A World of Monsters

I know I'm going to die one day (and I don't know how to feel about that)

The water running over his hand is cold.

His back hurts.

His ribs are still sore.

He feels dry, worn out and shrivelled under the sun.

One of his hands is clutching the side of the sink, knuckles white from the tight grip.

He rubs his other hand over his face, looking into the mirror as he does. He sees his eyes in the mirror, and it doesn't go unnoticed the sharp edges in them.

He leans over the sink, hair dripping from the water he splashed unto his face. He's tried to stop the dryness he's feeling every day, but he knows tap water from a shitty sink will do nothing.

He needs the ocean.

The school trip is two weeks from today, and he's trying not to count down the days or the hours, waiting for the peace of saltwater running over marred skin and aching joints.

He hates this.

Being alive but away from the thing that birthed him, the world he belongs in more than anywhere. Certainly more than a bathroom in a school in Manhattan, with white subway tiles and loud air conditioning.

The sea is his first home, followed by this city and camp. He's always going to be well and truly safe in his father's domain, monsters being too smart to attack him while he's surrounded by something that heals and strengthens him.

If he could, he would grab her wrist, and sink with her below the waves forever. Just them, two lovers surrounded by tides and in love, the light from the sun casting long shadows on the ocean floor.

And when it grows dark they'll lay on the sand and watch the fish as they circle overhead. They'll point to the sharks like they're their stars, and he'll tell her what type they are, tell them something cool that makes her laugh.

He can't do that.

He has a place on the world of solid ground, his mom and stepfather. The hundreds of kids who look up to him and run up to him in the arena with its sandy floors and beg for him to teach them what he knows. The friends who he is the anchor to.

His cousins with their quirks and traumas. He's the oldest of them, mentally at least.

Nico with his anger and pain, and he can offer understanding and love, knowing what darkness and hell feels like, knowing what it's like to want to give up, to stop existing and float away like a rouge, blood red, ballon.

Hazel and her excitement, him always pushing and encouraging her to be better, to not let anything shes done define her, to continue to love and fight, to manipulate enemies with the mist and not think herself a villain.

Bianca and her confusion, him being able to understand tell her what happened, tell her that she isn't a monster because the earth whispered to her, anyone is easily swayed by false promises and hope fueled by love and regret.

Jason and the comfort and strength he gives off, and the hugs and fistbumps, a mutual bond that comes from trying to kill each other before they became friends.

And Thalia, who he loves no matter how many times they fight or spar, who has known him for so long that she knows when he's not okay when he needs support when the world weighs heavy on his shoulders.

Support from other people; it's nice. He's been the one giving it for so long that he's forgotten what it's like. And it comes in big and small gestures.

The small gestures are steady hands on a cursed point or being down to spar when he's so angry that he can't sit still and needs to release it. The hugs and smiles, delirious kisses.

The big ones are the explanations and covers for him, saving his pride and not making him out to be weak like someone had done before. Allowing him to be angry, to sob into their arms, to be quiet and not talk, or to allow him to talk and talk because that's what's keeping him going.

To scream and curse, while hot tears run down his skin. To curse every person who hurts the woman he loves, to allow him to sit after every battle, muttering prayers for the dead souls - friend or foe.

It's an interesting thought. When he was younger, he thought that sometimes really really bad people deserve to die. But now that he's older and he's lost so many, sometimes he wonders if even his enemies deserve to be cut down without an ounce of regret.

Is murder better, more humane, then letting someone rot in a cell for the rest of their lives? He'll never know. He doesn't want to know.

He wonders how he'll die.

He's uncomfortably aware of his mortality, and sometimes when she lies asleep next to him, he'll stare at the ceiling, thoughts of death hanging over him.

Maybe he'll be hit from behind i\by a monster with impeccable aim. Maybe he'll be walking alone at night and some bastard will attack him and he'll fight and fight but maybe the bullets are in him before he can pray for the gods to come to him.

Who knows?

Certainly not him.

He splashes his face again, the cold water doing little to make him feel better. It gives him a quick shock and a spark of adrenaline, but he can't help but ache for the power and force that comes from even a drop of seawater.

Maybe he should start to carry around a bott;e of the stuff.

That may help.

Tan hands run under the creaky faucet's flow of water, the drops of water gathering on top of the raised and marred flesh.

The burns on his back, eternally painful no matter what groan in protest as he leans far over the sink, wet hair sticking to his forehead and the almost gone bruises remind him that they still exist.

Everything hurts.

He can't remember the last time something didn't ache, didn't feel bad. It was probably long before Gabe came into the picture, possibly before he could remember.

The realisation of years spent in pain is a harsh one. Pain is a universal experience for all the bastards living on this planet, but pleasure is for the rich and unscarred and healthy.

Demigods only know pain.

Even if they live past the normal age, which only a handful have done in the past few centuries, their adult lives are never fun. Mental health is never good, their bodies scream from the issues and absence of danger, the thing demigods are made to combat.,

Their footsoldiers, the footsoldiers of the gods. Their teen years are bloody and violent and short, tragedies. And the thing is, once a demigod has gotten their first kill, fought their first monster, had their blood drawn by an enemy, held a weapon there's no going back.

Their bodies crave that, the wild immortality of their parents flowing through them and driving them into madness and hurt needing to fight to feel right. Blood lust and violent, they drive themselves to the ground, taking their lives down with them.

Mortal in their body and weakness. Immortal in their energy and ambition.

Red blood.

Golden ambition.

It never ends well.

-

Probably one of the best chapters I've ever written. It was nice to be able to explore and understand the psyche of Percy, tell you guys what I think drives him and what he truly wants. The beginning is inspired by the fic "Bathroom Reflections" by everlarklane, on Ao3. The end is inspired by one of my fics, out in the open, specifically chapter 17, Golden Divinity, which is the second favourite thing I've ever written. (maybe go check it out????)