Chapter Text
Percy wakes up, which is impressive, since he was pretty sure that he had been dead or dying at the very least.
He lays there for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness for either minutes or days, (he can’t tell which, and nothing disturbs him) as he simply breaths, reassuring himself that he is alive, despite Kronos’s apparently best efforts and the hellfire agony he is in.
Opening his eyes and sitting up, however, are much harder skills to master.
His body feels as if it is made up of nothing more but bruises and more bruises, as if Tyson had slammed tackled him when in the pursuit of peanut butter, or Mrs O'leary had used him as a chew toy.
It is, funnily enough, not a good feeling.
Still, the time comes when his body sees fit to further reassure him that he is still alive in the worst way possible, with the parched tightness of his throat becoming uncomfortable.
His stomach, which is also trying to commit mutiny, is trying to eat itself, but it’s a less pressing concern- he read somewhere that the body could survive longer without food then water.
Still, there is a message here, about bodily functions and how they contribute to the promise of a continued existence and so Percy groans, gets over himself (and the feeling of being put in a shredder, that somehow the Curse of Achilles hadn’t helped with, and why was he only noticing that he was hurt when he wasn’t supposed to be able to get hurt now-) and gets up.
And stares.
To be completely honest, Percy had kind of been hoping that despite the very obvious King-Titan-going-nuclear-right-in-front-of-him, and the fact that he had just kind of lain in the same position without being bothered for a while-
(despite it being fairly obvious that he was injured, what with the shredded clothes that he was just noticing- at least the camp necklace survived, although his shirt was less a shirt and more several pieces of rags that stubbornly hung onto his body)
-he would still wake up in the infirmity, maybe on Olympus or even Camp.
He would even take the hotel in Manhattan that they had based the war efforts out of, at this point.
But no. The Fates had seen fit to drop him right in the middle of nothing.
And by nothing, he means nothing sentient.
Percy is on an island.
He can tell that now, as easily as 2 + 2 = 4, and his best guess is that he had been so focused on the pain he hadn’t exactly paid attention to what his powers were telling him. He can sense the water all around them, now that he is listening, and it is almost enough to make him relax if it weren’t for the sheer wrongness of it all.
Because although he can sense the water, it feels… different. Rougher, perhaps. Even newer, if that made sense.
The waters seem wild, less tamed, and isn’t that a thought?
He had never thought of the Sea as tamed before, and yet this Sea was definitely different in temperament from what he was used to.
It made the waters he had felt in the past feel mild in comparison, although no less in powerful, and that was a thought that unsettled him.
The Sea does not like to be restrained.
The memory comes unbidden to him, and he frowns.
If that was so (and he very clearly knew from personal experience that it was, and that it was his go to excuse when pissing of Gods in his spare time) then why did the Sea of his memories feel muted, compared to this spirited and bright water?
No answers appeared to pop out at him, not in the form of a holier-than-you God or anything equally as unpleasant, so he turns his attentions to his immediate surroundings.
It is beautiful in a way that reminds him of Calypso, and of Ogygia- clear skies being framed by the blinding light of the sun, healthy greenery that probably was right out of a satyr’s wet dream, and of course, the frantic hum of the strange Sea, comforting yet foreign.
Strangely enough, Percy notes that many of the vibrant flowers you would normally see in places such as this are absent, and in their places are wild herbs, the kind that he vaguely recognises only through years of being Grover Underwood’s best friend.
While Percy likes to think his self-preservation has gotten slightly better from when he was 12 (although he did just (almost?) die after giving his greatest enemy and the guy trying to kill him Annabeth’s knife and oh, Annabeth-) he still finds the curiosity (and that was a dangerous thing for a demigod to have, Percy knew) to want to look around and explore.
Actually, he recognises that that “want” may become a need, because his insides still felt roasted, and his throat is still uncomfortably parched.
Still, the curiosity was there, because, well. The island was weird, for a reason that Percy couldn’t quite put a finger.
And as Percy looked around, he realised why.
There was nobody here. Like, at all. He had known that there wasn’t anyone around (at least anyone willing to help a stranger laying on the ground for a few days, which was fair, he supposed) but it was still startling.
The very air felt silent, as if whatever wind spirits that were supposed to, you know, be wind, decided to take a day off. It made Percy feel like he was in the scene of a horror movie right before the main characters split up and got eaten.
The little voice in his head that sounded like a mix between his Mum, Annabeth and his safety officer in fifth grade (listen, her talk on Stranger Danger and the statistics for child kidnapping in New York had left an impression, ok? It was terrifyingly high) was telling him that maybe he should get of this strange island, pronto.
Unfortunately, there were a few problems with that. Namely:
1. He felt like he had gone ten rounds with Typhon, and consequently was monster chow if something did decide to pop out of the shadows, because he was pretty sure his legs would not cooperate if he had to make a fast strategic retreat in the opposite direction.
(The pain was less physical, and more inside him, if that made sense. It still hurt like a bitch, but it was almost comparable to a crack in a plastic container- the water would flow into the crack, and the outside of the container would be left alone. His skin had been the container, and he suspected the crack to be his Heel.)
2. He was parched and starving, a real double or nothing situation, and he had absolutely nothing to remedy the situation, which was a shame since he was really craving some hamburgers like, yesterday. Also, fresh water. Or anything drinkable and not likely to kill him.
Even if Percy wanted to leave the island, he couldn’t. It was his best chance of recovery, and he hoped he could gather resources to help heal or feed him (although he wasn’t exactly how to heal something that was inside, but whatever)
Plus, he was hopeful that maybe he could contact camp, perhaps through the sea mist as an Iris message after he got the immediate needs sorted out.
Hopefully, with Kronos dead (-because he had to be dead, he had to be, after that little light show-) the war would be won- and the monster armies either killed or given up- and camp would have enough time to come pick his ass up from whatever strange situation he was in now.
Because too many things were freaking him out about this island to not be some sort of weird trap, and that was the way his luck worked, historically- besides, with how he was feeling now, he really hoped he wouldn’t need to get himself out of his own scrapes.
Speaking of which, why exactly did he feel this horrible?
One of the reasons Percy even went for a quick summer dip in the River Styx was so this stuff could stop happening.
If the Curse of Achilles had a best-by-date or time limit that no-one had decided to tell him, than Percy was so going to tell Mrs O’Leary to lick Nico when he got back.
(While adorable, the hellhound’s slobber got everywhere, and was impossible to wash out even days afterwards, making it a cruel and unusual punishment that Percy had definitely used on the Stolls more than once.)
Still, Percy weakly grabbed at his pockets, relaxing when he felt a familiar ball-point pen poking through the stiff fabric of the monster splattered jeans.
Drawing it out, he uncapped it, before attempting to make a small cut on his elbow (in the movies, everyone always went for the palm, which undoubtedly hurt much more due to the abundance of nerve endings- it had always annoyed Annabeth, the few times they had had the opportunity to discuss it).
The sword reacted as he had gotten used to over the course of the battle, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The bronze blade had slid off his skin, smooth as butter, not a scratch left behind.
Although a firm reminder to watch for his Heel, the test had reassured him that he was still basically invincible, and as he put the sword away, he smiled.
He had suspected that his curse hadn’t changed, given the pain had felt less like broken bones and more like hellfire unleashed inside his body, but at least he was protected from physical effects.
Besides, he had a feeling a situation like this was a consequence of a once in a lifetime series of events, and he was unlikely of being harmed like this again, unless someone had another Titan nuclear temper tantrum to pull from their back pockets.
He still felt like death warmed over, though. And not the nice Elysium part of death either.
Plus, his list of problems was still there, and he had better get a move on. If he died of thirst before getting to even message his friends, he was pretty sure he’d be refused at the Underworld gates on the sheer principle.
Because really, who survives the Titan of Time trying to kill you, and then dies of something as stupid as thirst?
Percy apparently, because he had to get water, or something else to drink, fast. He didn’t know how long he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, but he had a sick feeling it could have been days, as is in, more than one, and he was pretty sure he had once watched a movie that almost had a dude die of thirst in like, 3 days.
He could try and use his powers on the sea water, maybe to purify it or something, but he didn’t really trust himself to do something that vital right now, and he had read somewhere (read: Annabeth had read somewhere, and he had been caught in a lecture that had gone widely of topic) that salt water just made you thirstier.
With a sigh, he turned towards the middle of the island, further inland, before cautiously reaching out in search of a freshwater lake or spring, not very optimistic about his chances of just finding a freshwater source.
To his surprise and slight trepidation, he sensed a spring not to far from where he was, but far enough away that it was going to be annoying to get to, especially in his current state.
Beggars can’t be choosers though, and Percy was definitely feeling the lack of liquid now, so he cast one more glance around at the scenery and put his hand in his pocket to fiddle with his sword.
From there, he carefully picked his way through the greenery around him, towards the spring, because if there was anything his time at camp had taught him, it was that nature spirits could be vicious when they felt someone had slighted them.
And he most definitely did not want to offend a random bush nymph by accidently stepping on her roots.