GREEK TRAGEDY [PERCY JACKSON A.U] ✓

SEVENTEEN: THE FIRST REPRIEVE

Percy arrived back to camp and found a full search party looking for him.

"Wait!" Nico DiAngelo shouted upon spotting him. "He's back!"

A group of people raced towards him, and the smallest of them slammed into Percy's legs, wrapping him in a hug.

"Percy!" Henry cried. "Where'd you go?"

Percy hoisted Henry up into his arms before answering: "I went to go visit your dad, dude. Had a talk with him about your sister."

The way Henry's face lit up at the mention of both his father and sister was enough to wrench at Percy's heartstrings. The poor boy had been through absolute and total hell for the whole summer, and Percy hated to give him false hope, especially when there was no guarantee that anything would actually work. So he tried to smile as best he could, and attempted to pacify the boy.

"Okay, little man. Let's get you back to your cabin."

Percy looked over his shoulder at the crowd of his friends and fellow campers, noticing how they all looked like they wanted to ask him a million questions, or maybe yell at him for sneaking out. Even Pollux wore a grim expression, and in his eyes Percy could see a hit of what used to be Castor's turbulent moods.

He vowed to talk to them later, tell them—or at least Pollux—everything that he had learned up on Olympus. But for now, since Althea couldn't be there to play parent to her little brother, he would have to try.

🍇

"Hey, Thea."

Percy was at Althea's bedside once more, this time with a tiny bit more hope. Even so, he kept his expectations as low as he could. He was not prepared, emotionally, mentally, or physically, to deal with the repercussions of Dionysus's plan not working.

He held Althea's Thyrsus in his right hand, fingers probing the metallic finish of the hefty pinecone. He had seen her use it, only once or twice, and she had always made wielding the weapon look so easy. But as he felt the weight of it in his hand and did what she always did, wrap her hand around the base of it and hold it up high, he didn't feel the deep hum of powerful energy that she described.

Even in the paintings and sculptures depicting Dionysus using the weapon, it looked effortless, like the Thyrsus was an extension of his arm.

But the son of Poseidon had no such luck.

Sighing, he uncurled the fingers of Althea's left hand, the one she held all her weapons with, and placed the staff of the Thyrsus in her palm.

Then he sat back and waited for something to happen.

Other than her eyelids fluttering slightly, and her right, empty hand moving almost imperceptibly. It was such a miniscule movement, barely even a twitch. The staff didn't expand, and there was no glowing or angels singing, or whatever was supposed to happen.

The strange thing was, however, that he heard the humming energy. It was so quiet that he had to hold his breath to hear, but it was there, noticeable enough that he shot up from his chair and took several steps back.

It didn't matter if he put her sword, cell phone, or any other object in her hand; he'd never experienced such a definitive sign of godly power from a comatose Althea in the months since she'd declined.

That was a good enough sign for him. He'd take that and run with it.

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to feel the spike of hope that shot through him like a bullet. He let himself really feel it, not just push it down like he always did.