Beating Hearts

Hidden by Shadows

Currently, Percy's world was made of grey stone and contrived coral. Unmoving manatees hung from chains and strings from the ceiling and cold, empty bunks that served as a testament to just how alone a hero could be.

He had been lying in his cabin for Zeus knows how long, just staring at the ceiling.

Actually, perhaps not even the gods knew how long he'd been here. After all, they didn't seem to give any thought at all to the fleeting nature of human lifespans.

Immortals cared for time as little as they cared for promises. Which is to say, only one half-step above not at all.

Those first few weeks after the end– of the war, of his humanity, of his heart– Percy had been catatonic. With clouded eyes, glazed with a layer of detachment reminiscent of a slaughtered fish. Or, more accurately, one waiting for slaughter.

Laying in his bed, Percy had felt as though he were dead already, and was just waiting for his body to catch up. It was Nico who had decided enough was enough. Shortly after he'd been let out of his own bed– in the infirmary, as all that was available in Cabin 13 were coffins,– the gloomy teen had pulled Percy out of his sheets, forcing him to wash up, eat, and sleep according to something resembling a healthy schedule.

Unfortunately, the one thing he couldn't force Percy to do was to care. It was also the one thing that would've solved the crux of the issue.

Percy didn't want to be a burden, but it felt futile to even try to move forward. Nico's presence was the line that kept him from drifting away completely, but Percy knew it was only a matter of time before he had to choose to either let go of that thread on his own, or to wait until it couldn't hold onto him anymore and he was washed away by the tides.

Having lived his entire life surviving everything from an abusive stepfather to military academies even before discovering that he has one foot in the world of magic and myths, Percy should've been accustomed to doing things on his own.

Growing up, his mother hadn't always been there, no matter how hard she tried, and his father had never been there. On top of that, it wasn't as though Percy had any friends at school, and the teachers either looked down on him or outright despised him.

He'd had a bit of a hard life, trying his best to be a good kid but only managing to be a troublesome one.

Percy just wasn't meant to be good. He was born a mistake, grew into a hero, and now rotted away as a hollow shell.

At this point, it was better that he stop trying. All his efforts brought were trouble, for himself and for those he loved more than the world itself– though that wasn't that difficult of a feat.

With Nico– with all of his family,– Percy rarely ever felt like he was dead weight until they turned their backs. It was almost as though that deep vortex of depression wanted to help him in hiding his weakness from his friends. Percy didn't know if he should be grateful, when all of those bad feelings began to suck him up after the fact.

As the son of the sea, Percy was naturally wary of two things.

The first was the sky, the domain of an egotistical and prideful *sshole who damned others for actions he himself had done in the past. The sky was foreign territory, somewhere Percy wasn't meant to be nor welcome in.

The second was the earth. Not because of a certain primordial who Percy shouldn't think about yet, nor his rather grumpy but nice uncle, but because of the nature of the ocean.

Percy was used to his freedom. The sea was vast and constantly moving, and due to that, someone who thrived in the ocean would never be able to tolerate the claustrophobic sensation of being trapped or suffocated. Percy had experienced the former many times, but most notably in the elevators beyond the Doors of Death; he'd also suffered from the latter when he'd nearly drowned in a muskeg of an Alaskan bog.