Er. Not smutty at all. Family/Hurt/Comfort, really!

#insert 'stddisclaimer.h'


-o0o-


and few return

by Incendiarist


-o0o-


Many fall down, and few return to the sunlit lands, they know, but they don't care, and one hand is tangled in her blonde hair, the other sliding up her thigh, and she smiles into his lips. They slide onto the bed awkwardly; it's small and covered in blueprints which crackle under their weight, blueprints which, had he been Percy, would have been rolled up and returned to their rightful places before they might even think about using the bed, but he's not Percy, and something about him makes her forgo her usual caution, something eudæmonic.

Many come down, and few return to the sunlit lands, they know, children of Athena that they are. They've struggled through books writ without consideration of demigods, purely because they were there and begged reading, and a bookcase filled with volumes such as these is on one wall of the cabin, and she leans against it now, her chin tilted up, as they kiss and struggle to remove their clothes, sweaty and bloody and caked with dirt.

Many sink down, and few return to the sunlit lands, they know, as they watch the people around them break down with a distant sort of apathy, like what's happening is happening somewhere else, to people they neither know nor care about. They're pushing away people who used to be friends, people they used to care for but no longer do, and they know, perhaps, that they ought to be concerned about it, that something isn't quite right, but they aren't concerned, don't care.

Many have taken ship at the pale beaches, and few return to the sunlit lands, they know, and he holds her hair out of her face as she vomits, and they just look at each-other, because there's nothing to be said. They continue on with their lives like nothing's wrong; she won't show for months yet, and they're given space by everyone besides, and they keep going on as they have because, well, things can hardly get any worse.

Many sink down to the Underworld, and few return to the sunlit lands, they know, and he runs his hand down her spine as she hugs him, the hot water raining down on their heads, steam rising up around them, and he rests his chin on her head. Her tanned skin is red from the heat, and he eyes are bright from crying, - hormones surge and a single word can sometimes reduce her to a sobbing wreck - and he tries his best to comfort her.

It is said they will all wake at the end of the world, and it's a cruel joke to play at their expense, but at this rate, the end of the world's not too far off; not long for them to be asleep, yet. They will all wake at the end of the world, and one hand is tangled in her blonde hair, the other sliding up her thigh, and there's blood on her lips.