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When Percy is twelve, he is claimed by Aphrodite in a game of Capture the Flag. The game has been won, and a hellhound lays dead on the ground. Clarisse is shaking off the effects of charmspeak, and her face, tanned and sunburned in a few places, is ruddy red with rage.
“Listen here, punk,” she bites out, tongue flicking out to clear away whatever blood had leaked out from the cut on her lips. “I don’t know what freaky trick you just pulled, but -”
Annabeth cuts in, flipping a strand of wheat gold hair out from her clear blue eyes. “Lay off, Clarisse. It’s not his fault you lost.”
Clarisse glares at Annabeth. “Don’t butt in, sunshine.”
The camp is silent around the two girls, and Percy watches on, nervous, as both girls tense for a fight. Annabeth’s knuckles bleed to white as she clutches her bow with increasing intensity. Clarisse grips her spear, lightning crackling madly over the Celestial Bronze tip.
The sound of horse hooves breaks through the tense silence as Chiron breaks through the ranks of campers. “Annabeth, Clarisse, put your weapons down.” His voice, though quiet, echoes through the clearing, though neither girl pays him any heed.
Annabeth notches an arrow. Sunlight filters through the leaf canopy, despite the fact that Apollo has long since brought the sun down, and Artemis has urged the moon into the sky, and circles around the point of her arrow, harsh and blinding. The scent of burning rubber fills the air in response, and an ugly sneer paints Clarisse’s face as she crouches lower.
Percy looks between both girls. He doesn’t like Clarisse, and his feelings in regards to Annabeth after tonight’s fiasco are...iffy, at best, but some small voice in the back of his head whispers about what a disaster this would be for the relationships between the Ares Cabin and the Apollo Cabin if their head counselors were to get into a fight. The voice is right - as always - and if Percy really does focus, he can see the strained bond come into view. It’s a small thing, with two threads of fragile yarn woven together, one of sunshine yellow, and the other a rusty burgundy. The threads are braided together, worn and fraying in several places, but there, in the center, the yarn pulls taut, held together by barely three strands.
“Put down your weapons!” Percy yells. Though the past couple of days have taught him not much more than grief, pain, and war, that little boy in the corner of his mind still hates to fight.
Everyone in the clearing drops their weapons. A slim, tall girl and several of the campers surrounding her are the only ones that do not, and rather than drop her shining dagger, she leans backwards, whispering something into an Asian girl’s ear. Her ocean blue eyes glimmer with interest, and the small smile she gives him seems to have nothing but secrets within it.
A pink glow washes over the clearing, and before Percy can react, a cloud of red smoke covers his vision. The familiar feeling of panic washes over him, and he flails gracelessly, arms pinwheeling, before the smoke clears. Campers are whispering amongst themselves, strained, mocking. Percy scowls, but Chiron gets down on his front legs.
“Hail, Perseus Jackson, son of Aphrodite.”
No more needs to be said. The makeover he views in one of the many mirrors in the Aphrodite Cabin that night says all that needs to be said.
Percy simmers under the knowledge that as a child of Aphrodite, no one will take him seriously as anything but a ditzy pretty boy.
However, no one had said anything about him having to conform to that.
When Percy turns sixteen, Silena Beauregard dies. Her face corrodes, and Percy holds her in his arms, desperately praying to their mother for her to reach Elysium.
Her blue eyes are dulling, and even as she croaks out her last words, Percy tries not to cry. How many more have to be lost before enough is enough?
“See...Charlie…” she whispers, clutching limply at the dark fabric of Percy’s sweater.
“You’ll see him soon, I promise,” Percy murmurs, leaning his forehead down to touch hers. Clarisse is howling furiously in the background, the need for blood woven into her anguish.
“I’m...sorry,” Silena splutters, coughing weakly. “I wanted to...wanted to…” Her voice peeters out, too weak to continue on.
“I understand, I - I get it. It’s alright, Silena. Rest.” He effortlessly laces charmspeak into his words, even as his voice hitches and breaks horrendously in his grief.
A small, contented sigh is pulled from Silena’s color-bleached lips, as the light leaves her ocean blue eyes, and her gaze rests forever on the heavens.
Percy lets out a small squeak of a cry, leaning over to close her eyes. He rests her forehead against hers once more, even as it rapidly cools, and he lets himself fall to grief and rage, if only for a moment. The time for vengeance can come later.
He has a cabin to lead now.
After the Battle for Olympus is over, Percy rests in the back of the dining pavilion, and thinks of Silena. It’s far easier than thinking of how many demigods and monsters he’d killed through the past week, through Anaklusmos’ glowing blade or through charmspeak.
It’s far easier than thinking of how bitter he was, how much he had hated Luke in those few moments, of how he’d hesitated to give him the knife, and how, if he hadn’t given Luke that knife, then Kronos would have won.
He closes his eyes, settles his chin atop the palm of his hands, and lets himself slip back into easier memories.
Percy is twelve. The day after Capture the Flag had been the hardest, but despite that, Silena was fair, and sat the entire cabin down before they would head off to breakfast.
“Alright, ladies, gentlemen, we have a new sibling. Percy, if you would?” She gestures for him, smile soft and brilliantly white. His limbs are still awkward, and he is still clumsy, and because he knows that, despite the miracle makeover from Aphrodite, Percy feels like a phony amongst his half-siblings. The Asian girl raises an expertly waxed eyebrow at him, and he can feel his face go pink, and then red.
The cabin is quiet, and Silena lets out a soft breath. “Alright. Let’s head to breakfast. I’m sure you’ll all find time to get acquainted with him soon.”
The rest of the cabin begins to file out, the low sound of chatter filling the space where there was once silence. The Asian girl slows her steps, coming to a stop besides Percy.
“You have to do better than that,” she remarks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Dead silence? I mean, come on.” She pulls a face, likely mocking his own expression, and rolls her eyes.
“I’m sorry…?” Percy stares at her, shrugging his shoulders.
“See?” She jabs a finger into his chest. “Carry yourself with confidence, gods. You’re a child of Aphrodite!”
“Well, I feel like a phony,” he declares.
“Well, don’t,” she mimics. “Drew Tanaka. I’m a charmspeaker too.” Drew makes a motion, as if expecting Percy to respond. When he doesn’t, she rolls her eyes and continues. “That means we have to stick together.”
“I’m...not a charmspeaker?”
Drew rolls her eyes, looking upwards as if asking some god or goddess for help. “Of course you are. How else would you have managed to get Annabeth and Clarisse to drop their weapons?” She sighs, flipping a few strands of expertly curled hair over her shoulder. “Whatever. Let’s hurry and catch up with Silena. She can explain more about charmspeak to you.”
Percy is 12. He sits outside of the Aphrodite cabin, the night time air muggy and heavy around him. His knees are drawn close to his chest, and his breath still hiccups and wavers slightly.
The boards of the steps creak slightly underneath Silena’s bare footsteps, and silently, Percy scoots over so she can sit too.
“The harpies are going to eat you if you stay out for much longer, Percy,” she remarks blandly.
“I know.” His voice is dull and muffled.
“Do you want to talk about it?” It being why he’s crying. It being his mother, gone in a shower of golden dust, panicked words vanishing into the rain, and the Minotaur’s rumbling roars.
His mother is dead, and Percy doesn’t know if it wants to talk about it.
“Not really.”
Silena ruffles his hair, in a gesture that is so much like what his mother used to do, that something cracks in his chest. He bites his lip, rolling it in between his teeth as his eyes begin to water. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Percy sinks further into himself, as his eyes sting more and more, and soon, it comes spilling out. Quietly, at first, a trickle of information, about Smelly Gabe, and the suspicion that he’d seen Mom as a baby - with her golden glow, warm and loving, and the sensation of a slim hand atop his forehead. The rest of it comes out stronger, spilling out more and more, with the same force as a waterfall. Everything comes out, Yancy Academy, stupid Nancy, Mrs. Dodds, and his mom disappearing into a shower of gold. Silena rides out his breakdown with the patience of a saint, and by the end of it, Percy finds himself much calmer than he was before.
Silena smiles at him, soft and warm, and he smiles back at her, watery and unsure, but all the same, something more solid than what he’s had the past few days.
It’s only temporary, this stagnant calm, but all the while, for now, for tonight, it’s enough.
It’s enough.
Percy is 14, and when he comes into camp, Drew grasps him by the shoulders, dashing out in front of Silena, eyes him up and down critically, and then pins him with the sharpest glare she can manage.
“You. Grew,” she accuses, hands on her hips. Percy looks down, to see her in three inch heels, and stares back at the expanse of grass she’d crossed without tripping, and decides not to ask.
“I did,” he affirms slowly. “Most teenagers do that.”
Drew sighs, and plucks at his shirt as well. “You grew, didn’t really buy any new clothes, and then you have the nerve to show up to camp wearing this?”
Looking down, Percy smoothes down his Nirvana tee-shirt with a small frown. “I don’t see a problem with it...it looks fine right? There aren’t any holes...and it’s clean...so…” He looks to Silena for help, but she’s busy flirting with Beckendorf. He’s not getting any help from her.
His half-sister wrinkles her nose, and crosses her arm. “Gods, Percy. If you’re going to try and go for the whole ripped-jeans-band-shirt-bad-boy look, at least try to make it look decent.”
He’s not offended. Really, he’s not. (he’s just the tiniest bit offended.)
“Silena!” Drew punctuates each syllable sharply, bratty and commandeering enough that it manages to pull Silena away from where she’s flirting with Beckendorf. “I’m taking Percy into the Closet! I’m going to fix his clothing, and work on charmspeak.”
She wraps a vice-like grip around his wrist, and off they go. In the background, faintly, Percy can hear Silena laughing, sounds like a tinkling bell, delicate and soft.
“So,” Drew drawls - and Percy knows he’s in trouble now. “A little birdie told me that you finally realized that you have a huge, stinking crush on our resident piece of sunshine.” Percy knows Drew well enough now to know that her aforementioned “little birdie” is Silena - traitor, he thinks, half fond, and half exasperated - and the “resident piece of sunshine” is Annabeth. It takes another moment for him to register what she’s just said.
“No!” The word comes out harshly, as Percy spits it out with as much conviction as he can garner. He won’t break Annabeth’s heart for some stupid Aphrodite Cabin tradition. He can’t. He’s spent so long with her, that at this point, he’s halfway (wholly) certain that if he were to break her heart, his would break as well.
Drew steps back, and even though the word is laced and all but soaked through with charmspeak, it doesn’t faze her. The words have no direction, no meaning other than just sheer desperation, and the power in them fizzles and dies out. If anything fazes her, it’s the look on his face, mottled a dusky pink, and drawn tight.
“No?” Her voice is hushed. “That’s such bullcrap, Jackson.” She gestures angrily out into the vast expanse of grass and weeds, painted cabins, sand plots, and the general empty of midday. Everyone else is at activities, but the Aphrodite Cabin has an off period. “We’ve listened to you moon over Annabeth fucking sunshine incarnate Chase for two years. Don’t tell me you don’t have a crush on her, because I swear.” The unspoken threat hangs between them, heavy and dark, because Percy knows how Drew feels about this. He understands how much she craves the simplest form of affections, from Silena and their half-siblings, to her always absent father. He’s spent many a sleepless night, at the risk of massive eye bags and an embarrassing face-plant into a cereal bowl (being twelve was never the most fun) up with Drew, as she clutches at her wrists, clawing and crying. Why am I not enough for him? She wails, throaty and utterly devastated. She beats against his chest, and he wipes her tears, and smoothes her hair down, much like Silena and his mother does for him.
Her eyes are not watery, but hard, dark adamant. “Don’t say anything,” she snaps. “You can make it up to me by letting me choose your clothing.”
Percy takes one of her hands in his, and she rolls her eyes, but closes her hands around his. Her hands are warm in his, and Drew drags him off into the Aphrodite Cabin. The conversation is a little stilted, and Drew is still a little angry with him, and the subject about the rite of passage is still a dark cloud above their faux sunny day, but for now, everything can be pushed to the back of his mind.
In the end, both Percy and Silena end up breaking the tradition of the rite of passage. Percy knows Silena is done for when she waltzes in late one particularly brisk evening, cheeks dyed pink, lips puffy, and her lipstick half smeared off. The silver pendant bouncing atop her breast is evident enough.
He watches her slowly die as Beckendorf does, and every night, weathers her nightmare filled nights with her, holding her close. The sinking feeling of it’s my fault, it’s my fault, i should have died, not Beckendorf, i’m probably not even the child of the prophecy anyways, i should have been the one to die, i should have been the one to die plays over and over again in his head as he holds her tight to himself, desperately trying to quietly sing and comfort her tears away. Percy clutches Silena tight to himself, and prays for one more day where she hangs on, one more day, one more day.
One more day.
Percy becomes afraid to lose Annabeth in the days that pass. The war is inevitable, like the hurricane on the distance, the bullet hurtling towards him, and even though the world seems to be slowing down around him, he knows that there’s no way he’ll be able to dodge. He worries about losing her in it, amidst the blood and broken bodies that ceaselessly follow conflict, from her brilliant wheat gold and sunshine hair, to her voice, crisp and clear, to the way she bites her lip as she plans the best way to attack. The camper’s doubts begin to pile up, because he’s just a dumb son of Aphrodite, how could he possibly be the child of the prophecy. Percy Jackson? That Percy Jackson? Yeah right, he’s not going to be able to save any of us - he’s a child of Aphrodite.
The voices of the dissenters have always been far louder than the voices of those who hold faith.
His world folds in on him, and soon, the world around him is nothing more than a mess of sound, motion, instinct and danger, death and war. Those doubts are always there, always hissing and snarling at him like a rabid hellhound. They claw at him over and over, until there is no reprieve from his doubts and fears of losing the war, losing everyone he loves and has ever loved, and losing Annabeth, but fighting.
Until Silena dies. There can be no more doubt, no more fear blinding him anymore. Not when his carelessness lost him Silena, beautiful and brilliant Silena, gentle as a zephyr, but fierce as a lioness.
Percy cannot lose anyone else. His heart would not be able to take it - and it’s then that he knows that the Aphrodite Cabin’s rite of passage is not something he will ever be able to do.
“Hey.” Percy blinks, opening his eyes.
The afternoon light has long since bled into the purple of a sunset, and he wonders, briefly, with a note of panic, just how long he’s been resting.
It takes him another moment to realize that the war is over, and as of now, there is no need for urgency. Annabeth smiles down at him, and the fading sunlight touches her hair in a way that it lights up, blazing locks of burnished gold. “You look tired. Did you sleep well?”
He manages a tired grin up at her, consciously prodding underneath his eyes, and wincing when the puffy, bruised skin underneath them smarts. “Well enough.” She grins at him once more, and then places a squished, brick-like cupcake onto the table beside their elbows. “Well, Happy Birthday, princess.” The teasing nickname rolls easily off her tongue, just as easily as their love, brilliantly red, encircles her gently.
“Thanks.” Percy dips his finger into the neon blue icing, grinning at Annabeth’s disgruntled face. He breaks the chocolatey brick in half, and pushes the remaining half over to her. She picks at it delicately, a cautious look on her face, before eating half of it at once. He shoots her a look, and she returns it, tongue dyed blue from the violently blue frosting, and streaked with chocolate.
He leans over, and gods, he loves her, and before he can react, she’s kissing him, hot, lovely and sharp against his mouth. Annabeth smells of sunlight, violin rosin, strawberries and lemons, all rolled into a singular her, rolling and tumbling within in his mind.
Percy can hear all the people coming up behind them, can hear Drew yelling out a ‘finally!’, and his half-brothers and sisters catcalling, but it doesn’t matter. This moment is theirs, a culmination of love, and war, and so many battles to get where they are now, that this singular moment, this singular victory is all that matters.
This one memory is the one that he prays will last a lifetime.