Percy Jackson at Hogwarts

"Unsteady"- by X Ambassadors

Jason PoV

It's been a few weeks since Atlas has visited us and I took the blessing as it came. It was quiet in the cell, save for the occasional sick sniffle, groan of pain, or the sounding of me hacking up blood. Annabeth tried to stay positive, but I was resigned to what my fate looked like. Dying in this cell from an unknown poison and never getting to see my friends again, never getting to say goodbye. The last person I said goodbye to was Percy, and in that moment—though unaware to what would soon be my new normal— I couldn't help but feel as if that moment was the last time I would see him. What that meant, I had no idea, but it bothered me as I rode on Tempest. I couldn't stop thinking about that feeling, why it was there or why it made me feel so... upset. Maybe it was the last time I would see him alive—whether it was me who would die or him. Or maybe it was the last time I would see that version of Percy; maybe he would have changed for the worse the next time I saw him. Or maybe I would go blind.

But it wasn't just a feeling. Along with it came nightmares. Every night I had vague nightmares about Percy, they induced the same feeling, the same dread, but I couldn't understand them. Annabeth didn't know. At first I didn't tell her because I was so freaked out by them that I didn't want to acknowledge them. Then, as time passed and it was becoming more hopeless and felt like we would never be found, I decided Annabeth didn't need more to worry about. I could deal with creepy, dread-inducing dream Percy by myself. His eyes were always empty, but not in the metaphorical sense. Dream Percy never had pupils or irises, or even an eyeball. Just a hole of pure white or pure black. Sometimes he was laying down motionless with his arms folded on his chest, as if he was lying in an open casket. Sometimes he stood and stared, motionless and unblinking with his disturbing eyes. He never smiled, but sometimes his lips would move but no words would come out. Other times he would be standing, staring and ash poured from his fingertips, like a never ending stream of sand, but ash. He would have a shirt on that had a large red stain of blood, bright and fresh, right over his stomach.

I didn't know what these dreams meant, only that it wasn't good. Maybe if we ever got out of here I would have Annabeth help me decipher them. If I was still alive. Nothing was promising and I doubted that if we ever left, that both of us would be alive. The poison was getting worse and my open wound wasn't helping. I started hallucinating and sometimes I would see dream Percy in the cell with us, but I never said anything. As each day passed, I could feel my body getting weaker and more blood poured out when I hacked uncontrollably. No matter what Annabeth said, I knew.

I was going to die.

Nobody knew where we were and if someone did, by the time they got here... I would already be dead. When I first realized this, it made me angry, so angry. Angry that my last moment would be spent in a cell, kidnapped. That I wouldn't get to say goodbye, tell Piper how much I loved her. Angry that Annabeth would have to watch her friend die, not knowing whether or not she would soon follow. Then, I was resigned and grudgingly made peace with my end. I was upset, but I didn't want to spend my last moments angry—and those last moments seemed to be almost upon me. My hallucinations got worse and more frequent and I knew that meant the poison was probably closer to my brain now. My hacking fits happened more often and I grew paler each day. The pain from the poison and my wound intensified, though I suspect that wouldn't last long—I was slowly starting to lose feeling. Time would lapse around me and sleep never felt more welcoming—though I knew Annabeth worried for sometimes I would sleep days at a time.

My time was coming. I could almost see my string and hear the sliding blades of the scissors—the anthem of my death.

Sometimes I awoke to Annabeth's fingers on my neck, checking for a pulse. It was something she did often, even when I was awake and simply closed my eyes for too long, not having the energy to open them from what was supposed to only be a blink. She feared the very likely possibility, a possibility that I had come to accept as reality.