#simon thorn

Also, have a grainy picture of my tutor’s doggy (Barney, because we couldn’t call him Babi the Bitch/hj) because he’s a menace when he bites my ankles and i love him for it >:)

But there’s one part I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

After it all—the sword, the dust, the disbelief—I found Grover and asked him:

“That kid. The one who answered Brunner’s question. Who was that?”

Grover went pale. “What kid?”

I described him. Pointy ears, sweater, freckles, weirdly pretty blue eyes.

Grover fiddled with his apple core. “I didn’t see anyone like that. Pointy ears? Are you sure, Percy? Maybe... maybe it was just the light? Or maybe it was that new kid, Danny? Danny's got messy hair..."

“You’re joking. He saved my butt with that answer! And Danny from Chem? Danny's six feet tall and built like a linebacker," I pointed out. "This kid was smaller than me. And Danny wouldn't know Kronos from a corn dog. Plus, those eyes... they were really blue. Like, weirdly bright and.." I flushed, "pretty, like the sea."

*

The next time I woke, she was gone. But someone was carding their fingers through my hair, humming softly. The tune hooked into my ribs, like a song I’d heard in another life, but the notes slipped away before I could place them.

I cracked open my eyes.

A boy—his hair haloed in the dim light, like he’d been dusted with sunlight—leaned over me. I squinted, was this dude an angel? Everything about him seemed to glow faintly—his hair, his teeth, even his fingertips—or maybe I was hallucinating.

I felt that his palms were small, soft—not calloused. A scribe’s hands, or a thief’s. His voice was softer than the girl’s, but just as firm. Like he was used to not being heard.

A husky blond dude, like a surfer, stood in the corner of the bedroom keeping watch over me. It took me a second to realize the surfer dude wasn’t just blond, he had blue eyes—at least a dozen of them—on his cheeks, his forehead, the backs of his hands. The glowing boy—i realized then, that he was the kid from the museum—turned to him, his mouth moved but the words were like I was underwater, bubbling like I was sinking into the deep.

The surfer guy's eyes all turned to him, softening and cracked a small smile, before half splitting to me and hardening; his smile evaporating. The glowing boy tilted his head, lips moving in a playful smirk, and the surfer man rolled half his eyes—like this was an old argument they’d had before—and nodded.

The boy—Birdie, Thorn, whatever his name could’ve been based on what Grover and that girl said—turned back to me, running a hand through my hair once again, humming, “Sleep,” and the word settled into my bones like a spell.

*

Word of the bathroom incident spread immediately. Wherever I went, campers whispered and pointed-some at me, some at Annabeth (who was still dripping wet), but most at Simon, who looked like he'd just witnessed a ghost. His usual easygoing smile was gone, replaced by a haunted stare that made me feel guilty as he stared at the ground.

I had scared him. I scared one of the only campers who's been nice to me since he’s known of me, and I turned him into a nervous wreck after the toilet incident.

*

“Open your palm.” He said, his voice breathless.

“Why?” I asked, doing as he said almost automatically.

Simon looked around like he was watching for wandering eyes, and placed a stone in my hand. I looked a bit closer and he’d given me a small smooth stone that almost looked blue and it had a caduceus etched on it.

“For you.” He said, “Luke and I made a bunch, figured it’d be a nice souvenir for surviving everything that’s happened lately. Forgot about it till now.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know why but I felt my face suddenly felt warm. I closed my fingers around the smooth stone, the cool surface pressing against my palm. Simon's blue eyes were bright with excitement, his cheeks still flushed from the battle. A strand of his messy hair stuck to his forehead, and I had the sudden urge to brush it away.

"Thanks," I managed to say, my voice coming out a little too rough. I cleared my throat. "I mean—it's really cool.”

Simon grinned at me before Maya dragged him away, his laughter ringing over the cheers of our teammates. I clutched the smooth stone in my pocket, still warm from his grip. I was about to join the celebration when Annabeth’s voice, right next to me in the creek, said, “Not bad, hero.”

*

His eyes fluttered open, “Wha— Percy?” He yawned, pushing himself up. He didn’t seem like he needed to be in infirmary any longer to me. “What, what time is it?”

“Almost breakfast,” I said.

“Good,” Simon yawned, swung his feet off the cot and pulled his jacket on, “C’mon, walk with me.”

“Aren’t you—?”

“Oh, no. The rocks didn’t crack my skull or anything, just gave me a scratch. The medics are just overprotective.”

The walk to the dining pavilion felt like navigating a minefield in slow motion. Simon moved with a slight stiffness, a barely perceptible hitch in his step that contradicted his dismissive words about the injury. He kept his head up, offering tired but genuine smiles to everyone we passed—a dryad tending roses, a group of Hermes kids rushing to breakfast, a solemn Hephaestus camper covered in soot. Every single one stopped, their faces lighting up with relief and warmth.

"Simon! You're up!”

"Looking good, Thorn!"

"Glad you're back on your feet, man!"

"Don't scare us like that again!"

Their greetings were bright, effusive. Then, inevitably, their eyes would slide to me, walking beside him. The warmth vanished, replaced by suspicion, coldness, or outright hostility. Smiles froze or disappeared. Conversations died mid-sentence. The Hermes kids glared; the dryad turned her back pointedly; the Hephaestus camper’s expression hardened into a scowl.

It was like Simon radiated sunlight, and I cast a freezing shadow that extinguished it wherever we went.

Simon seemed oblivious, or perhaps he was just practiced at ignoring the undercurrents. He waved back, called out greetings, even stopped briefly to reassure a tiny Demeter girl clutching a wilting flower that he’d look at her project later. He was patient, effortlessly kind. That was why he was the camp favorite. He paid attention to everyone, remembered small things, and offered help without being asked. Watching him interact with the others only sharpened the sting of my own isolation. He belonged here in a way I clearly never would.

*

A little girl said, “Mama! That boy walked out of the river carrying a pretty girl.”

“That’s nice, dear,” her mother said, craning her neck to watch the ambulances.

“But he’s dry! And the pretty girl is bleeding!”

“That’s nice, dear.”

I laid Simon down, pressing my hands over his chest. One. Two. Three. I tilted his head back—pinching his nose—my lips inches from his, before Simon’s body decided that was the perfect time to wake up and make him spit out the water all over my face.

Simon’s eyes fluttered open, scrunching up his nose as he sat up, his nails scratching against the concrete—letting out a pained noise when he moved his injured leg—as he spat out the rest of the river water all over the ground, “Bleh! Disgusting!” He scowled, sticking out his tongue as his lips curled away from his teeth.

He looked ridiculously adorable—like an angry wet cat. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, “Did you just—” he coughed, “—did you just try to give me mouth-to-mouth?”

My face burned, “You weren’t breathing!”

“I was breathing just fine until you decided to blow up the arch and manhandle me.” He snapped, before turning over to gag—spitting, “gross, gross.”

I stayed quiet. He must’ve noticed, because he turned to face me, “Sorry, that was mean.” He said gently then gave me his hand, “help me get up?”

I nodded and grabbed it, wrapping around his arm my neck as he balanced on his good leg. We stayed silent for a minute as i carried him before he nudged me, “for the record, Percy, I'm… flattered you tried to save me, even if it did almost involve mouth-to-mouth and having to taste dirty river water.”

“No problem, man.” I said, “I don’t want you to die on my watch. Besides, Luke would’ve killed me it he knew i was the reason.”

Simon snorted, “Luke’s as likely to kill you as i am to fall off another building.”

I smirked, “wanna bet?”

“Oh my gods, you’re so dumb.” He laughed. “If we get back safely, you’re so wrapping my leg.”

“Deal, Birdie.” I said, pulling his jacket’s hood over his blond mop of hair, “you clearly can’t fly on your own.”

*

Water exploded out of the pipes. It roared into the pool, sweeping away the spiders. I pulled Annabeth into the seat next to me and fastened her seat belt while yanking Simon onto my lap, my arm around his waist, just as the tidal wave slammed into our boat, over the top, whisking the spiders away and dousing us completely, but not capsizing us. The boat turned, lifted in the flood, and spun in circles around the whirlpool.

Simon wrapped an arm around my neck, gripping my shirt with fear in his eyes. The water was full of short-circuiting spiders, some of them smashing against the pool’s concrete wall with such force they burst.

Spotlights glared down at us. The Cupid-cams were rolling, live to Olympus.

But I could only concentrate on controlling the boat. I willed it to ride the current, to keep away from the wall. Maybe it was my imagination, but the boat seemed to respond. At least, it didn’t break into a million pieces. We spun around one last time, the water level now almost high enough to shred us against the metal net. Then the boat’s nose turned toward the tunnel and we rocketed through into the darkness.

Simon, Annabeth and I held tight, the three of us screaming as the boat shot curls and hugged corners and took forty-five-degree plunges past pictures of Romeo and Juliet and a bunch of other Valentine’s Day stuff.

*

Simon, Grover, Annabeth, and I walked down to the edge of the surf.

“My uncle’d kill me if he knew i was at the beach.” Simon said quietly, kicking the sand.

Grover nodded solemnly, “Darryl seems to only like the beach at Camp, and even with some exceptions.”

“I know.” He agreed, waving a hand around, “what really is the difference in here, Coney and there? Well apart from the stench and the seagulls here.”

I almost wanted to tell Simon that, when the quest was over that he could come visit Montauk with my mom and I, if his uncle would let us, but that seemed like a slim chance

*

Simon looked like he couldn’t tell whether to laugh or throw himself into the river for coming on this quest.

Mist curled off the filthy water. Above us, almost lost in the gloom, was a ceiling of stalactites. Ahead, the far shore glimmered with greenish light, the color of poison.

Panic closed up my throat. What was I doing here? These people around me… they were dead.

Annabeth grabbed hold of my hand while Simon took my other. Under normal circumstances, this would’ve embarrassed me, but I understood how they felt. They both wanted reassurance that somebody else was alive on this boat and I was the closest person next to them

*

Simon eyed the food warily, before tucking himself into my arm, clutching my shirt as he dragged his still injured leg. I tightened my grip. I didn’t know why Simon seemed so clingy but i honestly didn’t mind if it meant i could be close to him.

*

“Do not play innocent with me, girl. You, that little… hōraios* and the satyr have been helping this hero—coming here to threaten me in Poseidon’s name, no doubt—to bring me an ultimatum. Does Poseidon think I can be blackmailed into supporting him?”

Simon’s face burned a bright red, the pink reaching his ears—i didn’t exactly know what the word meant but the way Hades spat it made hōraios sound like an insult. I tasted the word on my tongue, mouthed each syllable and found myself almost agreeing with its meaning—truth be told, Simon really was pretty.

But the way Hades said it made it sound… dirty. Like he was diminishing Simon down to only his looks.

*[in one's prime" or "seasonal," it was most famously used to describe ideal, youthful beauty—specifically a beautiful young man whose features are harmonious and perfect.]

*

Simon unclasped his dog tag, wrapping it over my neck. I decided to look at the inscription—the dog tag thing had been bothering me for days since I saw it. It read:

THORN, SIMON(NA) “THÉRÈSE”

JUNE SECOND, XXXX

BELOVED NEPHEW OF THORN, DARRYL

MANHATTAN, NYC

I really had two thoughts in my head. One was: Simon’s alleged middle name was Thérèse—like the super controversial painting about a girl? Or was it the French nun—The Little Flower?

My second was: I still had the blue caduceus stone in my back pocket he gave me after we won capture the flag—I hadn’t thought much about it since the Lotus Hotel.

Simon must’ve felt me reading the tag because he quickly whispered, his voice light and playful, “It’s a joke between the Hollands, Darryl and I.” Before he let me go, his cheeks flushed redder than strawberries.

I nodded like he told me like some super sacred, world breaking secret I'd take to my grave, “It’s… a really nice name—Thérèse.” I whispered.

He looked at me like he was trying to sense some undertone, “The painting or the saint?”

I didn’t stop myself, “Both.”

He nodded, like it’d said everything and nothing at all—maybe I had, maybe I didn’t. “Be safe, Percy.”

*

Poor little Percy Jackson wasn't an international criminal after all. He hadn’t kidnapped his “girlfriend” Simonna Thèrése Holland—"she” was kidnapped alongside him. He'd caused a commotion on that Greyhound bus in New Jersey trying to get away from his captor (and afterward, witnesses would even swear they had seen the leather-clad man on the bus—"Why didn't I remember him before?"). The crazy man had caused the explosion in the St. Louis Arch. After all, no kid could've done that, not when Percy’s lovely “girlfriend” was injured. A concerned waitress in Denver had seen the man threatening his abductees outside her diner, gotten a friend to take a photo, and notified the police. Finally, brave Percy Jackson (I was beginning to like this kid) had stolen a gun from his captor in Los Angeles and battled him shotgun-to-rifle on the beach. Police had arrived just in time. But in the spectacular explosion, five police cars had been destroyed and the captor had fled.

No fatalities had occurred. Percy Jackson, Simmona Thèrése Holland (who the press begged to kiss Percy, which “she”d hesitantly done on his cheek, because neither of them or their friends could convince them they weren’t a couple) and their two friends were safely in police custody. The reporters fed us this whole story. We just nodded and acted tearful and exhausted (which wasn't hard), and played victimized kids for the cameras.