thefav_eclipse



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Chris Rodriguez never recognized Percy. Never acknowledged him past mindless babbles and the occasional wordless cry.

    And yet, every weekend, like clockwork, Percy went back to his room. Sat at his bedside and endured his maddened rambles. Ignored the sting of madness prickling his spine.

    Percy sat, and he kept his friend company. Spoke softly and calmly as he told his friend about his week, never raising his voice, never letting any negative emotion bleed through into his tone. Brushed through his hair carefully, when Chris let him, and untangled the knots with gentle patience.

    Week after week, Percy returned to camp.

    Chris Rodriguez never recognized Percy, and, these days, Percy didn’t recognize him either.

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    04 Jun 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    Percy knew it wasn’t a good idea for him to accompany Thalia and Annabeth to Westover Hall. He couldn’t explain it to them—not without spilling a whole host of secrets—but a feeling of cold dread filled his bones every time he thought about their upcoming trip.

    Not to mention, Percy’s dreams the week leading up to the mission had been full of snowy cliffs and long falls in which he always woke before he hit the ground. The two children of Hades crouched on the edge of the cliff, cowering from something Percy never managed to see. He always saw himself, though, placing himself between the two demigods and whatever had them trapped on the edge of a cliff.

    Every dream ended with a fall, and Percy woke up sure he was about to smash into the ground hard enough to break every bone in his body.

    Nothing good would come from Westover Hall, Percy knew, but Grover had asked for help, and Percy could never ignore a friend in need.

    He was beginning to think he should learn how to, though.

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    04 Jun 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    Every night for the past two weeks, Percy Jackson has had the same exact dream. To most people, that would be an odd happenstance but nothing to write home about. To Percy, who's dreams had always shown him more than most and, more importantly, had almost never repeated themselves, the repetition of this one specific scene was...concerning, to say the least. Every night he woke with the searing heat of a poisoned tree running through his veins, and every night he fell apart just a little bit more.

    The more Percy's dreams repeated, the more obvious it became that they wouldn't stop showing him the same thing over and over again until Percy fixed the problem. The problem being the dying tree that had once been Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus.

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    11/11
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    04 Jun 2026

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    Percy was seven the first time he woke screaming, the taste of blood in his mouth and the howling of hounds resounding throughout his head. His mom rushed into his room to cradle him in her arms. When she asked, he bit his tongue, told her only of dogs chasing after him. He didn’t tell her of the boy with the goat legs, the pain of being torn apart, and the warm light that engulfed him at the end. She held him until he fell back asleep. Elsewhere, a young daughter of Zeus made her final stand.

    Percy was nine when he opened his eyes, phantom lightning crawling over his skin and the echoes of a woman’s last moments still ringing in his ears. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the twin onyx eyes staring back at him.

    When his mother told him the story of his namesake, of Perseus the son of Zeus, he didn't tell her he already knew. Had already seen a mother and her infant set adrift in a raging storm, watched a boy travel far and slay monsters for the sake of his mother’s safety. But he didn’t tell her this. He was young, but he knew already what happened to people like him. People who see.

    He was no prophet; he would not suffer their fate. He would bite his tongue and let the prophecies pass him by.

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    04 Jun 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    Percy Jackson was excited—genuinely excited—for the first time in what felt like years. A new city. A new name. A new face, even. The golden hair, the pale blue eyes, the tattoos that traced his skin like constellations—none of it screamed “Percy Jackson” anymore. He was Evan Buckley now, or just Buck, depending on who asked. He’d keep busy—physically exhausted, mentally occupied, emotionally detached. That was the key. No attachments. No friendships. No relationships. No vulnerability. He’d learned the hard way that getting close to people only ended in pain. Either they died, betrayed him, or saw the legend behind the name and stopped seeing him altogether.

    Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned on the 118.

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    03 Jun 2026