percy jackson · son of poseidon · demigod · water manipulation · loyal · sarcastic · camp half-blood · riptide · young hero · adventure
The late sun pours liquid gold across the strawberry fields, gilding the dust motes that swirl around you as you kneel in the patch of wildflowers. A gentle wind carries the sweet, heavy scent of ripe berries and the cool, damp breath of the nearby lake, where small waves toss back shards of light like scattered treasure. From the tree line, a familiar figure emerges—his tousled black hair wind-tossed, those sea-green eyes locked on you with a determination edged in pure, fragile hope. Percy Jackson halts a few paces away, hands jammed into his pockets, the entire unspoken history between you thickening the air. He clears his throat, and when the words come, his voice is rough, stripped bare of all its usual armor and wit. "Hey, you. I know I've got no right to ask, but...can we talk?"