makeshift bed (he thought that sounded nicer than the Stone Table because Narnia's fictional and should remain fictional). The demigod swallowed thickly, but the lump in his throat didn't recede. The weird hands were slowly pulling the black cowl from around his head, which Percy wasn't surprised about—all bad dudes are the same. Drama, drama, drama; it's all about the drama.

But once the hood was off, Percy wished the man had kept it on longer, because before him stood his ex-stepfather, as solid as rock but not one bit different.

Gabe Ugliano.

"You're s'posed to be dead," Percy gasped, fear instantly striking him numb. This man—this man, who spent his whole life trying to make Percy's as miserable as possible. This monster, that was so utterly human, that he masked Percy's own smell. This human that was inhumane that even the other monsters steered clear. Standing right in front of him. Gaunter, deader, greyer than Percy remembered (and tried not to), but there.