A Crown of Golden Leaves: A Percy Jackson Fanfiction

Capvt XXI: The Principle of the Matter

Capvt XXI: The Principle of the Matter

"TO Bi-bli-o." *

"Yeah, that's it! Now write out Νανι*."

Percy watched Annabeth carefully etch the word in the sand, biting her bottom lip in concentration and muttering the alphabet under her breath in Greek.  He looked at the water, then back at her again. He felt a smile tug at his lips at the glower on her face, like she was personally blaming the word for being hard to write. He glanced back at the water. She probably was.

Time for a little reflex training. 

He slid into the tepid lake silently, not caring about the fact that he was fully clothed and went under. He kept his eyes open and his mouth shut and waited for a few minutes. He had learned a long time ago that he could hold his breath for an extraordinary amount of time; he never became wet if he didn't want to. 

His lungs began to constrict. He began to count in his head to keep his mind away from the tightness in his chest. He had learned that it was harder to stay under longer that way. 

"Percy?" a muffled voice called, and he swam up to the surface. He stepped onto the ground. "Where are yo—yack!" She squealed a little when he wrapped his arms around her, completely sodden with lake water. "Get off, you wet lump of—"

He tightened his arms around her and smiled against her shoulder. "That's not a very nice way to greet your husband, Annabeth."

"It's not very nice to get your wife soaking wet either. You're so lucky I decided to wear purple today, instead of white."

He paused for a moment. "What? Why?"

She rolled her head back against his shoulder, a disbelieving look in her eyes. "You don't know that you can see through white?"

Actually, he did, but he still didn't understand why— ... "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. Now we're both wet and your pater wants us to dine with him this evening."

He stepped away from her, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed . . . and rather curious if he was honest with himself. What did she look like in soaking wet whites?

"Here, I can dry you off." He offered. Her face scrunched up a little as she turned around to look at him. He decided not to mention that only the back of her toga was wet. She wasn't really soaked.

"You can? How?"

"I'll show you." He smiled briefly, then closed his eyes to concentrate. He used to do this with Reyna and Rachel when they were children, but that had been years ago, long before he even developed feelings for Rachel. He hoped he still remembered how.

A familiar tugging in his gut wakened, and he opened his eyes imagining he was directing the presence over the wet spots. He imagined he was pulling the water over to him, pulling it off her toga and letting it go into the air with the moisture.

"How did you do that?" she asked, looking over her shoulder like she was trying to find left-over water. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't know. I just willed it away, I suppose." He suddenly felt defensive. "I've always been able to do it."

He shifted under her stare; he shouldn't have simpothned the water off her toga. He should have left it on. She must be thinking something along the lines that he was dangerous, that he needed to be locked up, like that man all those years ago, the one who had healed him after he got a concussion because he was riding a horse and the branch was just there . . .