Prophesied Powder, PJO

4.3

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Chapter 35
Annabeth Gets A Quest

Volume 4: The Battle of
the Labyrinth

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Pat wasn't one to mix his lives. His family only discussed the Greek parts of his life in certain settings.

1) After returning from camp. They loved him and wanted to hear about his summer, especially if something horrible happened like a quest. Pat had a suspicion that his father was trying to gauge how much therapy Pat needed, which is why Pat hardly told the truth about how awful things were getting. Still, David liked to hear his stories of monster-fighting.

2) If an attack or quest happened during the year. It was hard to ignore the whole demigod thing if a hellhound tried to eat him at school or a god came knocking on their door. In those situations, they discussed it because they had to.

3) If Pat has a phantom pain episode. In the sparse instance that Pat started trying to cry and grab his face, his parents would do anything they could to help. It normally became impromptu therapy sessions about his quests, and they would listen--because Pat acted grown-up, but it felt good to be parented sometimes, even if no one had given Harley and Warren a guide to raising a demigod.

One of his only exceptions to those rules was holidays. When holidays came around, Greg always came over, and Pat was practically allowed to invite Pallas over whenever he wanted. That was a mixing of lives that he liked; his two best friends laying around in his house with him, just existing. (This extended further on his birthday when he tried to drag around anyone close enough--Percy in Manhattan or any number of his half-siblings at camp, some of Pallas' siblings, an invitation sent out to Grover with instructions to wear jeans and tennis shoes because mortals from his school would be coming.)

But when a demigod dreams, their visions have no care for their preferences.

Pat was normally spared from the harsh nightmares of his friends, and he attributed that mostly to the fact that he couldn't see—even in his dreams—unless it was a memory of his childhood.

All around him was freezing in his dream. His feet felt slippery like he was standing on a glacier, and he shook as he took steps forward. His teeth chattered against his will.

It was a familiar feeling; he had felt it when he was thirteen, in the Underworld. Tartarus.

He'd like to pretend that he'd forgot the way that it had made him feel, but Pat had never been able to shake the way that the hole had made him feel. It was worse than anything the Gods could have inflicted upon him, should it happen. A feeling of ice along all of his bones. Unimaginable fear.

"It's not worth it, Pat,"

Pat's head whipped around quickly, searching for the voice. He called, "Greg? Greg?!"

Despite the feeling of Tartarus holding his chest, he heard running water, crushing waves—Pat tilted his head—a rock skipping across them. Greg's disembodied voice was muddy, warbled, but Pat knew it in and out. He sounded ghostly, and he continued speaking with no indication that he had heard Pat.