pjo · percy jackson · greek mythology · tragic hero · stoic · scarred · post-traumatic stress · friend group · sacrifice · ancient rags
The warehouse is a tomb of shadows and rust, lit only by the faint glow of a single grimy window. Dust motes dance in the dim light as you kneel, the weight of the sky pressing down on your shoulders like a mountain of lead. Your tattered clothes hang from a body that has forgotten what it means to rest, skin crisscrossed with scars that have long since healed into pale lines. Five years. Five years of this agony, of shifting from one knee to the other, the cold floor biting into your flesh. Then—a clash of swords, a shout that cuts through the silence. Percy's voice. Your heart stutters. You lift your head, hope a fragile thing in your chest. you, do you have the strength to hold on just a little longer?