𝙗𝙮𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙘𝙩, 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.
SECTION TWO: BELIEVE—0006.

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THERE WAS SOMETHING—OFF ABOUT THE STUFFED HEAD MOUNTED ON THE WALL.

Although Wilmarie knew better, it seemed as though the leopard's eyes were following her every step as she moved around the massive living room of the Big House. The feeling of being watched made her uncomfortable, as if she were an intruder in someone else's home, even though Chiron had invited her to sit on the vibrant, funky-patterned couch while he went to retrieve the first aid kit from his office.

It wasn't just the taxidermy animal that felt strange, though; everything about Camp Half-Blood was freakish.

The creek water was almost too clear, like it was up to something with the way it reflected the sunlight from above. The leaves clung stubbornly to the branches, even as the wind whipped through the trees, and when Wilmarie swung at some blonde girl who'd stormed over to yell at Percy—yeah, she was mad at him, but she had made a promise ages ago: no one would ever raise their voice at Percy around her again—the whole camp froze.

Every camper turned to stare, eyes wide, like they were waiting for Wilmarie to either burst into flames or transform into some sort of demon. It was like the tension had turned into a giant, invisible boulder, squashing everyone beneath its massive weight as Wilmarie stood her ground, fists clenched at her sides, while Percy, in full damage-control mode, tried to calm down an Annabeth or whatever before things got any worse.

One thing was clear: Percy definitely shouldn't have brought Wilmarie here.

The director seemed to be in agreement, no matter how kind he tried to appear as he approached Wilmarie. As the man wheeled closer to the couch where he had beckoned her to sit, he still couldn't quite manage a smile. He reached out for her arm and asked, "May I?"

Wilmarie eyed him with suspicion. She'd heard enough stories about priests and older men to be cautious. "What is your name?" She asked with a scowl. "Where did Percy go? He doesn't like people yelling at him, you know? So, I won't apologize for trying to hit that girl if that's why you brought me here. She should have known better than to bark at others."

For some odd reason, the director's expression softened as he replied, "My name is Chiron, young one. I oversee the activities here at Camp Half-Blood. Percy has stepped away to discuss some pressing issues with another counselor. Fear not, for he shall return ere long."

Ere long, Wilmarie repeated to herself with incredulity.

Did Percy join some cult of yore or whatever the fuck they call it?

"Uh-huh," she muttered, unsure of what to make of anything. Chiron sat patiently with a pleasant smile, not pressing her for her arm again or prying on her disbelief. Wilmarie took a deep breath and extended her arm to him.

"You don't need to do anything," she said. "I was just planning to grab some VapoRub or something from the Dollar Store later."

"The infirmary is well stocked with all the necessary supplies for moments like this," he assured her.

The warmth of Chiron's touch was unexpected, barely registering as he began to examine her injuries. The oil burns weren't too severe; the pain had dulled to a faint ache in the time it took for them to ride the bus to Long Island. Still, they stretched from her shoulder down to the bone jutting from her wrist, ugly and angry red against her brown skin.

Wilmarie watched him as he searched for a gel within the first aid kit, looking away when the man finally found it and began to apply it gently to her scalds. The gel neither stung nor cooled; she didn't feel any change. Yet Chiron smiled and said, "Don't worry about scarring. It will heal beautifully by morning."

It was exactly what Percy had said. Wilmarie had done her homework on cults; late-night binges on Love Has Won and cancer-curing glitter angels. Were they trying to sell her on something similar? Was she supposed to believe her wounds would vanish overnight? "Sure," she responded, trying to hide her skepticism. "So—what exactly is Camp Half-Blood? Is it an actual camp, or...?"

Chiron tidied the first aid kit as he replied, cotton wads and bandages neatly arranged next to antiseptic wipes and odd colored liquid vials. "Let us start with Percy. What has he told you, dear?"

That he got someone killed; that he was trying to survive something. That his father—the real one, not Gabe, never Gabe—hadn't truly died. So, nothing. Nothing much, really.

Her cheeks burned with humiliation.

Chiron, who might actually be more compassionate than he'd seemed at first, didn't press further.

"I see. Percy has been through many difficult trials, let's say, and while his bravery is clear, it takes a different kind of strength to share the burdens he carries. I don't mean to overstep, child, but I will ask that you offer him the patience he needs. Right now, he may need your unwavering support more than you realize."

Her eyebrows furrowed. Nobody has to plead with her to be patient with Percy, or whatever Chiron meant. "Okay," she said, grinding her teeth to stop herself from being rude. It's not the man's fault that he didn't know that Wilmarie and Percy were always Wilmarie and Percy before this place just yanked him away from her.

Chiron nodded; he closed the first aid kit, the snapping sound of buckles coming together filling the silence. "Thank you. Now, before I began, I would like to know one more thing. Tell me, dear, do you follow any particular faith?"

"Well," she muttered, glaring at the wooden floor. "My parents are from the Dominican Republic, where everyone's Catholic. That's what I grew up with. I'm not really sure how much of it I believe, but whatever. I'm baptized and confirmed, so I guess that makes me Catholic, technically."

The camp director listened with a thoughtful nod. "It's perfectly fine to question and seek your own path," he said reassuringly. "Spirituality and the metaphysical are deeply personal matters. What's important is finding what resonates with you while also honoring the beliefs of those around you."

"I guess," Wilmarie repeated. She never really thought about religion unless it was getting thrown in her face to make her life miserable. Her mom has always been insistent on attending Sunday morning Mass, but once they left the church doors, Yulissa and the men from her neighborhood were far from being righteous disciples of God or whatever. And, well, her father never seemed to care about anything at all in life. He did not like music, he did not like sports, and he certainly did not like religion. He still prayed sometimes, though, like after playing the lottery or when Ilaria had gotten sick years ago and needed to go to the hospital.

Hay que hacer lo que hay que hacer, Bernardo would say to her; to him, everything was a task that had to be done—even prayer, even his children. Now that she is a bit older, Wilmarie feels the same way.

Chiron, noticing her lack of interest, thought of another approach. "Western religious paradigms can be quite burdesome. For a child, it must be hard to believe in a God that is transcendent, outside of the world entirely," he said.

Wilmarie nodded; she remembers being told that she was told she was born bad, a sinner from her very first breath. It had felt world ending, even for a five-year-old, or however old she had been, the first time she was forced to kneel at a pew and repent. It was like a weight on her chest that only grew heavier with every mistake she made. God's only son died for you because he loves you, they would say, as if that made the burden any lighter. It never did; it never made her love him back, either. In the end, it all just piled on more guilt.

"I guess," Wilmarie said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you know why ancient civilizations worshiped multiple deities?" Chiron asked. Wilmarie shook her head, unable to speak. He continued, "gods—lowercase 'g' and plural'—were more attainable than the singular, perfect deity of monotheistic religions. They walk the earth among mortals, sharing in the same emotions and struggles: love, anger, jealousy, grief. Quite opus to the distant, idealized image of a single, perfect God, who is portrayed as being beyond human comprehension or understanding, who is seen as omnipotent, omniscient—beyond the limitations of time and space. Before the fall of Rome, the gods were seen as part of a larger cycle. They shaped the world, guiding the winds and sparking ideas in the minds of men, but they weren't all-knowing or all-seeing. They didn't claim to be the source of everything, like the singular God of monotheism did."

Wilmarie listened closely. "Right. But isn't the whole comfort in gods—or God, or whatever—that they know way more than we do? Like, they've got this cosmic grasp of the universe and can offer guidance and wisdom that we can't just get on our own?" She asked little by little, wishing she didn't sound so stupid.

It didn't really matter if Chiron was trying to convert her, or radicalize her, or recruit her into whatever cult he was a part of; it was the first time someone had talked to her about religion without condemnation. It was just nice to have someone actually listen and offer understanding without shoving their beliefs down her throat.

"For some," Chiron agreed, "faith in an all-knowing power brings comfort. They find peace in the belief that something greater is at work beyond their understanding: 'My hardships will lead to blessings I cannot yet see.' For others, it's a source of distress. How can an all-knowing, all-powerful God allow such suffering in the world?"

A part of her didn't believe in God; the other was terrified of offending Him at all, even in her own thoughts. "Weren't Greek gods and Egyptian gods really cruel, though?" she asked instead, hoping her doubts remained unnoticed.

Still, Chiron nodded. "Indeed. But famine is Demeter's mourning for Persephone. Floods are the manifestation of Poseidon's wrath. There is an explanation for Ra's scorching heat and Bastet 's fierce protection. In every culture, gods are both generous and wrathful, just as the world is filled with both beauty and suffering. But what of the pain that seems to have no reason or purpose? In a way, it's easier to accept suffering when it comes from flawed deities rather than a perfect, benevolent God."

"I don't think it's easy to accept any sort of suffering," Wilmarie replied. "I'd still be hungry. My house would still be destroyed. They'd still be gods. I think I'd hate them more if they were supposed to be like me. If I were God, I wouldn't let that happen—I wouldn't hurt other people out of spite or carelessness or to test their faith."

For reasons she couldn't quite understand, Chiron seemed to grow fond of her after that. His brown eyes never held any trace of malice or hostility; still, to Wilmarie, they softened somehow, warm and rich, like chocolate slowly melting. "You wouldn't," he agreed.

"I don't think you would either," Wilmarie said, looking him in the eye. "I think you're nice," she added, as if she'd just made up her mind on the spot.

Chiron chuckled softly, the sound like a gentle rumble deep in his chest. "Thank you, my dear," he said warmly. "I'd say the feeling is mutual—you're quite kind yourself."

Kind. The word had never been directed at Wilmarie. Not gentle, not caring, not even nice. It felt strange, like a warm hug she wasn't sure she deserved. She let a smile form, slow and wary, as if it might be snatched away at any moment. "I can see why Percy likes you," Wilmarie confessed. "He's never been a fan of teachers or counselors, or social workers or anything like that—don't even get me started on that pastor my mom tried to shove at him after the snake incident. But he actually smiled at you. You must be doing something right, Mr. Chiron."

"There is no such thing as a troubled child, only a child caught in trouble," Mr. Chiron said, his voice a soft comfort. "For Percy, I only hope to offer a small piece of the stability he needs, even if my role in his story fades like a whisper in the grand tale of his life."

"Percy never forgets anyone. Not ever," Wilmarie said, her voice steady as a heartbeat. But in the next pulse, the full weight of those words hit her: Percy's devotion wasn't just strong—it was relentless, cutting through years, distance, arguments, and every stupid fight. That's just who he was, plain and simple. And she had doubted that, as if Percy hadn't proven it again and again. Back when it was just them, her bitterness, and her need to test his love like it was some kind of competition he could lose.

Maybe it was time for her to show Percy just how much she loved him now.

"Is he... in danger?" She asked cautiously, remembering the fear that flashed in Percy's eyes every time he talked about the two years they spent apart and whatever pressure his father's family had piled on him. "Percy—he's loyal, like, to a fault. And stubborn. He clings to the bad stuff even when it's time to let go. I mean, I know I called you nice, Mr. Chiron, but Percy told me he's been dealing with a lot—trying to survive a lot. So, if you're involved in any of it, no matter how kind you seem, I won't let you get away with endangering him or causing him any more pain. Percy's been through enough already."

A distant sadness clouded Chiron's gaze, some sort of old ache he carried within.

"I understand, my child," he said solemnly. "Not a day goes by that I don't wish to lift his burdens and shield him from all harm. Yet, the laws of fate bind me, leaving me unable to intervene directly in his path."

"But what's hurting him?" Wilmarie pressed, her brows knitting together with worry. "What's going on with Percy that you can't stop? Look, my mom taught me how to lie to the police, and I swear I'll do it for Percy if that's what it takes to keep him safe—"

But she did not finish speaking when the heavy door to the Big House swung open with a loud bang, its rusted hinges groaning. He stumbled forward, his foot catching on the worn wooden floor as he quickly turned, eyes darting around in a frantic search for Wilmarie. When their gazes finally locked, a wave of relief washed over him, his breath escaping in a soft sigh. "You're still here," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a broad grin that lit up his face like the sun breaking through clouds. "Sorry about that—Annabeth can be... well, she's Annabeth. But you're still here! Thank the g—thank you!"

Wilmarie frowned slightly, her brow furrowing as she took in Percy's frantic demeanor. She reached out to steady him, her fingers brushing against his arm. "Of course I'm still here," she said her voice steady despite the unease gnawing at her insides. She fought to keep her expression calm, trying not to let her worry show too clearly as she searched his face, hoping to find clarity in his sea green eyes. "Percy, what... what's really going on?"

He glanced nervously over her shoulder at the camp director. "Chiron didn't give you the heads-up?" Percy asked, biting his lip like he was unsure of how to proceed. For a split second, Wilmarie wished she could forget just how well she knew him. She pinched his bottom lip, stopping his nervous biting. "Mr. Chiron isn't going to do your hard work," she chastised. "You need to tell me what's going on, Percy. I can handle it, whatever it is."

Percy ran a hand through his already out-of-control hair, his face turning red like a stop sign. "I know, I know," he muttered, refusing to meet her eyes. "It's just... Wils, if you don't believe me, I might actually break down. And honestly, that's a level of public humiliation I'm not mentally prepared for right now."

Wilmarie couldn't help it; she gave him a shake, just enough to rattle him out of his own head.

"Percy," she said, the vowels of his name dragged on with exasperation. "Public humiliation? Let me remind you of fourth grade—you know, the year that you begged Ilaria to do your eyeliner every day before class and refused to leave the house without it? Yeah, that was public humiliation."

"Wils!" Percy's eyes went wide, pure horror written all over his face. "You swore on you'd never bring that up again!"

He'd gotten a bit taller since then; Wilmarie had to tilt her head back just a little to meet his eyes. She wasn't a fan of that, so she reached up, grabbed Percy by the back of his head, and pulled him down until their foreheads gently knocked together. "And you promised you'd tell me anything if I asked, remember?" she said, her voice softer now. "So spill it, Ojitos. Tell me—tell me everything, okay?"

Percy remained where he was, unmoving; his eyes traced her expression with an almost desperate intent, wandering from her cheek to the gentle curve of her jaw. His gaze lingered on her eyes—and Wilmarie had always loved how his face seemed to unravel when he looked at her, a strange satisfaction swelling within her at being the only one to witness that raw vulnerability, the way it left him open and exposed. She wanted to be the only one he ever looked at like that. "Okay," he replied, his voice softened by a deep inhale. His cheeks were still flushed that stubborn shade of red.

Wilmarie shook her head with a helpless smile, love spreading through her chest at his all-too-familiar awkwardness. For months, she'd kept her distance from him, terrified that getting too close again would leave her obsessing over all the differences that had piled up between them—the jokes they wouldn't understand, the quirks and references that would not make sense, all of the habits they had developed without each other until she would have no other choice but to accept that they were no longer the same people they used to be. But as she watched him stumble over his words as he spoke to Chiron, she realized that Percy was still Percy, still confusing and frustrating and entirely the best person in her eyes.

With a soft smile, she reached out to grasp his hand, noticing how cold it felt from his nervousness. She held it firmly, letting her warmth seep into him until his hand started to feel like home again.

Percy did not let go as they walked to his cabin, murmuring stories to her while they weaved through the campers who stared at them as if they had never seen anything stranger; this was not the first time they had been ostracized, though. Wilmarie just listened to Percy. There, he told her, is where we practice archery—but don't even ask, Wils, I'm so bad I'll end up shooting my own knee. There was the pavilion with its Greek columns where everyone had their shared dinners, the amphitheater where Percy once made a fool of himself trying to act in a play, and even the hills around the camp seemed to have their own stories—like the strawberry fields that exploded with fruit every summer, or that ugly concrete block building where Clarisse tried to bully him during one of his first days. He pointed over to the shimmering lake, which looked endless and perfect under the late afternoon sun, talking about how they'd swim and host canoe races there all the time.

"Oh, Blackjack's over that hill! I'll take you to see him later," Percy said, his voice filled with such affection that Wilmarie didn't even think to ask who Blackjack was. She just smiled, trying to absorb everything she could—listening eagerly, committing each story to memory. She wanted to know it all—every bit of his life here at Camp Half-Blood, every piece of his world she hadn't yet been able to reach.

Never again would she allow another person to claim a piece of Percy that Wilmarie didn't already know.

"So, this is where you stay?" She asked, wandering around Cabin Three, her fingers brushing across the seashells on the bedside tables, eyes wide as she took in how the walls seemed to glow like abalone. Sheer green fabric hung from the high ceiling like seaweed swaying underwater, and when she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back at Montauk—the salty ocean breeze drifting through the open windows, the distant sound of waves crashing on the shore.

When she opened her eyes again, Percy was standing there, smiling softly at her. The sunlight through the windows reflected in his eyes, giving them a warm glow, as if he were a part of the ocean itself. Her chest hurt; Percy was so pretty. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm the only one who stays here—well, besides Tyson. It's nice and quiet, but, uh, it can get a bit lonely sometimes."

"Who's Tyson?" Wilmarie asked, turning away from Percy. She reached for the conch shells scattered on the table, tracing her fingers over the petals of some strange flowers she'd never seen before—anything to take her mind off the sudden flutter in her stomach.

"Right, uh, about that," Percy said, a nervous edge in his voice. "Tyson is—he's my brother. Yeah, my brother."

Wilmarie spun around, her eyes wide. She nearly dropped the conch if it weren't for Percy's quick reflexes catching it.

"Your brother?" she exclaimed, the words bursting out of her. Percy nodded, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, my half-brother. He's, um, a... special case."

A squeal escaped her lips, and before he could put away the conch, she was throwing her arms around him. Percy laughed as he hugged her back, stumbling back. "You have a brother, Percy!" she cheered, practically bouncing on her feet. "You have more family! That's amazing!"

Percy smiled, his throat burning with a sort of happiness he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool," he admitted—because honestly? Without having to tiptoe around Annabeth's Cyclops issues and all the snickers from the camp, Percy could admit that having a brother was actually awesome, even if Tyson was not exactly what most people would consider a typical sibling. He was good-hearted, loyal, and always had Percy's back no matter what, though. That is more than he ever thought he'd get after years of watching Wilmarie and her siblings, the envy gnawing at him as he wished for someone like that in his life.

Now, he finally did with Tyson. He had one more family member to rely on—one more person who would smile at Percy regardless if he was the hero or the screw-up.

Wilmarie dragged him over to sit by the fountain at the heart of the cabin. The gray sea rock dug into their backs as they leaned against it, the sharpest point of Wilmarie's knee digging into his side, the ends of her hair brushing his forearm. "New dad, new brother, new horse," she listed, flashing Percy a grin. Her hands moved as she spoke, and he couldn't help but notice her nails—all glossy and cute, with little Kirbys on every finger. It was so adorably out of place in a demigod's world that he had to do a double-take. He'd forgotten about Kirby—about Alvie's old Nintendo 64 and how they'd play for hours, just the two of them. That felt like a lifetime ago.

"What else?" Wilmarie asked, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. Percy wished he could just tell her the good parts—how he looked more like his dad than they ever guessed, that he was finally making friends on his own, and that he felt normal for the first time in forever. But he could only smile and warn, "Wils, I wasn't joking about the crying. Seriously."

Wilmarie's smile faltered slightly. "Is it worse than before?" She asked quietly.

Instead of answering, Percy picked up her hand, inspecting her nails—some had clear gel piled up at the tips, making little three-dimensional designs that shimmered in the light from the fountain. He guessed Conchita must've painted them; she was always talented like that. "Maybe," he finally said, half-heartedly. "I don't know. I just don't want you to worry."

"Percy, your camp director talked at me for half an hour about God, gods, and a load of things that were way over my head," Wilmarie said, giving him a wry smile. "I've been worried ever since he said ere long."

Percy huffed a laugh. "Chiron tries," he said.

"Which is something you don't need to do with me," Wilmarie added, twisting her hand until their fingers intertwined. "I can literally see you overthinking this, dude. Just—talk. It doesn't have to be perfect, or make sense, or sound like some great speech. I might be out of practice, but I've still got a Percy Translator installed up here somewhere."

He bit his lip, looking down at their hands.

"You remember a while back, before everything," he said quietly, "when I told you I had this feeling like I wasn't meant to be alive? Turns out I was right, Wils."

Wilmarie's heart sank as she listened to his words, feeling a lump form in her throat. But Percy continued before she had a chance to respond, his voice cracking slightly as he admitted, "And I know you hate it when I talk like that, but it really is the truth, Wils. I wasn't supposed to be born; my dad was never supposed to have more kids—but here I am, a constant reminder of that broken promise, and everyone seems to hold it against me. The moment I saw you again, the one person who ever made me feel like breathing was okay, it felt like the universe kicked me in the gut. All I could think was, 'If I am going to survive this, I need her by my side.'"

Percy closed his eyes tightly, holding their clasped hands close to his heart. "But here I am, still fumbling for the right words because I'm terrified—like, scared out of my mind—that you won't believe me. So, I spent all these months learning all these tricks from Thalia, of all people, trying to figure out how to show you what really happened. I kept telling myself, 'I've gotta make her see—it wasn't like I wanted to leave. I didn't just bail on her. I didn't have a choice. I really didn't have a choice.'"

"But it's fine, Percy," Wilmarie attempted to reassure him. "I believe you; I understand—"

"No, Wils," he cut in, shaking his head. "You deserve the whole truth, but honestly, I'm freaking out. I'm scared about what'll happen if you actually believe me. I keep thinking that if I drag you back into all this mess and tell you the terrifying stuff, I'll just end up getting you hurt again. I wish I could just say I'm—that I'm some real hero, that I could protect you from every monster out there, every danger. I want to be that hero who says, 'Hey, everything's gonna be fine.' But I can't. I really can't. And it kills me, because it feels like no matter what I do, I'm never enough, and things are just going to keep getting worse."

"Percy," she said firmly, her fingers gripping his forearm. "You don't have to be a hero—not for me. Just being Percy is all I've ever needed."

"But I do," he insisted. "I have to be a hero, Wils. My dad? He's Poseidon. The Poseidon, from all those Greek myths my mom used to tell us. Which means I'm a half-blood, whether I like it or not."

Wilmarie let go.

For a heartbeat, the fear returned—that familiar, gnawing terror she'd known since childhood—of being doomed to an eternity in Hell for even considering anything beyond God's greatness. The fear of accidentally honoring false idols and making Him jealous, spiteful of only ever receiving Wilmarie's doubts when He needed her faith the most.

But Percy's eyes remained fixed on her hands, his expression slipping into a daze with every tear-laden blink, as if a terrible truth had come to light, confirming his fears in the most agonizing way possible.

She remembered all those years of Percy telling strange stories to anyone who would listen—those supposed lies about one-eyed men following him, and creatures only he could see. It always ended the same way: Percy, teary-eyed, sitting outside the counselors' offices, like he was the only one living in a different world.

He had the same expression now.

She grabbed onto Percy again, shaking her head as he tried to pull away.

"I believe you," she said. "I believe you, Percy."

"You do?" He asked in a tremble, a shard of hope that threatened to shatter.

Wilmarie thought of God.

As a child, she hated Him for allowing animals to be hurt and for all the nightly prayers her mother forced her to recite before bed. As a teenager, she hated Him for permitting her parents to forsake His teachings without intervening, their sins transforming their home into a battleground. Each fist thrown and every patch of dried blood on the carpet bore witness to her suffering—a misery He permitted to fester. She hated Him for never answering her prayers the nights before tests and for the way he created certain flowers—she hated Him for cancer and allowing idiots to parade in the world covered in glitter, promising to make everything better for the dying if a fee was paid on time. She hated Him for the sugar tax, for the pink tax, for the inequality and cruelty that seemed to thrive under His watchful eye.

Most of all, she hated Him for what he had done to her best friend.

"I always will," Wilmarie said to Percy, furiously wiping away her tears. Hatred twisted in her chest—she should have known God wasn't real when Percy was only seven and Gabe discovered he could snuff out cigarettes on his skin without Sally ever noticing. She should've known when no one at school believed him when he finally found the courage to speak out—when teachers called him a troublemaker and psychologists dismissed him as a lost cause before he even hit ten.

Of course, God was never real.

Of course, of course—of course the sky had been empty of Him all along.

"So—so, Zeus is real? Hades? All of them?" She asked, ears ringing, an awful, unfamaliar feeling crowding in her chest; and Percy nodded, and he spoke of stolen lightning bolts and ancient prophecies coming to life, and Wilmarie could only attempt to breathe through the nauseating sense of loss—of horror, and grief, because even with all of her hatred, she had hoped and prayed to be wrong—but the sea was full of monsters, and Blackjack had wings, and Percy was the son of Poseidon himself.

Percy was the son of Poseidon.

"Percy," she called out, wishing she wasn't trembling so terribly, but God had never existed at all, and her best friend was a demigod. "Percy, that makes so much sense now."

As Percy turned to face her, equally as snot-covered and teary-eyed as she was, he asked, "What does?" She forced a laugh, a shaky attempt to mask the tidal wave of emotions threatening to engulf her. "You being a demigod," she managed to say. "Remember those swimming lessons Sally forced us to take? You'd hang out underwater for, like, twenty minutes and never come up for air. It all makes sense now."

He stared at her, his brows knitting together in uncertainty, caught between laughter and tears, unsure whether to join her in a fit of relieved giggles or to pull her into a tight embrace, afraid she might crumble beneath the weight of the revelation. He chose to hug her instead.

"I'm sorry, Wils," he whispered, feeling the tension melt away as she buried her face in his chest.

"Nah, don't apologize," she laughed, full of tears she'll cry another day. "I'm happy you told me. I've always liked the Muses, and watching Hercules will actually be educational, you know?"

And Percy, knowing her as well as she knew him, let her escape from her emotions a little while longer. He held her tightly, so close that her entire sky was consumed by the night of his black hair, and the only stars that sparkled were the cabin lights reflected in the depths of his sea-green eyes. It wasn't the same as the last time they hugged like this—nothing could ever be quite the same as back then, not with Percy grown so much taller and she so little since then, but Wilmarie could get used to the height difference; she could get used to the thought of gods instead of God,  if it meant Percy would always be there—close enough for her to clasp his hands and still believe in something bigger than herself.

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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

Oh no I wonder what Wilmarie will do now that her entire faith system has been destroyed for the sake of placing all (all) her conviction an self-worth in a singular person who is also another unstable obsessive teenager :( I really hope she doesn't start acting out and making rash decisions that could harm herself or others or result in an unplanned teenage pregnancy :(

I need to talk more about sally and gabe and all the abuse percy underwent cus I was lightly rereading and wttttffff bro lol that's for another chapter ig lol

Share your thoughts if any I for sure didn't have any writing these oh that reminds me special thanks to professor pjo sealines and teabeIl  for helping me out a lot I love you both :3

Okayy bye until next time!!