Climb (Percy Jackson x Reader)

twenty-two

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this chapter contains mentions of non-consensual contact. (nothing extreme/graphic, but some may find it unsettling.)
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✺ SOME SORT OF FAITH ✺

Camp Half-Blood felt empty. Eerie, even.

It began slowly: a camper would go to Will with complaints of a nauseating headache and constant exhaustion, only for the son of Apollo's healing abilities to fall short. The prescribed medicine was bed rest.

Over the course of a week, young campers steadily disappeared from the main grounds, admitted to the infirmary with consistent symptoms indicative of an unknown virus. And it extended outside of the camp, too.

Parents, frantic and mortal and terrified that their half-blood children weren't responding to medical treatment, begged Chiron to make space in the infirmary so that the unknown sickness could be addressed with the mystical resources at Camp Half-Blood's disposal. Some demigods with unkind families made the journey alone, stumbling through the barrier before collapsing on the Big House's lawn. Beds filled up until they were pushed aside to make room for cots and floor mats.

The Golden Fleece was even removed from the barrier's pine tree, placed over the sick, and stared at with anticipation. It did nothing.

Then, the panic began to set in.

Will and his siblings spent nearly every waking hour weaving through the maze that was the infirmary floor, dosing out nectar and applying cool compresses and adjusting pillows until the sick fell asleep and the sun dipped into the horizon.

Annabeth and others with first-aid experience offered their services. Without hesitation, the healers ushered them into the infirmary.

Grover had taken it upon himself to research the illness with Chiron, searching for some sort of clue that would point the healers in the correct direction. Anything they shared with Will was crossed off as being unsuccessful.

Percy barely saw his friends outside of the Big House. He would stop by, hoping to be of assistance, but the effect of his healing abilities was the same as all others: nothing. With no idea of what else to do or how else to help, he spent his time wandering the camp, offering solemn updates to the campers who asked about their siblings.

His gut twisted with guilt every time faces fell at his words. His chest hollowed with each area of empty space, glaring his way with the reminder of a person he'd seen there before, followed by their current place in the infirmary.

He wasn't sure why, but he had the strange conviction that if (Y/N) was at Camp Half-Blood, she would bring up some sort of unfounded or improbable theory to look into which would eventually uncover a solution.

But she wasn't there. She'd been on a quest for the past week, personally selected by Hades to retrieve a helm that had been stolen from him.

Mark was with her.

She had insisted on going alone, but the son of Ares was confident about his knowledge of the Helm of Darkness. Percy had watched a ridiculous pride bloom on Mark's face when (Y/N) allowed him to join; it was clear that the son of Ares believed himself to be the recipient of a rare invite, rather than the asset that (Y/N) saw him as.

For the duration of her quest, no one shared any information about the situation at Camp Half-Blood. If she were to hear word about sick half-bloods with no known cure, she would immediately abandon her mission, which would pit Hades against whichever person or god or creature that had taken his Helm.

Simply put, everyone knew it was better to wait for a solution than to risk a divine conflict.

So they held onto their dwindling slivers of patience, and they waited.