A Crown of Golden Leaves: A Percy Jackson Fanfiction

Caput XIII: Soul Fire

"A good leader can engage in a debate frankly and thoroughly, knowing that at the end he and the other side must be closer, and thus emerge stronger. You don't have that idea when you are arrogant, superficial, and uninformed." – Nelson Mandela

Caput XIII: Soul Fire

THE moment the dream released him from its hold, Percy jolted upright. Instantly, his back flared up in pain and he had to grit his teeth to stop a whimper from escaping his lips. He instinctively curled into himself though— it hurt. They still burned, even though it been over two weeks since the flogging happened.

Never again, he repeated the promise he made to himself when he defended Annabeth and got into this whole mess, thinking about how the pain crippled him. He had been able to keep track of how many times he had been struck at first, but then he had lost count somewhere after twenty. His back had first gone numb, and then it felt like it was on fire...

He shook his head and pressed his hands against the sides of his head. He had to forget about it, to, at the very least, give himself some peace of mind, but the whole ordeal was burnt into his skin. He didn't think he would ever forget it, even after the scars healed.

Twenty-five lashes, Annabeth had said. Twenty-five lashes all over his back, because she had spoken out.

Stop it, Perseus he scolded himself. It's not her fault. It's pater's fault. He was the one who issued the order for the flogging, not Annabeth. 

But she was the one who instigated it. A sly voice murmured, but he shook his head at it. He hated the fact he couldn't control his thoughts like he could control his expression or words— he wanted to; he wanted them to be happier thoughts, but he couldn't change them. He didn't know how. 

He rested his forehead on the base of his palm and frowned slightly. He glanced over to the side of the bed where Annabeth usually slept, but she wasn't there. In fact, it wasn't even warm.

A slight flutter of panic began in his chest —what if she had been kidnapped?— and he looked into the shadows, hoping she was playing a game of hide'n'seek. He couldn't see her, but that didn't mean she wasn't hiding.

"Annabeth?" He called out, but she didn't respond. He slowly maneuvered his legs so that they hung over the side. "Annabeth, where are you?"

She still didn't answer his question, and a lump formed in his throat. It was ridiculous, that he was worried about her, but there you have it. It was probably because she didn't know how to fight, and her temper was just as bad as his, if not worse. And she hadn't learned to curb her tongue. 

Okay, he told himself. Deep breaths. There's no rational reason to be worried. In fact, she probably just went out to get a glass of water because the pitcher's empty.

However, when he looked over to the side, where the clear pitcher of water sat on top of his end table, it wasn't empty. He tore the covers out and swung his legs around into his sandals, grabbing the spare dagger he kept underneath his pillow while he was at it. She had to be fine. She was alright... she had to be... Nothing had to have happened. 

He felt sick, but he managed to pull a cloak across his shoulders so that no one would hopefully recognize him. A buzzing sound began in his skull, and he walked slowly toward the door so that he wouldn't strain his back more. He had to find her; what if she had gotten hurt? He had made a promise to protect her, and his mater had said that you could never ever go back on your promises.

So, he looked for her. Silently.

After he got out of their chambers, he turned down a corridor, scowling at nothing in particular. His back wasn't bothering him, oddly enough, and his heart was thumping wildly, but he didn't really dwell on these things. He had more important things to worry about, like, where in Hades was Annabeth.