The Golden Assassin

Tartarus

Disclaimer: Sadly I do not own PJO or HoO series, because Rick Riordan owns it.

Percy's POV:

Nine Days.

As he fell, Percy thought about Hesiod, the old Greek poet who had speculated it would take nine days to fall from earth to Tartarus. It had been exactly eight days, twenty three hours, fifty four minutes and thirty two seconds. Even though it felt like an eternity.

Wind whistled in Percy's ears. The air grew hotter and damper, as if he was plummeting into the throat of a massive dragon. It has just been two hours exactly since he woke up. Though it had taken a heck of a time for him to completely receive the blessing, but it was completely worth it. The knowledge that he now pertained was beyond the comprehension of the mortals.

Suddenly, the chute he had been falling through opened into a vast cavern. Maybe half a mile below them, Percy could see the bottom. He confirmed it as his sense informed him that it had been approximately nine days, since he fell into the pit. The entire island of Manhattan could have fit inside this cavern — and he couldn't even see its full clouds hung in the air like vaporized blood. The landscape — at least what he could see of it — was rocky black plains, punctuated by jagged mountains and fiery chasms. To Percy's left, the ground dropped off in a series of cliffs, like colossal steps leading deeper into the abyss.

The stench of sulphur made it hard to concentrate, but he focused on the ground directly below him and saw a ribbon of glittering black liquid—a river. He immediately knew what he had to do. Suddenly he felt a tug in the pit of his stomach and the river hurtled towards him. At the last second, Percy yelled defiantly. As he knew the magical rivers of the Underworld flowed deep in Tartarus and he knew he couldn't let a single drop of water touch him. He willed the water to erupt in a massive geyser and swallow him whole, but he had enough time for one last desperate thought: Dry.

As he kicked up the murky waters of the river Cocytus, Percy was near dead with exhaustion. Usually water reinvigorated him, but not this, it had taken every bit of his strength. He knew that under any circumstances if he had to remain alive, he would have to find the river Phlegethon. When he reached the ledge, he knew that he was in a deep cliff, that about dropped more than eighty feet. At the bottom stretched a nightmarish version of the Grand Canyon: a river of fire cutting a path through a jagged obsidian crevasse, the glowing red current casting horrible shadows across the cliff faces.

He staggered over slick glass ledges, around massive boulders, avoiding stalagmites that would've impaled him with any slip of the foot. His tattered clothes steamed from the heat of the river, but he kept going until he crumpled to his knees at the banks of the Phlegethon. Though it seemed crazy, but the Phlegethon flows from Hades's realm down into Tartarus, and many legends described it as the River of Healing.

On first contact, the fire wasn't painful. It felt cold, which probably meant it was so hot it was overloading Percy's nerves. Before he could change his mind, he cupped the fiery liquid in his palms and raised it to his mouth.

He expected a taste like gasoline. It was so much worse. Once, at a restaurant back in New York, he'd made the mistake of tasting a ghost chili pepper that came with a plate of Indian food. After barely nibbling it, he thought his respiratory system was going to implode. Drinking from the Phlegethon was like gulping down a ghost chili smoothie. He felt horribly weak and nauseous, but him next breath came more easily, but he blacked out the very next moment as his severely injured body need some minimal rest at the moment.

LINE BREAK

Percy woke up as he gazed up at the blood-coloured clouds swirling in the grey haze. He hadn't had a single dream. That was so unusual, he wasn't sure if he had actually woken up. He gazed up at the blood-colored clouds swirling in the gray haze. No way would he have the strength to climb back up that cliff, even if he wanted to. Now there were only two choices: downriver or upriver, skirting the banks of the Phlegethon.