Because there isn't enough Perlypso fan fiction, and because they were your first official ship.

Percy barely escaped the throng of demigods demanding information about the fight in Olympus, darting up flights of emergency staircases and bursting into a room they'd turned into a resting/stock room. He quickly closed the door, locked it, and stumbled into the room, sitting numbly beside the king bed. There were stacks of bandages and boxes of other healing equipment, but he ignored them, giving in to his rushing emotions.

He sighed, allowing the onslaught of desires suppressed for the war to overwhelm him. And in Percy's release, he didn't celebrate the victory or his survival or the world's—he could only think of Calypso.

He mourned the loss of her skin, the loss of her scent, the loss of her voice and smile and eyes. Everything about her enraptured him; how could he not fall in love with her, too? How could he resist such a beautiful soul?

And how was he supposed to cope without her?

No one understood the pain of being separated from her, not one soul. It was horrible, knowing she was stranded on an island, alone save for the fickle god or goddess willing to stoop to acknowledge her existence, her prison they crafted. It was beyond painful to be separated by sea and magic when your father was Poseidon and you were a demigod, a being who merged myth with reality and knew little of a life without either.

His world existed outside the realm of possibility, yet there it was. Her existence was forbidden, yet there she breathed, forever apart from him. Why shouldn't he desire the impossible, when his whole life operated outside the realm of possibility?

Did she even know the effect she had on him? Did she know that he was every bit as lost, as sorrowful, as in-love as she? Didn't she know that his decision to save the world wasn't just about Grover or Annabeth or his mother—it was about her, too. It was for her. He wouldn't have left otherwise.

But what if he hadn't?

What if his life hadn't mattered; what if his assistance could've been replaced; what if he'd stayed?

Percy pushed away from the bed and stood, hovering beside the covers and boxes lining the walls. He couldn't think like that—such a thought could kill him—but it wouldn't leave him. His feet began moving before his brain registered it, pacing back and forth as he fell into the black hole his questions created.

Luke was the hero, after all; did Percy really need to abandon her, break her heart, break his heart, to play a commonplace role anyone could've filled?

Percy knew, of course, that he made the right decision. Logically, he was an important warrior in the battle; maybe not the most important, but definitely important—they had needed him.

But Luke was the hero, and Percy was the antihero.

Percy did nothing. Percy left. Percy fought. Percy assisted. But what was that for, what good could something like that possibly do, if the woman he loved was abandoned, if he couldn't be with her, if his actions broke her heart and left him shattered, if he did it regretting every step that took him farther from her, from Ogygia?

He didn't regret saving his mother, his friends, his world, no—but he regretted Calypso. In his darkest moments, he regretted visiting her island, encroaching on her land and her freedom and her servants for his physical weakness; he regretted playing a part in her curse, in her agony.

Gods, in his darkest moments, he wished he'd been allowed to die instead of meet her.

Because this was agony. This was worse than anything he'd experienced—and he was a demigod, a son of Poseidon, one of the Big Three—his life was hell. Monsters loved him; bad luck clung to him like sweat. It was nothing new to receive horrors; he should've been above it all.

How could he be superior, apathetic, to her, though?

To ask that was foolishness; he wasn't, he couldn't, be anything but hers. He could never find a creature with a better personality, a better spirit, than she.

Percy raked his hands through his unruly hair, pacing the silent room, knowing privacy was a must after the exhausting final battle, yet he loathed the strange silence, void of anything but his poisoned thoughts. However, the sweet, cloying sensation of victory clung to everyone and everything, and the heroes wore their jubilation with valiance and exhaustion; he knew that would be worse than his regret. Percy counted on Annabeth and the rest to seek immediate celebration elsewhere, in equal privacy—their victory hadn't come without a price.

The second his quest was finished, the war won and Kronos defeated, his drive, his energy, the one thing that kept him from trying to return to her arms, her island, immediately would be gone. He had nothing to hold him to earth anymore.

A knock on his door interrupted Percy's anguished, scattered thoughts. He contemplated ignoring the knock, feigning ignorance of it due to sleep later, but then Annabeth interrupted ("I know you're in there, Seaweed Brain, and I know you're awake"), so he had no choice but to open the door.

She strode in, blonde hair a stark, insulting contrast to hers, piercing grey eyes cutting painfully through his musings, his selfish cocoon of longing and regret, and she reached for him, only to let her arms hang in the air.

He could walk into her unspoken offer and allow her affection to soothe his pain, or he could reject her. Both held different pains, but, in the end, he chose to turn away from her, to put distance between them. He couldn't look at her without thinking of Calypso, and the thought of using Annabeth as a replacement, though abhorrent and just wrong, grew more and more tempting as his anguish deepened.

Annabeth sighed. "You're considerably less happy than I'd thought you would be."

Percy met her grey gaze, noticing the subtle signs of tears. "So are you."

"Yeah, well," she cleared her throat and looked away, "victory comes at a price."

"I'm sorry," Percy replied. Seeing Luke die like that was painful for Percy; he couldn't imagine what Annabeth was going through.

Annabeth nodded. "I'm sorry too. I bet you wish you hadn't left her island." Her voice, though lacking in malice, was heavy with sorrow and laced with bitter disappointment.

Percy looked away. He tried to respond, but his voice came out broken and strangled; he didn't know what to say, how to express himself, and he couldn't justify himself in her eyes. He just wanted Calypso, and in his petulant state, he saw no victory in their separation.

He couldn't bring himself to voice that, when it would make Luke's death seem insufficient. He couldn't bring himself to desecrate Luke's sacrifice.

Annabeth walked up to Percy and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. When he still refused to meet her eyes, she moved her hands up to his cheeks and tilted his face so that it met hers. Her fingers were wet as they gently held his head in place, and he realized that he had started crying.

"The gods will be grateful for our assistance," she said as she moved her hands back down to his shoulders. "They will offer us gifts, most likely, in exchange. If this happens, you could ask for her freedom."

Percy's heart hammered. "I thought you hated her; why would you help me get her back?"

Annabeth smiled sadly. "You don't deserve the pain you feel, and she deserves her freedom. Clearly, you love her, and I can respect that. Judging by her curse, she loves you too. Both of you deserve happiness."

"I—"

Nico di Angelo emerged from the shadows, panting heavily, his skin unhealthily pale. "They're looking for you two," he muttered as he examined Percy and Annabeth, cheeks flushing bright pink.

Annabeth cleared her throat awkwardly and removed her hands from Percy's shoulders. "Thank you, Nico. We'll be down in a second."

Percy nodded and sent Annabeth a small smile. "Thank you for the suggestion. I will get her free, I swear it on the River Styx, and I will see her again."

Nico's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but Annabeth sent Percy an encouraging smile.

"You will."

The three of them left the room together, Annabeth coercing Nico to abstain from shadow-travelling, and Percy felt hope blossom in his chest more strongly than ever before.

He would see her again; he would make sure of it.

He would do whatever it took.