( the only punishment luke has face-planted into in these bizarrely forgiving fields of punishment is the outfit.
he spends the first few hours in a state of suspended shock, uncertain about what he's seeing, hearing, and experiencing. forgive him if he zones out on the tour, letting names of power slip through the cracks in his mind. he doesn't know which person to thank ( the high mage, maybe? ) for hearing his pathetic and misguided endeavors ( well, they failed, didn't they? ) and deciding, hmmmm, that guy, he's the one! honestly, he feels like he should scoff at them. tell someone that they should get an assessment of some variety because they're obviously lacking in clarity. who does that? who pulls a murderer out of the judgement line?
because while he hadn't been ready to give up everything — he'd lost camp, thalia, annabeth, his future — luke knew when he was beat, and he knew that his plan for salvaging justice and hope for demigods twisted into something he no longer recognized along the way. there's no getting around it; what he pictured in his mind versus how ugly it transpired, and there's no reversing it. there's just the small solace in knowing his death saved the only people he ever cared about.
but he's here, alive, and somehow all of that feels . . . cheapened?
a sacrifice that's been erased like a line in the sand is not the same as being resurrected as a boon from the gods themselves.
he wanders aimlessly for what feels as endless as a wave of kronos' presence, as lost in the halls as he is in his own repeating thoughts. he doesn't notice that while his arms are crossed defensively around himself, one of his hands is tucked into his armpit — what had been his one mortal point — to cradle the spot where a dagger had been. he's so unusually disorientated that he ignores his senses telling him to turn back ( being the son of the god of roads, among other things, has its perks ) and has the luxury of being snapped at by a girl younger than him about bunk arrangements. it's like cabin eleven all over again. a mild irritation that he would cling to by the skin of his teeth if that voice in particular didn't unmoor him, causing him to stop just beyond the entry.
run, comes to him while panic seizes him.
he grabs the doorframe unconsciously, steadying himself, anchoring his treacherous feet that want to take flight.
and he can't speak.
there's a scar on his face, a remnant from a dragon and a failed quest, that makes it hard to look in the mirror most days, but that isn't why shame heats him from head-to-toe or why his fingers uncurl from the doorway.
luke doesn't run but walking away from annabeth chase feels like the right thing to do when he's done it enough. he can only hope she missed the pieces; her, the girl constantly twisting the rubik's cube of the constellations. )
the north wing ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ the tower
he spends the first few hours in a state of suspended shock, uncertain about what he's seeing, hearing, and experiencing. forgive him if he zones out on the tour, letting names of power slip through the cracks in his mind. he doesn't know which person to thank ( the high mage, maybe? ) for hearing his pathetic and misguided endeavors ( well, they failed, didn't they? ) and deciding, hmmmm, that guy, he's the one! honestly, he feels like he should scoff at them. tell someone that they should get an assessment of some variety because they're obviously lacking in clarity. who does that? who pulls a murderer out of the judgement line?
because while he hadn't been ready to give up everything — he'd lost camp, thalia, annabeth, his future — luke knew when he was beat, and he knew that his plan for salvaging justice and hope for demigods twisted into something he no longer recognized along the way. there's no getting around it; what he pictured in his mind versus how ugly it transpired, and there's no reversing it. there's just the small solace in knowing his death saved the only people he ever cared about.
but he's here, alive, and somehow all of that feels . . . cheapened?
a sacrifice that's been erased like a line in the sand is not the same as being resurrected as a boon from the gods themselves.
he wanders aimlessly for what feels as endless as a wave of kronos' presence, as lost in the halls as he is in his own repeating thoughts. he doesn't notice that while his arms are crossed defensively around himself, one of his hands is tucked into his armpit — what had been his one mortal point — to cradle the spot where a dagger had been. he's so unusually disorientated that he ignores his senses telling him to turn back ( being the son of the god of roads, among other things, has its perks ) and has the luxury of being snapped at by a girl younger than him about bunk arrangements. it's like cabin eleven all over again. a mild irritation that he would cling to by the skin of his teeth if that voice in particular didn't unmoor him, causing him to stop just beyond the entry.
run, comes to him while panic seizes him.
he grabs the doorframe unconsciously, steadying himself, anchoring his treacherous feet that want to take flight.
and he can't speak.
there's a scar on his face, a remnant from a dragon and a failed quest, that makes it hard to look in the mirror most days, but that isn't why shame heats him from head-to-toe or why his fingers uncurl from the doorway.
luke doesn't run but walking away from annabeth chase feels like the right thing to do when he's done it enough. he can only hope she missed the pieces; her, the girl constantly twisting the rubik's cube of the constellations. )