─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆
❛ Here we are at the end of the world, waiting for the sky to break into flames─but we are together, as if the stars had aligned. ❜
Percy Jackson never thought he would fall in love with a traitor.
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✩━━━ wading in waist-high water, or the story of how percy and micah fell in love.
JESUS DIDN'T SUCCUMB TO THE LOSS OF BLOOD OR THE BRUTAL MUTILATION OF HIS BODY; HE DIED OF ASPHYXIATION.
It all began with his hands. Rusted spikes of tapered iron pierced through tendon and vein, cleaving flesh from bone as the blood of the Carpenter's Son dripped down the rough-hewn wood. The nails were driven into the upper meat of his palms; for six agonizing hours, he hung suspended. Under the endless pressure of his own body, his abdomen was slowly crushed, stretching and tearing further until he could scarcely draw breath, each attempt a laborious struggle for air, suffocating him gradually until he cried out, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!"
Micah didn't dare draw a comparison between his own pain and that of Jesus, but as he stared at his hands, each knuckle covered in band-aids of soft yellows and pinks, he couldn't help but be reminded: the crucifixion of Jesus began with his hand, too.
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1. Crushing; the Piercing of the Hands.
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Micah is unsure of his age or if his name is truly his own.
Truth be told, he does not know much. Just rage and blurred memories that scatter in his dreams like a flock of morning doves fleeing from the growl of a predator. He doesn't know who his mother is or where his divine father has been all this time, only the way his grandmother's talons drag on the skin of his scalp whenever she visits him in the middle of the night and whispers to him, "My little prince." He may not recall who he was before awakening in Nyx's arms by the banks of the river Lethe, but deep within, he senses a calling to greatness—to something transcending his mere flesh and bones.
He may not know his age, his family, or where he came from, but he does know each hidden pathway on Mount Olympus and the warmth of the Phlegethon as its flames coil around the earth, flowing into the abyssal depths of Tartarus. He knows the real appearance of heavenly beings and the whispers they try to keep hidden. He knows that he is destined for more than just his bedroom at Camp Half-Blood—that his fate is intertwined with the gods themselves. It is the only truth in his life. His grandmother softly spoke it to him each night, like a lullaby of divine prophecy, a song his mortal mother wouldn't dare to sing.
He knows where the Fates will lead him. The unending light of the stars above illuminates the path of his destiny. For Micah, that knowledge is enough, even as the unnatural ache in his bones lingers and the blood staining his hair tarnishes to brown instead of the gold his grandmother had promised.
