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“Move your feet,” The dull edge of a training blade nudges him into position, shifting one of his legs farther out. It leaves him feeling a bit awkward, legs wide and sword uncomfortable in his hand. He feels wobbly.
A gentle strike comes to the back of his knee, and he’s almost sent toppling over. He catches himself in time, his other leg stepping out to catch his weight before he can fall. “Bend your knees more, anyone could knock you over right now, Percy.”
The next light swing has him stumbling to block it, losing all of the footing they’d just worked on. He’s pushed back, bringing his sword up to stave off the next hit. It’s maybe a few hits later that he’s sent stumbling to the ground, dropping the dumb sword at his side. He hadn’t even managed to hit him that time. Luke puts his blade to Percy’s neck, just to drive in his loss – he’d be dead if this wasn’t training.
“What’s even the point?” There’s leaves in his hair, and his body aches. He thinks he's getting calluses already. It feels like they’ve been out here for hours. He’s no good at this. “Yesterday was just a fluke.”
He takes the hand that’s offered, easily being pulled to his feet. A hand pats him on the shoulder, it’s meant to be reassuring, but Percy can't help the feeling that Luke is wasting his time. Percy hasn’t been able to repeat the disarming move since that first time, and he hasn’t had any other success either.
Luke is going easy on him and he still can’t manage to beat him.
“Probably,” Luke agrees, leaning against a tree, “But not just anyone could do that.”
Not just anyone could manage a fluke? He doesn’t think Luke realizes how little he grasps how that happened. He can’t even remember how he’d known to do the movement; it’d seemed so clear in the moment, but he’s already managed to forget.
Luke gestures towards the abandoned sword and Percy picks it up begrudgingly. He hadn’t thought swordfighting would be an important skill, but he’s already been attacked by monsters twice – or would it be three times? – in the past three days.
Besides, Luke is going out of his way for him. If he’s as good as everyone says he is, there must be better things to do with his time than waste it trying to teach Percy this. The least he can do is try and get the hang of things quickly.
He gets back in the position Luke has been guiding him into between every spar. It’s almost like roller skating, if he doesn’t think too hard about it. It looks sloppy compared to Luke’s own casual stance, but Luke grins like he’s proud anyway.
Luke raises his sword first, and Percy nods.
He makes the first attack, swinging the wooden blade and he can tell it's wide the second he makes the move, so it’s no surprise to watch Luke sidestep the move entirely. He raises an eyebrow at Percy, and “It’s just practice, okay!”
“Practice that could save your life if you take it seriously.” He gets in response, before Luke darts in, sword not even raised. Percy flounders, stepping back too slowly to move with the harsh shove to his chest.
“That’s cheating!” He groans, back aching where it’s met the dirt for the nth time today.
Luke is unsympathetic, shrugging and not bothering to hide his smile. “A real fight isn’t clean. Take whatever advantage you can; that’s how you survive.”
He drops his head back to the ground, rolling his eyes.
Luke casts a glance towards the sky and offers one final hand to Percy. The sun has begun to set, and Percy’s stomach rumbles. They’ve been training since lunch, which is far too long to practice without a snack break, in Percy’s opinion.
“Let’s stop here for tonight.” Luke says, “Before they run out of dinner at the pavilion.”
Thank goodness! Percy feels like he’s going to bruise, well, everywhere. The minotaur hadn’t left him as sore as this will. He’d been easier to beat than Luke! “There’s no way they actually run out though, right?”
“They absolutely will.” Luke tells him gleefully, “We’ll get nothing if we aren’t there in about-”
He looks up at the sun again, contemplating, before turning back to Percy and grinning. “I’d say we have five- ten minutes before they call the cabins. Why don’t we beat the crowds?”
Percy doesn’t really know if they start serving food before the horns have been blown, but even if they do, “Aren’t you meant to be the one leading the Hermes cabin?”
“I’m sure they can last one night without me.” The Hermes cabin? Maybe they'll make it, but Percy doesn't know if the rest of camp will – not without a fire or two. A similar thought must come to Luke, because they share a grimace before Luke shrugs. “They’ll survive.”
Luke probably does this with all of the new campers, to welcome them in, make them feel like family. Every place likes to say that they’re all part of some big family – even if it’s a little more literal here than most places – but Luke is especially good at it.
Percy thinks he might really believe it.
Percy is running through every line of the prophecy that the Oracle gave him, every word that came true in some form or another. It doesn't feel over.
The quest is done; it should be done, but it feels like Percy is missing something. Like the other shoe is just waiting to drop.
Because he met a god out west, he found and returned the bolt, and he was betrayed by a friend – if you could really call Clarisse that – but what would he fail to save? Grover and Annabeth both made it back to camp safely; he stopped a war that could've destroyed the world; so what was he missing?
Would he go home and not find his mom? Did Hades not stick to his word?
It was meant to be a nice night, everybody celebrating their success in completing the quest and dulling the gods’ anger, but Percy can't relax. Not when his mom might still be a statue in the Underworld and he can't do anything about it other than trust that some god kept his word. Not when he can’t fight the urge that something is wrong.
They hit their usual clearing, just barely lit up by the stream of fireworks – it looks creepy at night, shadows cast over everything and making everything look vaguely unfamiliar – and far enough away from the rest of the camp that the roaring cheers are just an echo when Luke turns to him.
“You've hardly said a thing since you got back, Percy. What are you thinking about?” He asks, and it doesn’t really feel like he’s pushing for answers, but like he’d listen if Percy wanted to talk and he just wants to make the offer. It reminds Percy of his mom, in a way.
“The quest is over, and everything the Oracle said either came true or makes sense.” Percy pauses, breathing out softly as his eyes slowly meet Luke's. “Everything but one. You shall fail to save what matters most in the end.”
“You're thinking about your mom.” Luke says, after he seems to realize, and Percy can barely hear him over loop in his own mind. They echo in his ears – the words of the oracle. It has to mean something, if everything else did, then he has to be missing something.
“Everything else has come true.” Percy says, and his mouth goes dry, the words he wants to say escape him. There's only one thing that manages to make its way out: “What do you think?”
Luke looks at him for a moment and something in his expression that Percy didn't even realize was tense softens. “She’s probably fine. Prophecies are vague, it could’ve meant anything.”
Percy doesn't know if he means it. Maybe he's just trying to spare Percy’s feelings. He wouldn’t peg Luke for a liar, not even to comfort someone, but there’s something weird about his expression; there’s something he isn’t telling Percy. He’s been through this before, he has to know something.
“No, really,” he insists, “You can tell me, it's fine.”
“You’re back at camp; glory and renown are yours. It’s done, Percy.” Luke says, walking backwards with a grin. “You caught the thief, you beat Ares, be proud of yourself!”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“A week of lessons in the woods is hardly enough to beat the god of war.” Luke counters, quirking his head and pointing at Percy. “That was all you.”
It was half the ocean, he wants to protest – even though yeah, he was pretty amazing – but Luke is ruffling his hair, shoving his head down when Percy tries to get a word in against him. He almost tips over when it happens, too distracted laughing to avoid stumbling with the sudden change in orientation. Luke’s own laughter joins his, laughing at him in a way that’s so opposite than anyone outside of camp. Percy still wants to go home, to see his mom and have everything be alright, but he thinks he might belong here. Here, where he isn’t an outcast, where he’s just like everyone else – for the most part, at least.
There’s a gentle push to his shoulder, barely hard enough to make him sway. “Be proud of yourself. You’ve earned it.”
He accepts it, ducking his head and hoping his cheeks aren't as warm as they feel.
“I just- it doesn't feel over, you know?” Percy confesses. It feels right to tell Luke, who’s one of the only people who could understand – Annabeth is still part of the celebrations and he'd rather not ruin her mood. Luke's quest hadn't gone so well, he'd been told, but he'd still been out there.
Maybe this is just how it is after quests. There's just a little bit of lingering nerves as they settle back into camp. If that's what Luke says, Percy will believe him.
“Percy,” He trails off, and he clearly has something to say, because he opens his mouth to speak, but then he doesn’t say anything.
There’s a terrible thought working its way through Percy’s brain. A horrible series of connections falling into place that don’t not make sense.
In the end, it’s this one little thing that makes him stop.
He’d be betrayed by who calls him a friend.
He and Clarisse aren’t friends – she would certainly never call him a friend, she’d try and kill him first – and even if they were, she’s still at camp. Chiron hadn’t mentioned anything about her being the traitor, hadn’t said anything to imply he had any knowledge of who it was at all.
The only person outside of their questing party they’d told was Luke. Luke, who was meant to tell Chiron and get everything else dealt with.
He’d nearly been dragged into Tartarus by the shoes that Luke had given him. The gift from the first friend he made at camp.
“You’re the one who stole the bolt, aren’t you.” Percy isn’t sure. He doesn’t want to be sure. He wants Luke to deny it, to be offended and hurt that Percy would even think such a thing, but Luke just looks at him.
“You gave me your shoes, the ones that almost took me to Tartarus. They would’ve taken the bolt straight to Kronos.”
At that, Luke shrinks a little, eyebrows creased in something distinctly guilty. He doesn’t say no, instead, he says something much worse. “I didn’t think you’d give them to Grover.”
Even he seems to recoil a bit at the words, because it sounds like Luke would’ve been fine if Percy had died there.
“That’s not what I-”
“You betrayed us.”
“None of this was meant to betray you, Percy.” He straightens out at that, standing back at his full height, as if reaffirmed in his decision. As if it wasn’t a load of crap.
“The gods are my enemy, not you.” He pauses, and none of what he's saying really makes sense to Percy, but he looks like he means it. “You, I’m here to recruit.”
“Recruit-?” His hand is jumping to Riptide before he can finish his sentence, Luke’s own hand stills where it had been grabbing for his sword; it isn’t one Percy has ever seen before, not on one of their weapons racks.
“Relax, I don’t want to fight.” Which is why any normal person would grab for their sword, sure. Percy loosens his grip, but Riptide doesn’t leave his grasp.
“This is what I wanted to show you.” Luke draws his blade and slashes through one of the air, Percy watches as blue tears open where Luke had cut. As something shimmering and twisting seems to appear out of thin air and expand out until it’s big enough that a human could fit through it.
“What is that?” He asks, a little stupidly.
Luke is more than willing to answer, holding his sword up with no small amount of appreciation. “This is our way out.”
“Out of what?” He murmurs, eyes caught on the tear in space.
“Out of camp.“ Luke says, and Percy’s eyes narrow. “Out of the gods’ control. We can stay on the run for as long as we need with these.”
Luke betrayed the camp. Does he- is he trying to get Percy to leave with him? To leave behind Annabeth and Grover, and all of the other campers he’s met?
“Stop saying we.” It comes out more firm than confused, which is fortunate for Percy.
“But it’s the word the gods fear the most. They want us to fight for them, to worship them, but they don’t care about what we want.” He sounds so earnest, so calm, and it sends jitters up Percy’s spine. It feels wrong. It sounds like he means it. Like he really means it. “They’re bad parents, Percy, and they’ve gotten away with it for too long.”
“This isn’t you!” It can’t be him. “This is Kronos! He’s gotten into your head.”
Luke smiles, like it’s a joke, like all of the people at Percy’s schools who would never take him seriously. “Kronos opened my eyes.”
“Stealing the bolt and the helm was easy. It’s the next part that’s harder. We’ll need all the help we can get.” He’s looking at Percy. He’s looking to recruit Percy. For Kronos.
He’s moving to the portal, readying to carve out a bigger space for himself, and Percy doesn’t know what to do. He can’t let him go though. If he walks out of camp, Luke will be a traitor. They won’t take him back. If Percy could just get through to him, could show him how wrong Kronos is, maybe he’ll reconsider.
His fingers shift, tightening mindlessly on the hilt of Riptide, and it’s the only plan he can come up with.
He strikes, pushing Backbiter offcourse, and drawing the attention back to him.
Luke’s hold on Backbiter shifts, lifted from a resting position to its full glory as a weapon. It’s bigger than Riptide, it has maybe another foot of range, on top of Luke’s already longer range. It’s a good sword, but Percy wishes it wasn’t facing him.
They both just stand there for a moment, swords readied. Luke is the better fighter between them by a longshot, Percy doesn’t honestly think he can win here. Luke isn’t Ares – you’d think he’d be easier – but there isn’t an ocean behind him, there isn’t the fate of the world on his shoulders. There isn’t even a pond!
There’s just his friend.
The same friend who taught him all of this in the first place. Who knocked him on his back countless times and offered him a hand up every time.
Percy hasn’t been able to consistently land more than one hit on him in any of their spars, where Luke is going easy on him. He’s been doing this for like, a week, or something. He isn’t exactly a master yet.
He doesn’t have another choice though.
His feet feel shaky in their position, legs too close. It’s awful, remembering the gentle swats at his legs and correcting himself accordingly, watching Luke’s eyes follow the movement cautiously. He doesn’t really know what to think there, because there’s a flash of pride on Luke’s face, a second where Percy sees that familiar grin before it falls.
He can’t want to do this. This isn’t Luke, though. He has to reach Luke.
“It doesn’t have to be like this!”
“You’re right, Percy. It doesn’t.” He sounds convicted, and Percy doesn’t think it’s because of him. Not with how angry he sounds, underneath it all. “And if the gods cared about any of us, it wouldn’t be.”
It’s not- he’s not wrong, but he isn’t right! This isn’t right! Poseidon had made an effort, he’d helped Percy. He wasn’t forgiven for what he’d put Percy’s mom through all of these years – leaving her alone, leaving her with Gabe – but he’d still tried. He’d saved Percy’s life. And Hermes was Luke’s dad, he hadn’t spoken to him for very long, but he obviously cared about his son. “They’re not perfect, but our parents are trying their best.”
These were their parents, of course they cared! Percy had doubted it before – and honestly, he isn’t sure now, but there had to be something there. Poseidon had saved him, Hermes had been willing to help when he realized they knew Luke, and Athena… well, Percy hates her, but one bad parent doesn’t mean they should resurrect Kronos.
“I met your dad, he cares-” His mediocre stance almost crumbles under the weight slamming down on him. He stumbles back, and can’t quite stop his spike of fear at the looming figure staring down at him.
He’s never seen Luke like this before. Sure, he hasn’t known him for very long, but the people here love Luke – and Percy understands why. He’s dependable, someone they can trust, can lean on.
This has to be a mistake.
Luke wouldn’t betray camp! He wouldn’t betray Annabeth!
But the sword swings again, and static is racing up Percy’s spine, adrenaline flooding his veins. Riptide isn’t the same as the training swords; it feels like an extension of Percy himself, darting up to push Luke’s blade off course.
The only thing he can see is Luke, cast in the blues of the portal at Percy’s back, the reds of the fireworks. He deflects the first few strikes as best he can, before finally feeling ready. He parries the next slash, responds with his own, gets blocked, and then they do it all again.
Their swords meet between them, and Percy holds it for a second but he won’t win a fight of strength. No, if he’s going to win, it’s not going to be from a move like that. His arms are shaking, he won’t be able to hold it much longer – so he doesn’t. He pushes Riptide down the length of Backbiter, just enough to keep the edge away from Percy and rebound Riptide back into the air. It’s barely an opening, but Percy has to risk it.
Luke hadn’t overpowered him in that clash. Either he couldn’t, unlikely, or he’s still not taking Percy as a threat.
So he throws his weight into a diagonal swing.
Luke catches his wrist before he can go far enough, cutting the slash short before it’s anywhere near him, and the momentum nearly costs Percy his grip on Riptide.
Backbiter is pointed at his neck. Not so close, but a clear win for Luke.
“You did get better.” He hears, and it sounds proud – it sounds like Luke. There’s a grin on Luke’s face, and Percy is shoving back, Riptide slamming against Backbiter to put space between them.
They circle, before Luke goes in again, twirling his sword in a way that’s unnecessarily showy. Percy would roll his eyes if he didn’t have to keep his focus on the fight at hand. They exchange a few half-hearted strikes, spinning again, and then there’s a flash of blue.
The portal-! A line is through it, from Luke-
Riptide jolts to the side, Percy holding unsteadily to his feet. It’s all he can do to keep the blade in hand. His breath comes out in one big gasp as a kick slams into his ribs, and he’s barely able to stumble back to dodge the slash that follows behind it. His foot lands wrong, a leaf or something slipping out from under him, and then he’s caught by a stone pillar.
The portal is maybe two feet from his side. The portal that Luke had said they could run through – oh, he’s clever.
“Think of Annabeth,” Percy can’t help the way his eyes dart to Luke, as he continues. “Of how desperately she wants Athena to notice her, even after she almost got her killed – because Annabeth hurt her pride. Is that fair to you?”
She’d been so excited to see the Arch. To see this great work of architecture – a place where they could be safe – and her own mother had taken that away from her. She’d gone so quiet, her voice weaker than Percy had ever heard it before, embarrassed, hurt. It’s not a memory Percy enjoys.
“Do you really want that to be the life she lives?” Luke asks. They lock eyes, and they can agree on this, if nothing else. Annabeth deserves better. But this isn’t the way to do that.
“Is this what she would want?” He argues, “For you to start a war against her mother? Against all of our parents?”
“They don’t get to call themselves our parents! Do you know how many kids are in the Hermes cabin, Percy?”
He thinks about the bunk beds lining every wall, filling all of the space in the middle of the room, crammed wherever they would fit. Of the sleeping bags scattered across the floor where beds ran out. There had to be dozens of kids in there.
Luke is scowling, and there’s hatred in every word he says. An anger that sounds older than Percy could guess – Annabeth said he blames Hermes for his mom, and Percy thinks he blames all of the gods for a whole lot more. “How many of those kids do you think are claimed? How many of their parents were kind enough to acknowledge them? They deserve better than this, and Kronos will give it to them!”
Percy stays quiet, because- because he doesn’t know the answer, but he knows it isn’t a big enough number. Because they do deserve better, all of them, but this won’t give them that! Kronos ate his own kids, there’s no way he’ll spare all of the demigods – and what about their families? About the people they care about outside of camp? They would all die the second Kronos rose to power.
All this will do is tear apart the camp and tear apart the absolute faith everyone here has in Luke. People would get hurt. Annabeth, Grover, would be devastated. They all would be. Percy included.
It isn’t fair that he gets to do that to them. To scream about how poorly the gods treat them while he plans to abandon them too! He’s not wrong, everyone here deserves to know their parents, to be loved by them and not just used, but that’s what Luke does. Luke is the one who comforts these kids, who takes them into his cabin, who steals them supplies and trains them in forests!
The gods aren’t perfect! Maybe they aren’t even all good! But Luke is.
It’s not fair.
He doesn’t know which of them strikes first. He thinks it must be him, because he’s angry. He’s so angry – at Luke, at him betraying Annabeth, Grover, and all of the people who care about him, and he’s angry that he’s scared. That he’s scared of Luke, of the fact that he might actually leave here, of the fact that he’s willing to tear apart the camp, to abandon everyone so easily.
All of a sudden, he’s stepping in, shoving Luke off balance, and it’s like there’s water beneath his feet. He’s moving without thinking, and he might be able to do this. Luke is going easy on him; he still isn’t trying to hurt him. Like Percy is another one of those kids in the Hermes cabin who Luke wants better for.
It’s like one of their spars, but just a million times higher stakes. You can do this, Percy. Win the spar and convince Luke to stay, even if it means abandoning Kronos, easy.
So he keeps moving, dodges left, underneath the swing of Backbiter, counters with a weak right slash that Luke has to block. Real fights aren’t clean, so he puts all of his weight into one stupid gamble, ducks under Luke’s arm, right into his body, and shoves.
A lone firework goes off, for a moment everything seems to slow, Luke’s expression twists with surprise, and then he’s stumbling back. Percy presses forward, Riptide cutting through the air slash after slash. Luke is being pushed back, unsteady on his feet, and Percy pushes his advantage.
This has never happened in any of their spars before. Percy is leading, keeping Luke unbalanced, forcing him to deflect before he can fully right himself, but he can see him collecting himself again, can see his opening closing.
Riptide is flying towards him before Percy can stop to think, catching on the unguarded skin of Luke’s stomach and tearing it open.
There’s blood all along Riptide, seeping through and staining the bright orange of Luke’s Camp Halfblood shirt, leaving a dirty brownish-red in its path. A sick wrenching pulls his gut as he watches Luke recoil, his anger draining out of him with the widening of Luke’s eyes, the split second of shock, because Percy hurt him.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to-!” It’s immediate, and it isn’t enough. Percy took a sword to his stomach, how could some stupid apology be enough? There isn’t a drop of blood on Percy – Luke hadn’t hurt him, and Percy isn’t dumb enough to think he couldn’t have. Luke wasn’t trying to hurt him; Percy had taken first blood.
Luke looks at the wound and when his eyes come back up to Percy’s, he can’t help the instinctual spark of fear. He’s mad. He’s really mad, and Percy deserves it. I mean, who just cuts a guy like that!
Backbiter flies towards him and the harsh screeching of metal fills the air as Riptide barely protects Percy from the unexpected blow. It isn’t the last to come. All of a sudden, it’s like Percy can hardly take a second to breathe, a neverending barrage of slashes coming his way.
Each one sends him stumbling back more, his footing unsteady underneath him. If he had a second, he’s sure he could get back in the swing of things, but he’s blocking, and deflecting, and trying not to take a giant slash down his body, so his footwork is the least of his worries right now.
Blood is still dripping down Luke’s own stomach, and there’s no way Percy could miss it. It isn’t much – it’s shallower than he had first thought. Thank Hades. Luke still clearly didn’t appreciate it though.
He’s pushed Percy all the way back to the center of the clearing, just a little bit away from the portal, and then the onslaught pauses. He can suck in a breath, and then he’s struggling to bear the weight of the heaviest strike yet, trying his best just to stay on his feet even after Backbiter itself is pulled back.
If he had just a second, he’d be fine. But he doesn’t.
A hand hits his chest, he has barely a second before the realization kicks in – oh, Luke took that personally – and then he’s falling. A flash of blue light catches in the sky, metal chases his flesh and a sharp line is drawn through his left arm. His breath catches even before he slams against the dirt, body curling in on itself, bringing his arm as close to himself as it can go. The movement, the careless brush of his fingers against the open wound, leaves him gasping in pain.
His arm is wet, wet with his own blood.
Part of Percy thinks it’ll stop here. That this’ll be like some extreme spar, a test to show just how important these skills are. Percy understands, he gets it! He’s fought Ares, he’s had to fight the Furies, and the Minotaur, and Percy gets it!
Luke doesn’t have to go any further. He’s won.
But Percy isn’t dumb. Luke wouldn’t do something like this as a stupid lesson. He wouldn’t carve wounds into Percy’s arm, nondominant or not, if this was just to drill in something Percy already knows. Something Luke, the last quester in the camp, would know he knows.
When your life depends on something, it’s kind of hard to forget.
No, Luke had said he was here to recruit him. To recruit him for Kronos. For his plan to overthrow the gods.
There was no chance Percy could join him. They both know that by this point.
Backbiter is resting above his throat, close enough that even if Percy had been smart enough to think of fighting back he’d have to hesitate. It doesn’t matter, because Percy had been complacent. He’d let himself believe that Luke would let him up here, that even if his recruitment plan failed, he wouldn’t do anything else. He would walk away and the worst thing would be watching it happen.
Instead Luke stands over him, the shadows casting his face in darkness, his sword inches from Percy’s throat. It’s too far for him to feel, but something radiates from Backbiter that Percy swears he can feel on his skin. It’s like electricity, bouncing between the metal of the blade and the skin of Percy’s body. It feels like death, like being out in the snow until your limbs start losing feeling.
It’s getting cold now, slowly creeping into Percy’s limbs the longer he lays lying on the ground. It must be midnight too, because it’s darker than a summer night has any right to be. He can’t see anything anymore – the fireworks must’ve stopped then, the celebration over – just past the blade to his neck, only as far as the figure of Luke at the other end.
The sword dips lower, brushing against the thin skin of his neck, and he might actually die here. He might actually die.
Not to his stupid quest, or his impertinence towards the gods, but to Luke.
He might never see his mom again, or be able to make sure she’s safe, that Hades kept his word. She’s done so much for him, and he’ll never get to see her again. She’ll go home alone and have to deal with Smelly Gabe’s anger. Would they remember to send someone to tell her? Would she even know what happened to him?
He looks up, chest heaving with short breaths, and it’s all dark. He can’t get out of this one. There’s no convenient pool of water nearby, no way he can trick Luke into underestimating him – not that it’d do anything at this point anyway – Percy really doesn’t see a way out.
Oh Hades, Luke is going to kill him.
The blade rears back; Percy’s eyes squeeze shut in anticipation. He can hear Luke’s sigh, can hear him mumble something underneath his breath; he can hear Backbiter cutting through the air, and he waits for it to hit its target.
He waits with bated breath.
His lungs are starting to hurt a little bit.
There’s a shout, ancient Greek curses flying above him, and then wind hits his ears. There’s a harsh slam with the breeze, the cold sting of Backbiter against his face.
And it doesn’t hurt. Percy cracks an eye open, glances briefly to his side and finds the blade of Luke’s sword barely an inch from his face. He flinches back, bracing again for a hit that doesn’t come.
Then Percy feels like a real idiot – Backbiter is stuck in the dirt. Luke isn’t even holding on properly anymore. Luke didn’t go through with it; Percy was right – that’s a relief. He looks up at Luke, his lungs fully expanding for the first time since he hit the ground.
Luke’s expression is twisted, startlingly pale even in the night, the lingering remnants of his anger mixed with wide eyes and shallow breaths
His hand flies out towards Percy and he flinches back before registering that there isn’t any pain. Luke flinches with him, his eyes widening before going back to normal, fast enough that Percy thinks he imagined the whole thing.
He keeps his hand out though. An open palm, face up, not a weapon to be seen. Not that he would really need one, to beat up Percy – who is quite a few years younger and frankly much smaller. He hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet! – But there’s no chance Luke would attack him again, not when he’s already beaten, not with how he’s acting right now; he isn’t like that.
So Percy takes his hand with his uninjured arm and lets himself be pulled back up to his feet.
Luke steps by him, until they’re side by side, and lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Make the right choice, Percy. Don’t let them treat her like that again.” It’s quiet and heavy, not a threat, not a warning, but something tired, something angry.
And then he’s gone. Passing through the portal without another look back.