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The sun was blinding when Bronte first woke up. Her body swayed from side to side from the waves crashing against their tiny rowboat.
Bronte groaned, squinting from the light. She tried sitting up, only to be pushed back down lightly by a raven haired boy.
Percy hovered over her, his eyes filled with concern. They trailed her body, checking for any injuries he hadn't noticed before.
When he first woke up, he first thought of the blonde girl. Percy scrambled over to her side, lifting her head up and resting it on his lap. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and picked out any debris.
"What...happened?" Bronte asked, turning her head to try and peek over the edge of the boat.
"The ship exploded," Percy explained shortly.
Bronte tried sitting up again, but her hand slipped out under her, making her fall back into Percy's lap. She blushed, but Percy didn't mind. He lifted her up under her armpits, picking her up into a sitting position.
"Thank you," she mumbled, putting a hand up to block the sun.
Percy sat on the edge of the boat, just in the right spot so there was shade on her face. He smiled softly at her, leaning on his knees.
The blonde tried remembering the events that took place, but everything was still a blur. She saw flashes of Clarisse, the dead Confederates, Percy and her free-falling in open air, Annabeth yelling at her and Percy to not chase after–
"Tyson," she breathed, her eyes welling with tears.
She hadn't even made it to him. The door was right there, yet she was still so far away.
The three were silent while the waves tossed them up and down.
"He may have survived," Annabeth said halfheartedly. "I mean, fire can't kill him."
Bronte nodded, but she had no reason to feel hopeful. She'd seen that explosion rip through solid iron. If Tyson had been down in the boiler room, there was no way he could've lived.
She wiped a tear away, sniffling and looking out at the miles and miles of sea.
Her body ached with so much pain, but she knew that she could be feeling worse. She could have been like Tyson, who was– dead.
She could have been dead.
Annabeth tried lightening up the mood, and showed them some things she'd salvaged from the wreckage. Hermes's thermos (now empty), a Ziploc bag full of ambrosia, a couple of sailors' shirts, and a bottle of Dr Pepper. Most of the stuff had floated away, but the stuff Annabeth did salvage would hopefully be useful.
They sailed for hours. Now that they were in the Sea of Monsters, the water glittered a more brilliant green, like Hydra acid. The wind smelled fresh and salty, but it carried a strange metallic scent, too–as if a thunderstorm were coming. Or something even more dangerous.
