Percy Jackson Meet The Underland

Where are we?

Howard POV

COZY.

I never thought I would describe anything in this place that way, but although the man's hut was as big as a planetarium and constructed of bones and mud, it felt cozy.

In the center blazed a bonfire made of pitch and bone; yet the smoke was white and odorless, rising through the hole in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with dry marsh grass and gray wool rugs. At one end lay a massive bed of sheepskins and drakon leather. At the other end, freestanding racks were hung with drying plants, cured leather, and what looked like strips of minotaur jerky. The whole place smelled of stew, smoke, basil, and thyme.

The only thing that worried Howard was the flock of sheep huddled in a pen at the back of the hut.

Part of him was tempted to run, but Gregor had already placed Percy in the giant's bed, where he nearly disappeared in the wool and leather. Mareth hopped off the chair and layed down on the bed.

Damasen plodded to the bonfire. He tossed his minotaur meat into a hanging pot that seemed to be made from an old monster skull, then picked up a ladle and began to stir.

Annabeth didn't want to be the next ingredient in his stew, but she'd come here for a reason. She took a deep breath and marched up to Damasen. "My friend is dying. Can you cure him or not?"

Her voice caught on the word friend. Percy was a lot more than that. Even boyfriend didn't cover it. They'd been through so much together, at this point Percy was part of her—a sometimes annoying part, sure, but a part she could not live without.

The man looked down at him, glowering under his bushy red eyebrows. Howard had met large scary humanoids before, but this man unsettled him differently. He didn't seem hostile. He radiated sorrow and bitterness as if he were so wrapped up in his misery that he resented Annabeth for trying to make him focus on anything else.

"I don't hear words like those in this place," the man grumbled. "Friend. Promise."

Howard crossed his arms. "How about a concussion? Can you cure that, or did we overstate your talents?"

Angering a guy we had no idea of what power he possessed probably wasn't a wise strategy, but Percy was dying. He didn't have time for diplomacy.

The man scowled at her. "You question my talents? A half-dead mortal struggles into my home and questions my talents?"

"Yep," he said.

"Hmph." The man handed Gregor the ladle. "Stir."

As Gregor tended the stew, the man perused his drying racks, plucking various leaves and roots. He popped a fistful of plant material into his mouth, chewed it up, then spat it into a clump of wool.

"Cup of broth," the man ordered.

Gregor ladled some stew juice into a hollow gourd. He handed it to the man, who dunked the chewed-up gunk ball and stirred it with his finger.

"Concussion" he muttered. "Hardly a challenge for my talents."

He lumbered to the bedside and propped up Percy with one hand. Mareth sniffed the broth and backed away. He layed back down.

"You're going to feed him that?" Howard asked.

The man glared at her. "Who is the healer here? You?"

Howard shut his mouth. He watched as the man-made Percy sip the broth. The manhandled him with surprising gentleness, murmuring words of encouragement that he couldn't quite catch.

With each sip, Percy's color improved. He drained the cup, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked around with a dazed expression, spotted Howard, and gave him a drunken grin. 

"Feel great."

His eyes rolled up in his head. He fell back in the bed and began to snore.

"A few hours of sleep," the man pronounced. "He'll be good as new."

Howard sobbed with relief.

"Thank you," she said.

The man stared at him mournfully. "Oh, don't thank me. You're still doomed. And I require payment for my services."

Howard's mouth went dry. "Uh...what sort of payment?"

"A story." The man's eyes glittered. "It gets boring in Tartarus. You can tell me your story while we eat, eh?"

Howard felt uneasy telling a giant about their plans.

Still, this guy was a good host. He'd saved Percy. His minotaur-meat stew was excellent. His hut was warm and comfortable,  Howard felt like he could relax. Which was ironic, since he was having dinner with a man he didn't know.

He told the man about his life and his adventures with Gregor. He explained how Gregor had met him.

Gregor washed his bowl with his squirt bottle and rag.

The man-made a rolling gesture with his spoon. "Continue your story, Howard."

He explained about their quest to find some guy. When he got to the part about their friend's deaths he faltered.

The man scraped his bowl. His face was covered with old poison burns, gouges, and scar tissue, so it looked like the surface of an asteroid.

"All of this." The man cracked a minotaur bone and used a splinter as a toothpick. "All that you see is the body of Tartarus or at least one manifestation of it. He knows you are here. The gods send monsters to hunt you. Remarkably, you have lived this long."

The man spat out his toothpick. "I can obscure your path for a while, long enough for you to rest. I have power in this swamp. But eventually, they will catch you."

"We must find this guy," Gregor said. "That is the way to save this place."

"Impossible," the man muttered. "He is gone forever."

Howard sat forward. "But you know where he is?"

"Of course."

"Then come with us," Howard said. "Help us."

"HA!"

Howard jumped. In the bed, Percy muttered deliriously in his sleep, "Ha, ha, ha."

"Child," the man said, "I am not your friend. I helped mortals once, and you see where it got me."

"You helped mortals?" Howard knew a lot about Greek legends, but he drew a total blank on this guy. "I—I don't understand."

"Yes," the man agreed. 

 Damasen sighed. "I founded this place and killed more than I could ever account for."

"Because you founded this place?" I looked at the ground for a moment.  Sandwich had founded this place.   

"Yes." The man looked ashamed. "I killed so many diggers.  So the gods locked me away."

Howard gazed around the hut, trying to imagine how many years he has been here

"Break the curse," he blurted out. "Come with us."

The man chuckled sourly. "As simple as that. Don't you think I have tried to leave this place? It is impossible. No matter which direction I travel, I end up here again. The swamp is the only thing I know—the only destination I can imagine. No, little child. My curse has overtaken me. I have no hope left."

"At least tell us your name before we go,"  I said looking at him hopefully.  He sighed.  

"My name," he said, "Is Bartholomew of Sandwich."