JUST A DEMIGOD.

𝐓͟𝐇𝐄 𝐓hing  about  ‘rebirth’,  in  a  sense,  is  that  you  never  fully  feel  present  in  your  new  life,  the  second  time  around.  sometimes,  it  feels  like  a  game,  and  you’re  idly  watching  through  a  screen,  waiting  to  feel  some  sense  of  cognizant  understanding  or  for  a  hand  to  wave  in  front  of  you,  and  snap  you  back  to  reality.  that’s  how  thalia  felt,  most  days.  she  felt  like  she  was  in  a  haze  —  quite  reality,  but  not  quite  the  same  time  warp  from  being  locked  in  her  tree  for  so  long.  little  things  irritated  her,  in  this  pseudo  sense  of  living.  from  the  incessant  pestering  of  one  percy  jackson,  to  chiron’s  demands  of  her  maintaining  a  ‘normal  life’,  to  the  sense  of  separation  that  felt  like  it  would  divide  her  from  annabeth  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  

in  moments  where  that  divide  feels  too  big,  like  in  that  ugly  little  dorm  room,  in  that  stupid  school,  she  feels  a  dam  break.  

dry  skin  trembles  as  she  slams  lotion  onto  cracks  and  areas  that  scream  for  moisture,  lips  downcurled  as  the  sting  of  her  own  slap  vibrates  through  her  body.  “stop  staring  at  me  like  that,”  an  instruction  that  carries  an  underlying  meaning;  the  guilt  you  think  you  are  hiding  is  all  too  obvious.  “it’ll  heal  eventually.”  the  second  statement  is  a  thick  salve  that  won’t  heal  the  burn  it’s  trying  to  soothe.  all  it  will  do  is  stand  as  a  sticky  reminder  that  they  are  hurt,  and  the  wound  keeps  reopening  itself  far  more  often  than  it  should.  the  entire  conversation  starter  itself  is  a  bandaid  for  what  they  really  mean.  thalia  knows  annabeth  is  thinking  too  hard,  and  too  much.  she  always  has.  now,  it  seem,  more  than  ever.  

she flinches at thalia's words. she knows that she can practically read her thoughts. so could luke. and she tries to hide the i'm sorry written on her expression. she knows if the words spill out that thalia will only yell at her further. the anger that's almost always bubbling at the surface well deserved. she deserves it. she furrows her eyebrows, brown eyes looking away from thalia's skin. ❛ i wasn't ❜ she stops herself because they're one in the same. thalia understands annabeth so well because she knows her too. an apology. an understanding. thalia won't have any of it. annabeth wished that was enough for her to stop drowning in the feelings she has for the girl.

ATHENA’S  DAUGHTER  DESERVES  SOMETHING. 

   this  is  what  he  has  heard,  grumbled  under  the  breath  of  monsters  which  speak,  ever  vengeful  on  the  titan’s  behalf,  but  similarly  displayed  -  though  never  said  aloud  -  by  kronos’  herald.  there  is  sentimentality  attached  to  her.  of  this,  verso  is  sure:  the  blond-haired  boy-to-be-god  would  not  keep  her  around  if  there  was  not  some  merit  to  her,  certainly,  but  there  is  something  when  he  brings  her  name  up.  something  verso  can’t  quite  identify  beyond  some  level  of  care,  though  that  feels  too  shallow  to  be  entirely  accurate.  

he  is  not  going  to  be  staying  here  long.  his  begrudging  attendance  near  atlas’  once-prison  under  the  sky  is  not  meant  to  be  prolonged;  he  is  here  to  wait,  observe,  to  see  what  happens.  sooner  or  later,  they  will  come  for  the  bait.  he’ll  be  long  gone  before  that  happens.  try  as  he  might,  he’s  still  not  quite  back  to  his  awares;  those  aboard  the  andromeda  have  caught  him  staring  into  the  sea,  or  witnessed  him  brandishing  his  blade  against  anyone  who  dares  to  surprise  him.  if  he  picks  a  fight  now  against  a  normal  demigod,  sure,  he’ll  likely  flatten  them  in  a  matter  of  seconds  -  if  that.  

percy  jackson,  however,  is  not  a  normal  demigod.  

so  here  he  is:  zeus’  son  before  athena’s  daughter.  his  hair  is  freshly  cut,  though  the  odor  of  death  still  clings  to  him.  despite  the  fact  that  they  are  well  into  the  night,  he  still  wears  sunglasses.  two  blades  are  hooked  onto  his  belt,  combat  boots  giving  him  an  extra  inch  or  so  of  height  -  not  that  he  needs  it.  a  rolled  up  newspaper  is  in  one  hand.  the  other  rests  limp-wristed  on  the  hilt  of  his  blade.  

he  inhales,  and  the  tip  of  his  cigarette  held  between  his  teeth  brightens.  the  breeze  carries  exhaled  second-hand  smoke  away  from  athena’s  bound  daughter.  without  a  word,  he  takes  a  seat  a  few  feet  from  her  and  unrolls  his  newspaper.  the  headline  reads,  ‘PRESIDENT  KENNEDY  ASSASSINATED.’  he  speaks  without  looking  at  her,  

  ❝  if  you  need  a  drink  or  something,  say  so.  castellan  doesn’t  want  you  dying  of  dehydration  or  hunger,  ‘cause  apparently  that’s  a  pretty  big  worry  for  kids  nowadays.  fuckin’  softies.  ❞

@demigrl // plotted starter.

there's something about him that feels familiar for a reason she can't place because she's certain she's never met him. monster or god ? her brow furrows as she looks him over and her nose scrunches at the cigarette despite the cloud of smoke wafting away from her. the casual way in which he was conducting himself threw her. most of kronos' army watched her with a sense of ego that reveled luke's. this man seemed almost bored of her. her eyes scan him in the darkness and widen at the newspaper. she looks down, thoughts racing a million miles a second. he had to be old, older than what he appeared to be which meant...