Sea Green Eyes

Chapter 65

They'd barely made it ten feet from Damasen's hut before exhaustion came thundering back and the homesickness began to set in.

The four of them tumbled along in the darkness, the air thick and cold, the ground alternating patches of pointy rocks and pools of muck. The terrain reminding them that they couldn't let their guard down anymore.

Percy had pulled a makeshift tunic of drakon leather over his shredded t-shirt while Cressida did the same, his Goode High School Swim Team shirt still covered in blood and quite torn and shredded, but both of them were still shivering from the cold which was odd considering they'd been doing nothing but sweating until now.

Percy's focus narrowed to the ground in front of him. Nothing existed except for that and Cressida at his side. Whenever he felt like giving up, plopping himself down, and dying (which was, like, every ten minutes), he would squeeze her hand that had barely left his since they left Damasen's, just to remember there was warmth in the world.

While Cressida was clearly upset about leaving Damasen behind after her whole philosophy of not leaving friends behind, part of Percy was relieved. Even with Castor around, he was concerned enough about Bob's staying on their side once they reached the Doors of Death. He wasn't sure he wanted a giant as his wingman, even if that giant could cook a mean bowl of stew. Not that he'd say it out loud because there didn't seem to be an ounce of scepticism in Cressida anymore when it came to their travelling companions.

He hadn't heard their pursuers in hours, but he could sense their hatred... especially Polybotes's. That giant was back there somewhere, following, pushing them deeper into Tartarus. There would be no way to return to Damasen even if they were to turn around.

Percy tried to think of good things to keep his spirits up—the lake at Camp Half-Blood, the time he'd kissed Cressida underwater. Their date in Paris. He tried to imagine the two of them in New Rome together, walking through the hills and holding hands. But Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-Blood both seemed like dreams. He felt as if only Tartarus existed. This was the real world— death, darkness, cold, pain. He'd been imagining all the rest.

He shivered. No. That was the pit speaking to him, sapping his resolve.

"This place is worse than the River Cocytus," he muttered.

"Yes," Bob called back happily. "Much worse! It means we are close."

"That sounds good," Cressida said sarcastically.

"It does, Cressie," Castor beamed and though Percy was thankful for his help, he hated his seemingly eternal optimism. "It means you're closer to home."

Cressida squeezed Percy's hand, her face angelically beautiful in the light of his sword. "I may have relented on the whole calling me Cress thing, but you don't get to call me Cressie."

Percy couldn't help but crack a smile and he knew that she'd been trying to get him to smile and to reassure him when he'd been so worried about lifting her spirits.

"We can debate it when we get out of here," he replied, and she scoffed.

"There will be no debate. I will say you can't do it, and you will listen. Just like you will do so when I say that I want to go somewhere different on a date."

"Paris was nice."

"Oh, yeah. That was really cool. That little table and all the French food. The lights and your moment under the Eiffel Tower -"

"Castor!" Cressida scolded. "It is weird enough that you watch what I do, I don't need to be reminded of the fact that you watched me make out with my boyfriend under the Eiffel Tower."